Jackie Answers the Phone

From my brother Jon Richards, creator of the cartoons that grace this blog, this reminiscence of Jackie Robinson, actually written as a gracious gift to this blog, but also published in the Santa Fe New Mexican:

During the 1972 season, Willie Mays was traded to the New York Mets for a ballplayer named Charlie Williams and $50,000. I took the occasion to write a magazine article about the trading of baseball superstars in their declining years. The list is long and eye-opening.

Among those who, in the days before free agency, wound up their careers playing in strange uniforms are such Hall of Famers as Babe Ruth, Cy Young, Dizzy Dean, Christy Matthewson, Tris Speaker, Hank Greenberg, Rogers Hornsby and a raft of others.

Ruth at least left the Yankees of his own accord. But the Yankees didn't bother to retire his number. The legendary journalist Heywood Hale Broun was a boy at the time, and a die-hard Yankee fan.

"When George Selkirk trotted out on the field wearing number 3," he once told me, "I left Yankee Stadium and vowed never to go back there."

It was a little different with Jackie Robinson, the pioneer who baseball honors this year on the 60th anniversary of his epoch-making arrival in the Major Leagues.

Robinson was traded from the Brooklyn Dodgers, the team with which he had broken the color barrier when he crossed the first base line at Ebbetts Field on April 15, 1947, the team for which he had done so much and endured so much, the team for which he had played his entire career.

He was traded across town to the hated New York Giants. He was traded for a journeyman relief pitched named Dick Littlefield, and a reported $35,000. He didn't go.

In researching the Mays article, I tracked Robinson down for an interview. He had a construction company then, and I reached him at a New Jersey building site. He answered the phone himself, which floored me so much I could hardly think of what to ask him.

Jackie Robinson! At the other end of the telephone line!

The irony, he told me, was that he had already decided to retire after the 1956 season, his tenth with the Dodgers. He hadn't made the announcement yet because he had a deal with Look Magazine for the story.

That irritated some people, including the veteran sports columnist Red Smith, who wrote that for "peddling a news story, the rights to his retirement, no defense is discernible ... He has embarrassed the Dodgers, dislocated the plans of the Giants, and deceived the working newspapermen whose friendship he had and who thought they had his confidence ... . But for the Dodgers, the Jackie Robinson of this last decade would not have existed."

But for Robinson, the Dodgers of that decade would not have existed, not as we remember them, not as the Boys of Summer, who had capped the Robinson years with the franchise's first ever World Series triumph in 1955, a year before the trade.

"I saw it coming," Robinson told me. He and Dodger owner Walter O'Malley, who had bought the team from Branch Rickey and who would break the hearts and the spirit of the borough of Brooklyn in another year by removing the team to Los Angeles, did not get along. Robinson was a Rickey loyalist, and that sat ill with O'Malley.

Robinson suspected some other reasons for the trade. There was still plenty of racism in baseball a decade after he ended its apartheid. When a top star finished his playing days it was common practice for the organization to find him a job, managing or coaching or in the front office, if he wanted one. But for a black star, Robinson said, it was a different story.

O'Malley and the Dodgers did not want the embarrassment of having to face that delicate question when baseball's first black superstar reached that awkward age.

So Jackie Robinson said "no thanks" to the New York Giants, and packed up his equipment bag, and moved away from baseball. He became a successful businessman, and a major civil-rights leader. He died young, at 53, from heart problems and diabetes, a year after that afternoon when we talked on the phone.

Once, 10 years earlier, I had stood next to Jackie Robinson, backstage at the Ed Sullivan Show, where I was working and he was appearing.

We were among a knot of guys hanging around the security guard's desk watching the New York Mets, then in their first hapless season, on TV. Jackie shook his head.

"What a bunch of clowns," he chuckled, as Rod Kanehl in center field played an innocent pop fly into a triple.

Al Jackson, a pretty good pitcher, was on the mound for the Mets that night. He was an African American, and without the man standing next to me, he wouldn't have been out there.

Sunday is Jackie Robinson Day in Major League Baseball, the 60th anniversary of the day Jackie first stepped onto a Major League baseball field, and honored baseball by his presence.

Alice Denham at New Paltz

Novelist-turned-memoirist Alice Denham visited New Paltz on Thursday, to speak to my Honors English class in the afternoon and give a reading-book signing in the evening.

My class has been studying the literature and culture of the 50s, and Alice's new memoir, Sleeping With Bad Boys, is about literary New York in that era, a time when serious novelists had star status, at least in Manhattan. But since so many of my students are writing their research papers about women's issues, the class discussion focused on that part of her experience -- being a young woman in the 50s, how Alice (a founding member of NOW) viewed the changes in the lives of women over the decades. It's hard, today, to imagine a world where abortion was illegal, and Alice, while lucky enough to find a doctor who would do it, had to have her abortion without anesthetic, since the doctor could not risk having an anesthetist in the room. Hard to imagine, as well, how lonely and isolated a young woman could feel back then -- thinking she was the only one having sex, much less having an abortion.

I asked Alice to read my class the section of her book about a party she attended, new and innocent in New York, at Norman Mailer's apartment, where Mailer and his then-wife Adele did an impromptu strip. I think Alice was a little surprised to be asked to read something that risque in class -- and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I'd have been long since fired for such a thing, if this were still the 50s. The students enjoyed it. But I don't think they have any real sense of Norman Mailer as an American literary figure, although we did read and discuss "The White Negro" in class.

The evening reading was well attended -- I'd guess 100 people or more -- thanks to Lyn Thoman's efforts in promoting it. After 17 years teaching at Marist, where there was no interest in any intellectual gathering outside of class, I'm always particularly gratified (and still a little surprised) to see this kind of turnout. Alice read from the early part of her book, a fascinating sequence about her new-in-New-York relationship with the still-unknown James Dean. She did, however, skip over the section that gave the details on what Jimmy was like between the sheets. For that, read the book.

Alice Denham

I'll give a full report on the reading tomorrow.

But anyone happening on this blog, from the New Paltz area, be sure to come to the reading/book signing by Alice Denham, at the Coykendall Auditorium on the SUNY New Paltz campus, tonight at 7:30.

Kurt Vonnegut

Here's a Kurt Vonnegut story I've always liked. A friend of mine was his lawyer, so I was at a dinner with him once, and he told the story on himself.

Vonnegut was an amateur magician, and he used to like to do little magic tricks when he gave readings. So he was giving a reading in London, and he wanted to end the evening by magically producing a bouquet of roses to hold out to the audience. He went to a local magic store to get the harness to put up his sleeve, to release the bouquet of roses at the appropriate time.

\As Vonnegut put it, there are always a lot of young guys hanging around a magic shop, the way young guys who like cars will hang around a mechanic's garage, and so it was with this store...a bunch of young layabouts, magic aficionados, not paying any particular attention as Vonnegut walked in and asked the clerk for the roses-up-the-sleeve harness.

A bored clerk, who clearly didn't recognize Vonnegut, said, "Sorry, sir, we don't have anything like that."

Vonnegut was amazed and irritiated. "What do you mean? Every magic store has them. I could go into any magic shop in Manhattan, and get one."

"Well, that's remarkable," the clerk said. "They must be so advanced in America. Any of you chaps ever hear of this?"

There was a general muttering of "no...no..." from the not-very-interested layabouts.

Vonnegut, getting really irritated by now, describes the harness one more time, carefully and slowly.

"No, sir, I'm sorry, nothing at all like that."

Vonnegut turned to walk out of the store. As he got to the door, he heard the clerk's voice behind him.

"Oh, Mr. Vonnegut..."

He turns around to find the clerk, and every other layabout in the whole store, holding out a bouquet of roses to him, plucked out of their sleeves.



Thank you for everything, Mr. Vonnegut, and may the Sirens of Titan sing thee to thy rest. All of us were in your karass.

I Met Someone Who Really Knew Belushi...

My Honors English this semester, a bunch of students I love, are finding out way too much about me.Something about the dynamic of the class makes things keep leaking out. They probably don’t believe half of what I’m telling them, but actually, it’s all been true, and it’s been bringing back memories to me. Like somehow yesterday I got into talking about how I taught John Belushi about the blues.

Which I actually did. It began with my friend Aardvark, who is no longer with us. Aardvark was a very good friend, if not in every respect a completely good person. Actually, he was drug dealer, though not when I first knew him. That developed over time, and I assume that was his connection to Belushi.

An aside: Acquaintances always used to ask me what Aardvark’s real name was; and, since I knew him better, I actually knew his real name. My answer was always, “If I tell you, then you will no longer have the pleasure of knowing someone whom you know only as ‘Aardvark.’”

The exceptions to this rule were his succession of beautiful and wealthy girlfriends, who always called him “Rick.” On reflection, I could understand this. It’s hard to imagine calling out, in the heat of passion, “Oh, Aardvark…Oh, Aardvark…”

But back to Belushi. This was in my New York City days, in the late 70s. Aardvark called me in the middle of the night and said, “I’ve got John Belushi with me, and we need to teach him about the blues. Bring your records and come on over.”

I had, at the time (they’re still safe, but now with my brother) one of the world’s great collections of rhythm and blues 45’s from the 1950s. I packed them into a suitcase, and headed over to Belushi’s. I brought my girl friend at the time, who was newly arrived from the Midwest, and thrilled at the prospect (remember the Waitresses’ song of a few years later – “I know someone who really met Belushi/I fixed the toilet so it doesn't always run”?), but the occasion, for her, turned out to be less than thrilling. Belushi told her, “Here, you can sit in the living room and watch some tapes of my old shows, while we go in the back and talk about music.” I felt guilty for going along with it, and I feel guilty to this day. Carla, if you should run across this, I apologize.

But Aardvark and Belushi and I spent the next couple of hours listening to Muddy Waters, and Magic Sam, and Lightning Hopkins, and the Clovers. Belushi and Dan Aykroyd had just done the Blues Brothers sketch for the first time on Saturday Night Live, and the response to it had been phenomenal. People wanted more Blues Brothers. An album. More SNL performances. And eventually, a movie, but that would come later. But he didn’t really know anything about the blues. He’d never listened to the blues particularly, and if he was going to be doing an album…

And we spent all of the next day with Belushi in the Colony Record Store in Times Square, building him a basic blues collection.

Obviously, he was a quick study. I mentioned to a jazz musician friend that Belushi had just heard the blues for the first time last week, and now he was going to make a record. The musician said, “Well, sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Songs I know I brought to Belushi’s attention were “Rubber Biscuit,” originally by the Chips, “Flip, Flop and Fly,” originally by Joe Turner, and “Riot in Cell Block #9,” originally by the Coasters.

That’s pretty much the whole story, except that I had to call him every night for about a year before he finally got around to giving my records back.

Oh, and one other phone call -- this time from him to me, and characteristically for those days and this cast of characters, late at night. They were getting close to ready to make the record, and did I know any good blues musicians. I named a few. There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“Aren’t they all……………black?”

“Well, yeah…blues and all, you know how it is…”

“Do you know any white blues musicians? I’m a little afraid of black people…”

Well, if he was, he got over it. They had some of the greatest white blues musicians around on that first album, like Steve Cropper and Donald “Duck” Dunn, and some great black musicians too, like Matt “Guitar”Murphy. And some of the greatest blues people of all time in the movie. Thinking about it in later years, I wonder if maybe he just meant that when it came to the blues, he was intimidated by the black blues greats.

No need, John. You made your own strange contribution to the blues, and to American culture. And I hope your old evil spirit caught a Greyhound Bus and rode.

And to my old friend Larry the Fluff, if you’re reading this…you were one of the white musicians I recommended to John.

Why You Need to Be Careful Before Embarking on an On-Air Career

On WAMC, the local NPR radio station, this afternoon, a call-in show giving advice to would-be authors from two mostly helpful and well-informed local published writers. Someone calls in with this question: "I just finished a novel, and somebody tells me something with a similar name and theme has already been published. My book is called 'On The Road,' and it's about two guys named Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty who travel around the US."

Published authors: "Wasn't that book by Jack Kerouac called something like that? Well, there are lots of books about two characters travelling around -- they're called picaresque novels. So yours should be OK. But you should probably change the title."

Jon Richards on the Edwards Family

John Prine, Fred Koller

I found myself telling this story in a couple of different places within the last few weeks, so it must be on my mind. On my first visit to Nashville, more years ago than I care to remember, I met a guy named Art Sparer, who was to become one of my closest friends in Nashville, and whose couch I regularly stayed on when I visited -- "the songwriters' couch," he called it.

Art went out of his way to introduce me around town, and in one out of the way tavern, he introduced me to John Prine, who invited me to come to recording session he was doing the next day at Cowboy Jack Clement's studio.

Naturally, I was there. The song he recorded that day was "Let's Talk Dirty In Hawaiian," which you can find on Prine's German Afternoons and Lucky 13 albums, not to mention his massive The Full Johnny collection. The song was co-written by Prine and Fred Koller, whom I was to meet within the next couple of days, and who would become my other closest friend in Nashville.

Art, a true gentleman, a wonderful musician and producer, is no longer with us, but Fred is, very much so, and he remains a close friend.

Fred is a first-class bibliophile and the co-owner of Rhino Booksellers in Nashville.

More than that, he's one of Nashville's great talents, as songwriter and performer. You can find his full discography at the link above, and it's all good. He and I have written several songs together, and I'm including one here, from his Songs From the Night Before album, which also has his version of "Let's Talk Dirty."

The Hell We Created

Jon Richards on Testifying

Cartoon by my brother.

Situations

I've decided to put Situations, my epic newsletter, up on the Internet. Situations was originally sent out as a weekly newsletter to about 100 subscribers, then published in 2002 by Ye Olde Font Shoppe Press, Victoria Rivas' home of exquisitely produced books.

Now I'm recreating its original format. I'll be putting it up in installments, one week at a time. Well, I've started with the first two episodes, to whet appetites. They, along with the introduction that was written for the book, are up now on my Situations web page, linked above.

I'll also post the Introduction here, tomorrow.

And more...

And more...

Some Winter Shots

The Bat Test

I've posted this before, but who can find old posts in a blog? Besides, I've revised it, and who knows, maybe I even have some new readers.

It's the background for an exercise I give my Creative Writing I students.




This is a student poem from a few years ago – the first draft of a poem that went on to become much, much better – bright and sensual and well-realized.

First Kiss

The surf rushes forward,
falling with fury into a fluid fusion.
Waves whirl and intertwine.
Surges of synergic seduction plunge deeper
as they rise and tumble.
Ripples diminish, and bliss licks the shore.
The ocean’s caress recedes
and I, standing barefoot in the sand
know.

And my response, or the relevant part for this exercise:

You’ve already let us know that the poem is going to be about a romantic, breathtaking moment, by titling it “First Kiss.” So you don’t need to explain that.
You also don’t need to explain to the reader that surf is a crashing, exciting phenomenon. So ANYTHING you say about the waves will carry that. Which means that’s the one thing you DON’T want to say, because you’re saying it already. Adding anything about rushing, or fury, is going to be redundant, and will feel like overkill.

Richard Hugo, in The Triggering Town, talks about "writing off the subject." I'd add another, similar suggestion: "Writing away from the subject."

Not only do you not need to say what you've already said, you don't need to say what you've already suggested. It’s close to impossible to write total non sequiturs. If something pops into your head, no matter how disconnected it may seem from what went before, it's connected because your head is the one it popped into.

So the connections are there. They can’t help but be. Our minds are connection-making machines. That’s what they do. And that means you need to trust us as readers to make those connections. We will make them...sometimes even better than you, the poet, will, because we expect them to be there. If we know a poem is called "First Kiss," we'll connect anything that follows to the experience of a first kiss (whatever our experience of a first kiss is). So write away from it. Don't describe a first kiss. Describe something else.


Here's a stanza from a poem called “Summer Haiku” by Alicia Ostriker, which I originally found on Poetry Daily, and which you can now find on a website of the Montfort Literary Society, but I’ll post the whole poem below.The stanza reads

A mother bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
Mouth full of insects.

Now, instead of “Summer Haiku,” let’s call the poem

FIRST KISS

That night, a bat soared
Crazily across the moon,
Mouth full of insects.

Once we see the title "First Kiss," we're going to relate whatever comes after to the idea of a first kiss. We may read this and think -- this is a kiss she shouldn't have gotten into. This is a dangerous first kiss -- irresistible because of its crazy danger, because of the moonlight...but dangerous.

I revised the first line slightly, but suppose we restore it to its original state?

FIRST KISS

A mother bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
Mouth full of insects.


What’s her mother doing in a poem about a first kiss? Because it has to be her mother…she’s the first thing in the poem, and she’s at a vantage point to spy on the girl.

And the mother is nurturing. Maybe too nurturing for a girl who’s ready to try life on her own, with a first kiss.



Let’s put the same stanza under another title from another student poem, the next in my stack:

AFTER AN ARGUMENT WITH MY GIRLFRIEND, I QUESTION MY LOVE FOR HER

A bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
her mouth full of insects.

Uh oh. We're in the present tense now -- not looking back at the first kiss from a distance of time, but right there with the guy as his girl friend storms away, and his mind is full of doubts. Why is he looking at the sky, and not at her? Maybe because of the doubts. He wants to shut her out, at least for the moment. But he can't shut her out -- anything he sees is going to be relevant. And he sees a bat flying crazily across the moon -- the symbol of romantic love being crossed by the symbol of vampirism -- the creature who will first appear sexual and enticing, but will then suck the blood and the soul out of you. And in the speaker's mind -- because there's no way he could actually know this -- the bat is a woman.

The mouthful of insects may not be such a symbol of nurturing here. It may be the girlfriend’s mouth when he kisses her, or when they argue.



I went back to Poetry Daily, grabbed the titles to next couple of titles after Ostriker’s, and stuck the bat under them.

A DOG'S GRAVE

A mother bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
mouth full of insects.

He's visiting the dog's grave at night. He must be very lonely. And the solitary bat makes him feel even lonelier. But...it's a mother bat. Her mouth is full of insects for her babies. Even this world, bereft of a beloved dog, is full of life and nurturing in the strangest places...maybe? We have to read on.

FAMILY REUNION

A mother bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
mouth full of insects.

You make the interpretation.



Or how about this? Ezra Pound's famous two-line poem.

IN A STATION OF THE METRO

The apparition of these faces in the crowd,
Bats flying crazily across the moon.

Or William Carlos Williams:

So much depends
upon

a mother bat
flying

crazily across
the moon

mouth full of
insects

The exercise? Take any one of the poems they've written for me up to this point in the semester, and revise it to include the bat.




Here’s the original:

Summer Haiku

by Alicia Ostriker

All night the peepers
Singing around our small pond,
Drunk men, happy men.

A mother bat soars
Crazily across the moon,
Mouth full of insects.

A grasshopper leaps
Through the meadow, escaping
The mower. This time.

I am so little,
Thinks the leaping grasshopper,
Why not let me live?

Comments

How come nobody ever writes me any comments?

Let a Smile be Whose Umbrella?

"In poetry, to say "I" is to put on the mask."
-- Jon Corelis, on the Poetryetc. list


May a smile be my umbrella!
But of course, I'm not the fella,
And that smile is a corona
Not for me, but my persona.

Tagged for Ten

I am, apparently, part of a tag-team blogroll. I have been tagged by the redoubtable Anny Ballardini, as follows:

Okay, I have been tagged by our Great Tom Beckett who was tagged by Richard Lopez (who by the way mentions The Hitcher - movie I also wanted to quote) to name 10 favorite movies, not too bad, indeed. Difficult, though, these are just the first I was able to dig up, I am sure there are plenty more and will come out in the next few hours with a comment, how could I forget that one?

So, here is Anny's list:

1. La vita è bella (Life is beautiful) Benigni
2. Apocalypse now (Redux is all right) Francis Ford Coppola (loosely based on Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad)
3. A Beautiful Mind by Ron Howard
4. American Beauty by Sam Mendes with Kevin Spacey and Annette Bening
5. Catch Me If You Can by Steven Spielberg, I even liked Leonardo Di Caprio in this perfomance besides the usual Tom Hanks (see Philadelphia, Save Private Ryan, The Da Vinci Code, There is mail for you,
6. Dogville by Lars von Trier (not exceptional but I can forgive much to a movie that features Nicole Kidman)
7. The Experiment (a must see) by Oliver Hirschbiegel (based on the 1971 Stanford University simulation study of the psychology of imprisonment)
8. Girlfight by Karyn Kusama with Diana Guzman
9. The Lord of the Rings (3) by Peter Jackson and Harry Potter (the entire series)
10. Eyes Wide Shut by Stanley Kubrick with Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise

10. The Matrix + The Matrix Reloaded by Andy Wachowski with Keanu Reeves and Carrie Ann Moss, originally taken from William Gibson’s homonymous novel.

As it happens, I just did this exercise about a year ago for a website called The Cinematheque, so although Anny is quite right, and one's lists are subject to change at a moment's notice, I'll reprise that list here:

1. Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1943)

It's customary to list a movie by director, so I've followed that custom, and Michael Curtiz was a Hollywood giant, with a career that stretched from the slient era to the 60s. He directed some of Errol Flynn's classics (which means some of my favorite movies) like Captain Blood and Charge of the Light Brigade; he directed Yankee Doodle Dandy and Young Man With a Horn and We're No Angels, a movie I had occasion to quote to my Honors English class last week. And he directed The Sea Hawk, also with Errol Flynn, but I'll get to that.

But for me, Casablanca is not Curtiz's movie, or even Bogart's. It belongs to Howard Koch, beloved friend and mentor, who co-wrote the screenplay. Here's looking at you, Howard.

2. The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)

Your most formative experiences are, unsurprisingly enough, come in your most formative years. I was seventeen when I first saw The Seventh Seal, and I can't count the number of times I've seen it since then. And every time, I get that same rush of awe that I felt the first time I saw it.

3. The Bicycle Thief (Vittorio De Sica, 1948)

I have an Italian film too, Anny -- not at the top of the list, but high up. I used to tell my screenwriting students, "Any one of you could make this movie. You could raise the kind of budget he had. You could go out in the streets of Poughkeepsie with a hand held camera, as he did in Rome. You could use amateur actors, as he did. All you'd need would be genius."

4. Ran (Akira Kurosawa, 1985)

Anything by Kurosawa. Throne of Blood did Shakespeare (a Samurai Macbeth) almost as well, but Ran, his Samurai King Lear, benefits from Kurosawa's masterful use of color and the big screen. And why you should still go out to the movies: There's a scene in Ran where the king and the fool are sitting on top of a hill, talking. At the foot of the hill, in the lower right hand corner of the screen, is a dappled white horse. And I thought as I watched it, "On TV or vCR that horse won't even be on the screen."

5. Red River (Howard Hawks, 1948)
The classic Oedipal Western, worth the price of admission just for the closeups of the cowboys' faces yelling as the trail drive begins. If you wondered whether John Wayne could act, watch his disintegrating personality in this movie.

6. A Night at the Opera (Sam Wood, 1935)
You could pick any Marx Brothers movie. I picked this one.


7. Cabin in the Sky (Vincente Minnelli, 1943) -– the best Louis Armstrong showcase on film, and no ten best list of anything that has an opportunity to include Louis Armstrong should leave him out. I almost picked High Society for the same reason – I know most people don’t even think it’s the best version of this story, but it is, because of Satch, Bing and Frank.

8. Scaramouche (George Sidney, 1952) -- I am pleased to report that two movies on my list -- Scaramouche and Cabin in the Sky -- didn't even make the NY Times list of the 1000 best movies (three if you count my honorable mention for High Society). I take this as a tribute to my unerring good taste. Swashbuckling is one of the things the movies do best, how can you pass up a guy who was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad?

9. War and Peace (Sergei Bondarchuk, 1968) -- It would be easy to make a ten best list entirely from movies that did not make the NY Times 1000 Best List (Modern Times, Ivan the Terrible Parts I and II, Rio Bravo, just to name a few). I had put Lawrence of Arabia on my listoriginally, and it's a great spectacle, but I had forgotten the greatest spectacle of all time (so did the NY Times, but I'm making amends for my error). Featuring the entire Russian army, and wonderful acting, and not a slack moment in nearly seven hours of running time.

10. The Last Waltz (Martin Scorsese, 1978)
Best concert film ever.

And extras. Anything by Kurosawa, but especially Dersu Uzala: The Hunter and the underrated Dreams. Anything with Errol Flynn, but special mention to Robin Hood, which I'm re-watching now with my 6-year-old grandson, and The Sea Hawk, where Michael Curtiz once again had the benefit of a wonderful screenplay by Howard Koch. Some Hollywood B movies that achieved a level of greatness: Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, Tarzan and his Mate, The Incredible Shrinking Man. Rosselini directing De Sica in Generale Della Rovere. Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy. And on that note...my mother thanks you, my father thanks you, my sister thanks you, and I thank you.

I can't think of anyone to pass it along to. Who do I know who has a blog, whom Anny doesn't know? I'm sure I'm forgetting someone. But I'll post this anyway.

Lips Like Chew Toys

Can't keep doing the same things every year, even though they always come out differently, so I tried a new exercise in my creative writing class last night, and it worked pretty well. I passed out strips of paper to all my students, and had each of them write a simile -- whatever came into their heads.

Then I had them read out their similes, and discuss how they worked -- what the second part of the simile told us about the first part. Pretty standard exercise. "Her lips were like orchid petals" -- her lips were soft, moist, warm, rare, valuable, etc. -- even bluish in color.

Then I collected all the slips of paper, tore them in half, shuffled them around, retaped them together, read the similes created that way, and discussed what these new similes told us.

"Her lips were like a chew toy for men." That makes the lips different, doesn't it? What do we picture now? Chapped -- maybe rough and reddened from too much passionate, violent kissing -- and apparently with more than one man.

"Her unshaven legs were like a desert cactus" became "Her unshaven legs were like burning embers." So rough you could strike a match on them? Capable of exciting passion even though unshaven?

My point...you don't have to worry about making connections too obvious. The human mind is a connection-making machine -- it's wired to look for connections between things. You can take chances, try for the unexpected, try for effects you may not even understand yourself.

As Richard Hugo says in his great book, The Triggering Town, "when you are writing you must assume that the next thing you put
down belongs not for reasons of logic, good sense, or narrative development, but because
you put it there. You, the same person who said that, also said this. The adhesive force
is your way of writing, not sensible connection."

Speaking of Auden

I think for a lot of our generation, Auden was a god that failed and then was partially resurrected. He was one of my poetic heroes, then became someone I didn't want to be -- glib, superficial, and either wit at the expense of substance or substance at the expense of wit. Richard Hugo said it really well in his wonderful book, The Triggering Town:

When you start to write, you carry to the page one of two attitudes, though you may not be aware of it. One is that all music must conform to truth. The other, that all truth must conform to music. If you believe the first, you are making your job very difficult, and you are not only limiting the writing of poems to something done only by the very witty and clever, such as Auden, you are weakening the justification for creative writing programs. So you can take that attitude if you want, but you are jeopardizing my livelihood as well as your chances of writing a good poem. If the second attitude is right, then I still have a job. Let's pretend it is right because I need the money. Besides, if you feel truth must conform to music, those of us who find life bewildering and who don't know what things mean, but love the sounds of words enough to fight through draft after draft of a poem, can go on writing--try to stop us.

So I -- and a lot of others I've talked to -- didn't want to be in that Auden camp. I didn't want to write about things I was sure of, and bend language to illustrate those sureties.

But hey, Auden was great, and gradually I came back to recognizing that, if never back to looking at him as a poetic role model. He wrote lots and lots of poems that had both wit and substance.

What Poets Do

I don't use the Fucking Your Sister letter as an assignment to critique, I use it as an assignment to provoke discussion. What was hard about the assignment? I get a variety of answers, but generally they're along these lines; It was about emotions that were painful. It was hard to imagine myself in that situation. I didn't know what to start with. I had a hard time fitting it all in, or putting it together. I didn't know why I would be telling all this to this person I hadn't talked to in a long time.

And what was fun about it? I got to use my imagination. It was a challenge. It has...no one actually ever says this in my class, but I think that's because they're scared of me at that point...it has all that neat stuff like sex and death and forbidden desires. Anyway, whatever they come up with, I can turn into my object lesson...this is what poets do. They have to reach deep into themselves for emotions they may not be comfortable with. They have to find words for those emotions, and organize them. But they get to exercise their imagination, and write about all that neat stuff.