Babel. The degradation of music. Is writing just aggressive vanity? Dumb & Dumber: fireworks and more fireworks. Murderland. Other books. Two pieces of music.

Snatched from Babel (The Tower of)

Buzzing through the annoying-speak, the following came to light and I circled back: Yeah I know. Account Executive-speak.

Price point. Why do people say this? Won’t “price” or “cost” do the job? Does it seem smarter? More words are not your friends. This is why AI and corporate-jargon will separate the good writers from the bad, making it easier for good writers (ie: who respect the language, know it’s from its) to reign (not rein, not rain) supreme.

I am not yet the writer I can be, but with practice, there’s hope. I made a damn good living, writing. For many years. I cared. Plus I respected, and do deeply respect, English (English Major, thank goodness). You could tell. There’s the difference. Then I started writing books; that was aggressive vanity I now see.

“In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It's an aggressive, even a hostile act.” Joan Didion

“There's a point when you go with what you've got. Or you don't go.” Joan Didion

Amazon would have you believe all books are good. Very Much Nope. Most are full of s**t as a ten-lb. robin. People fall in love with their own words, call themselves “author,” thrust it before you, and say, “Here, read this.” Don’t do it. Vet your book buys carefully. End up with fewer stacks of crap.

Know a Virtue-Signaller? Oh, bless you for your good works. Or not. The old rule is do a good deed and shut up about it—if you tell people, it doesn’t count. Facebook notwithstanding. (88% Virtue Signallers) (LinkedIn humble-bragging about the same)

Music. Good God. It seems on an autopilot race to the bottom. Synthesized to death. I went through Pitchfork’s 7.0 and above, the past few weeks trying to find something you might like, something I can share with you, to make us both smile and take some time off from the noise. So far, no good. Why? Here’s why. (Link)

Poetry, the last honest outpost? I know some “poets.” And some poets. I have bones to pick. Collins gets all winky-wink. A bit show-offish with either wikipedia or bookish brain dumps. Kooser, that sweet little old guy? Read Sure Signs. Not so sweet, that. And he seethes about Frost; why? Who cares? Not Frost. But TK disses him every chance he gets. My faves have chinks in the armor. Just sayin’. (But then I read Billy’s “On Turning Ten,” and all is forgiven. Or Ted’s “New Cap,” with warmth.) Connie Wanek: worth reading. Took me 50 of some 100 poems to get used to her, but she’s worth it. Goin’ back for more.

Contact your lawmakers, please

Fireworks. Wasn’t going to mention this madness, but a recent poll found that a large percentage of mouth-breathers asked had no idea why fireworks were the noise behind July 4th. Or why the holiday. To celebrate Black Cat? Over the 4th, there was widespread damage, death, disfigurement, huge explosions of fireworks stockpiles, hotbox warehouses, whole neighborhoods going up in flames, pasture and forests, burning all over the US from sea to shining sea. Two words: Total Ban.

Books in the stack…

100th Anniversary, annotated Great Gatsby. I will read this one slowly, savoring it…when? Whenever I damn please…

Intro by Amor Towles; fine choice. Preface by the editor James L.W.West III. Many historical references and photos throughout; oh, I will re-read original Gatsby, and devour the annotations and notes and Perkins’ letters, soak up the photos. I will sit at this banquet, like a brunch at The Savoy, eggs benedict just so, creamed broccoli, a cinnamon roll, coffee, and, back in the day, two Manhattans, sun lighting up the stained glass windows, the polished walnut paneling. Then, that world will disappear and I will, once again, inhabit Nick’s shimmering world. Fully. The words. The time. The voices. I hear the music echoing from West Egg.

A sincere Thank you, Penguin Random House. The book’s link.

More of ‘em…

Rival Gardens, (Link) poetry by Connie Swanek, contains about 200 poems; it’s a Contemporary Poetry Book edited by Ted Kooser, and, after my first reading, I recommend it to poetry lovers. She makes use of the local rural landscape, deaths, peaches, moons and pollen with what one critic called “sly observations.” Another says “The light is wonderfully clear in these accounts, as is the darkness…” I read the book, and warmed to her language quickly; I will read it again, as I do Collins, Kooser, Hicok, Harjo and Hennen. Nice, nice book, this.

Murderland, (Link) runaway bestseller by Caroline Fraser. Serial killers are not a subject that draws me in; they are strange night-blossoming products of abuse, anger, wiring defects and chemical imbalance. They are…frightening, and, to me, deserving of a quick and calamitous end. They are not, in any way, redeemable—psychopathy isn’t curable. Usually they are low IQ, but some have demonstrated otherwise. But are they explainable?

Fraser connects disparate dots in this book. Ore-smelting and its byproducts of lead-poisoning and arsenic, for example, crisscrossing paths with the likes of Manson, Bundy and others. But, also, the tectonic significance of buried land faults in the Pacific Northwest, most notably, the OWL fault, the 400 mile-long Olympic–Wallowa lineament. And dots of birth years; the epidemic seems to encompass those born shortly before and during WWII.

She asks “What are the odds?” And therein lies America’s (and my) fascination with this book. I admit I bought it because it’s such a bestseller. And she’s a good writer. Murderland may repel you but it won’t bore you. Five round bales from the Resume Speed, Kansas book-rater.

The Windflower Home Almanac of Poetry, Illustrated (Link) Another Kooser operation, this anthology was designed to resemble a vintage farmer’s almanac, complete with old ads for hog-wormer and farm tools. This small book packs a big punch with powerful poems from The Great Plains and appealing illustrations. Highly recommended. Standing O from my own great plains.

Take a break

Quit clicking on the screenshot—it’s static, it’s only there for visual info. Click here (Link) and relax while you let this solo performance wash over you, through you, transport you to a higher plane than any negative vibes I’ve brought to this blog; (one of those days). This’ll get us all back on track in the nicest possible way (I hope, but who could go wrong with Victor Wooten?) Go.

And Again… 

Another screenshot, so click here to hear (Link) Have you ever heard a piece of music and remembered exactly where you were, the weather, the place, the circumstances, and never forgotten? That happened to me with this one. Noon. I had just left the Dancer Fitzgerald Sample building, and headed across the Del Amo (Torrance, CA) mall parking lot to Benettons.

I stopped at their store window and heard music they were piping outside. It was this song and I had to know what it was; I hurried inside and asked a sales girl, who replied, “Paul Simon, One Trick Pony album, it’s brand new…” I bought two short sleeved sweaters, and, a bit later, the CD at, I believe, Tower Records. End of pointless story (hey it’s that kind of day) but I’ve never lost the opening chord thrill when this one comes on. Talk about poetry, this guy should be listed with the greats. Late in the evening…

I had more stuff, but know when to fold’ em. Now. Love, G-man. OOXXO