Harold Pinter on W.S. Graham:
"I first read his poetry in 1949, that's a bloody long time ago now, I was 20. I'll have to use a word which is over done - I found his language magical. It's as simple as that. What happens when you read a poem that sends a shiver is a mysterious thing. I find it very difficult to analyse. When you have a unique sense of language like Graham or Shakespeare you come across a line which just hits you midships and sends you all aflutter. I'm not a scholar, I'm just a chap who like poetry. I never break things down. I think he's the most wonderful poet with unique lyrical gifts. He could sing like nobody's business and he had enormous skill in handling verse. I know no other poet who can move through about three lines and come out in the fourth in one breath. It's a remarkable genius but it also takes a lot of work. He's dealing with such delicate potentials - silence and the other side of language. He's very courageous in trying to define something which is otherwise indefinable."
To Alexander Graham
by W. S. Graham
Lying asleep walking
Last night I met my father
Who seemed pleased to see me.
He wanted to speak. I saw
His mouth saying something
But the dream had no sound.
We were surrounded by
Laid-up paddle steamers
In The Old Quay in Greenock.
I smelt the tar and the ropes.
It seemed that I was standing
Beside the big iron cannon
The tugs used to tie up to
When I was a boy. I turned
To see Dad standing just
Across the causeway under
That one lamp they keep on.
He recognised me immediately.
I could see that. He was
The handsome, same age
With his good brows as when
He would take me on Sundays
Saying we’ll go for a walk.
Dad, what am I doing here?
What is it I am doing now?
Are you proud of me?
Going away, I knew
You wanted to tell me something.
You stopped and almost turned back
To say something. My father,
I try to be the best
In you you give me always.
Lying asleep turning
Round in the quay-lit dark
It was my father standing
As real as life. I smelt
The quay’s tar and the ropes.
I think he wanted to speak.
But the dream had no sound.
I think I must have loved him.
W. S. Graham, “To Alexander Graham” from Collected Poems 1942-1977 (London: Faber, 1979). Copyright The Estate of W. S. Graham. Reprinted with the permission of Michael and Margaret Snow, Literary Executors for the W. S. Graham Estate.
Source: Selected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1980)
William Sydney Graham
(November 19, 1918 - January 9, 1986) was a Scottish poet who is often associated with Dylan Thomas and the neo-romantic group of poets. Graham's poetry was mostly overlooked in his lifetime but, partly due to the support of Harold Pinter, his work has enjoyed a revival in recent years and is represented in the Anthology of Twentieth-Century British and Irish Poetry (Oxford University Press, 2001).
Early life and work
Graham was born in Greenock. In 1932, he left school to become an apprentice draughtsman and then studied structural engineering at Stow College, Glasgow. He was awarded a bursary to study literature for a year at Newbattle Abbey College in 1938. Graham spent the war years working at a number of jobs in Scotland and Ireland before moving to Cornwall in 1944. His first book, Cage Without Grievance was published in 1942.
Graham and the neo-romantics
The 1940s were prolific years for Graham, and he published four more books during that decade. These were The Seven Journeys (1944), 2ND Poems (1945), The Voyages of Alfred Wallis (1948) and The White Threshold (1949). The style of these early poems led critics to see Graham as part of the neo-romantic group that included Dylan Thomas and George Barker. The affinities between these three poets derive from a common interest in poets like Gerard Manley Hopkins, Arthur Rimbaud and Hart Crane, and, in the cases of Thomas and Graham, a taste for the Bohemian lifestyle of the London literary scene.
In 1948, after spending a year on a reading touring of the United States, which included a small amount of teaching at New York University, he moved to London to be nearer the hub of that Bohemian world. Here he came into contact with T. S. Eliot, then editor of Faber and Faber who published The White Threshold and who were to remain Graham's publishers for the rest of his life.
The Nightfishing and after
In 1954, Graham returned to Cornwall to live near the St. Ives artists colony. Here he became friendly with several of the resident painters, including Bryan Wynter and Roger Hilton. The following year, Faber and Faber published his The Nightfishing, a book whose title poem is marked a dramatic change in Graham's poetry. The poem moved on from his earlier style and a move away from the neo-romantic/apocalyptic tag. Unfortunately for the poet, the poem's appearance coincided with the rise of the Movement with their open hostility to the neo-romantics, and, despite the support of Eliot and Hugh MacDiarmid, the book was neither a critical nor a popular success.
It was to be fifteen years before Graham published another book, Malcolm Mooney's Land (1970). This, and his last book, Implements In Their Places, are a truly original and enduring poetic achievements, for which Graham is only slowly coming to be recognised. For many years, he had been living in semi-poverty on his income as a writer, but in 1974 he received a Civil List pension of £500 per year. Perhaps because of this alleviation of his financial circumstances, Graham began to publish with more frequency, with Implements in their Places (1977), Collected Poems 1942-1977 (1979) and an American-published Selected Poems (1980). He died in Madron, Cornwall in 1986. His last collection Aimed at Nobody was published posthumously in 1993 and a book of Uncollected Poems appeared in 1990. Faber brought out a new Selected Poems in 1996. The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters was published in 1999 and New Collected Poems in 2005.
As this posthumous publication activity indicates, Graham's reputation has grown in recent years. Some might argue this is partly due to Harold Pinter's often-expressed enthusiasm for the poet, or attribute his increasing recognition to the widespread advocacy of poets associated with the British Poetry Revival. However Graham's work was represented in the anthology Conductors of Chaos (1996) by a selection introduced by the poet and critic Tony Lopez, who also wrote a book-length study, The Poetry of W. S. Graham (1989).
External links
Short introduction to Graham with links to poems
Pinter on Graham
Review of The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters, edited by Michael and Margaret Snow. Manchester: Carcanet. by Dennis O'Driscoll in Thumbscrew No. 16 (2000), "On Pancakes Alone"
Review of The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters, edited by Michael and Margaret Snow. by James Keery in PN Review, "HIS PERFECT HUNGER'S DAILY CHANGING BREAD"
W S Graham: speaking towards you, edited by Ralph Pite and Hester Jones, Liverpool University Press ISBN 0853235791 - some pages available on Googlebooks
W.S. Graham fonds at University of Victoria, Special Collections
Graham was born in Greenock. In 1932, he left school to become an apprentice draughtsman and then studied structural engineering at Stow College, Glasgow. He was awarded a bursary to study literature for a year at Newbattle Abbey College in 1938. Graham spent the war years working at a number of jobs in Scotland and Ireland before moving to Cornwall in 1944. His first book, Cage Without Grievance was published in 1942.
Graham and the neo-romantics
The 1940s were prolific years for Graham, and he published four more books during that decade. These were The Seven Journeys (1944), 2ND Poems (1945), The Voyages of Alfred Wallis (1948) and The White Threshold (1949). The style of these early poems led critics to see Graham as part of the neo-romantic group that included Dylan Thomas and George Barker. The affinities between these three poets derive from a common interest in poets like Gerard Manley Hopkins, Arthur Rimbaud and Hart Crane, and, in the cases of Thomas and Graham, a taste for the Bohemian lifestyle of the London literary scene.
In 1948, after spending a year on a reading touring of the United States, which included a small amount of teaching at New York University, he moved to London to be nearer the hub of that Bohemian world. Here he came into contact with T. S. Eliot, then editor of Faber and Faber who published The White Threshold and who were to remain Graham's publishers for the rest of his life.
The Nightfishing and after
In 1954, Graham returned to Cornwall to live near the St. Ives artists colony. Here he became friendly with several of the resident painters, including Bryan Wynter and Roger Hilton. The following year, Faber and Faber published his The Nightfishing, a book whose title poem is marked a dramatic change in Graham's poetry. The poem moved on from his earlier style and a move away from the neo-romantic/apocalyptic tag. Unfortunately for the poet, the poem's appearance coincided with the rise of the Movement with their open hostility to the neo-romantics, and, despite the support of Eliot and Hugh MacDiarmid, the book was neither a critical nor a popular success.
It was to be fifteen years before Graham published another book, Malcolm Mooney's Land (1970). This, and his last book, Implements In Their Places, are a truly original and enduring poetic achievements, for which Graham is only slowly coming to be recognised. For many years, he had been living in semi-poverty on his income as a writer, but in 1974 he received a Civil List pension of £500 per year. Perhaps because of this alleviation of his financial circumstances, Graham began to publish with more frequency, with Implements in their Places (1977), Collected Poems 1942-1977 (1979) and an American-published Selected Poems (1980). He died in Madron, Cornwall in 1986. His last collection Aimed at Nobody was published posthumously in 1993 and a book of Uncollected Poems appeared in 1990. Faber brought out a new Selected Poems in 1996. The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters was published in 1999 and New Collected Poems in 2005.
As this posthumous publication activity indicates, Graham's reputation has grown in recent years. Some might argue this is partly due to Harold Pinter's often-expressed enthusiasm for the poet, or attribute his increasing recognition to the widespread advocacy of poets associated with the British Poetry Revival. However Graham's work was represented in the anthology Conductors of Chaos (1996) by a selection introduced by the poet and critic Tony Lopez, who also wrote a book-length study, The Poetry of W. S. Graham (1989).
External links
Short introduction to Graham with links to poems
Pinter on Graham
Review of The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters, edited by Michael and Margaret Snow. Manchester: Carcanet. by Dennis O'Driscoll in Thumbscrew No. 16 (2000), "On Pancakes Alone"
Review of The Nightfisherman: Selected Letters, edited by Michael and Margaret Snow. by James Keery in PN Review, "HIS PERFECT HUNGER'S DAILY CHANGING BREAD"
W S Graham: speaking towards you, edited by Ralph Pite and Hester Jones, Liverpool University Press ISBN 0853235791 - some pages available on Googlebooks
W.S. Graham fonds at University of Victoria, Special Collections
Retrieved from:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._S._Graham
W.S. Graham reading:
‘Lines On Roger Hilton’s Watch’
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoet.do?poetId=7505
Dear Brian Wynter
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=7507
The Thermal Stair
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=7508
Home Page for the Poetry Archive
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/home.do
The Nightfisherman
Link to On-line book (part)
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/reader/1857544455/ref=sib_dp_pt#reader-link
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._S._Graham
A Sample of Graham’s Works 1942-1977
Oh Gentle Queen Of The Afternoon
O gentle queen of the afternoon
Wave the last orient of tears.
No daylight comet ever breaks
On so sweet an archipelago
As love on love.
The fundamental negress built
In a cloudy descant of the stars
Surveys no sorrow, invents no limits
Till laughter the watcher of accident
Sways off to God.
O gentle queen of the afternoon
The dawn is rescued dead and risen.
Promise, O bush of blushing joy,
No daylight comet ever breaks
On so sweet an archipelago
As love on love.
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
Shian Bay and Gigha
SHIAN BAY
Gulls set the long shore printed
With arrow steps over this morning's
Sands clean of a man's footprint
And set up question and reply
Over the serpentine jetty
And over the early coaches
Of foam noisily in rows
Driven in from the farout banks.
Last gale washed five into the bay's stretched arms,
Four drowned men and a boy drowned into shelter.
The stones roll out to shelter in the sea.
W.S. Graham
GIGHA
That firewood pale with salt and burning green
Outfloats its men who waved with a sound of drowning
Their saltcut hands over mazes of this rough bay.
Quietly this morning beside the subsided herds
Of water I walk. The children wade the shallows.
The sun with long legs wades into the sea.
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
Listen Put On The Morning
LISTEN. PUT ON MORNING
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
A man's imagining
Suddenly may inherit
The handclapping centuries
Of his one minute on earth.
And hear the virgin juries
Talk with his own breath
To the corner boys of his street.
And hear the Black Maria
Searching the town at night.
And hear the playropes caa
The sister Mary in.
And hear Willie and Davie
Among bracken of Narnain
Sing in a mist heavy
With myrtle and listeners.
And hear the higher town
Weep a petition of fears
At the poorhouse close upon
The public heartbeat.
And hear the children tig
And run with my own feet
Into the netting drag
Of a suiciding principle.
Listen. Put on lightbreak.
Waken into miracle.
The audience lies awake
Under the tenements
Under the sugar docks
Under the printed moments.
The centuries turn their locks
And open under the hill
Their inherited books and doors
All gathered to distil
Like happy berry pickers
One voice to talk to us.
Yes listen. It carries away
The second and the years
Till the heart's in a jacket of snow
And the head's in a helmet white
And the song sleeps to be wakened
By the morning ear bright.
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
Letter VI
LETTER VI
A day the wind was hardly
Shaking the youngest frond
Of April I went on
The high moor we know.
I put my childhood out
Into a cocked hat
And you moving the myrtle
Walked slowly over.
A sweet clearness became.
The Clyde sleeved in its firth
Reached and dazzled me.
I moved and caught the sweet
Courtesy of your mouth.
My breath to your breath.
And as you lay fondly
In the crushed smell of the moor
The courageous and just sun
Opened its door.
And there we lay halfway
Your body and my body
Over the high moor. Without
A word then we went
Our ways. I heard the moor
Curling its cries far
Across the still loch.
The great verbs of the sea
Come down on us in a roar.
What shall I answer for?
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
The Beast In The Space
THE BEAST IN THE SPACE
Shut up. Shut up. There's nobody here.
If you think you hear somebody knocking
On the other side of the words, pay
No attention. It will be only
The great creature that thumps its tail
On silence on the other side.
If you do not even hear that
I'll give the beast a quick skelp
And through Art you'll hear it yelp.
The beast that lives on silence takes
Its bite out of either side.
It pads and sniffs between us. Now
It comes and laps my meaning up.
Call it over. Call it across
This curious necessary space.
Get off, you terrible inhabiter
Of silence. I'll not have it. Get
Away to whoever it is will have you.
He's gone and if he's gone to you
That's fair enough. For on this side
Of the words it's late. The heavy moth
Bangs on the pane. The whole house
Is sleeping and I remember
I am not here, only the space
I sent the terrible beast across.
Watch. He bites. Listen gently
To any song he snorts or growls
And give him food. He means neither
Well or ill towards you. Above
All, shut up. Give him your love.
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
THE CONSTRUCTED SPACE
Meanwhile surely there must be something to say,
Maybe not suitable but at least happy
In a sense between us two whoever
We are. Anyhow here we are and never
Before have we two faced each other who face
Each other now across this abstract scene
Stretching between us. This is a public place
Achieved against subjective odds and then
Mainly an obstacle to what I mean.
It is like that, remember. It is like that
Very often at the beginning till we are met
By some intention risen up out of nothing.
And even then we know what we are saying
Only when it is said and fixed and dead.
Or maybe, surely, of course we never know
What we have said, what lonely meanings are read
Into the space we make. And yet I say
This silence here for in it I might hear you.
I say this silence or, better, construct this space
So that somehow something may move across
The caught habits of language to you and me.
From where we are it is not us we see
And times are hastening yet, disguise is mortal.
The times continually disclose our home.
Here in the present tense disguise is mortal.
The trying times are hastening. Yet here I am
More truly now this abstract act become.
W.S. Graham
I Leave This At Your Ear
I LEAVE THIS AT YOUR EAR
For Nessie Dunsmuir
I leave this at your ear for when you wake,
A creature in its abstract cage asleep.
Your dreams blindfold you by the light they make.
The owl called from the naked-woman tree
As I came down by the Kyle farm to hear
Your house silent by the speaking sea.
I have come late but I have come before
Later with slaked steps from stone to stone
To hope to find you listening for the door.
I stand in the ticking room. My dear, I take
A moth kiss from your breath. The shore gulls cry.
I leave this at your ear for when you wake.
W.S. Graham
Copyright © The Estate of W.S. Graham, 2000.
Imagine A Forest
Imagine a forest
A real forest.
You are walking in it and it sighs
Round you where you go in a deep
Ballad on the border of a time
You have seemed to walk in before.
It is nightfall and you go through
Trying to find between the twittering
Shades the early starlight edge
Of the open moor land you know.
I have set you here and it is not a dream
I put you through. Go on between
The elephant bark of those beeches
Into that lightening, almost glade.
And he has taken
My word and gone
Through his own Ettrick darkening
Upon himself and he's come across
A glinted knight lying dying
On needles under a high tree.
Ease his visor open gently
To reveal whatever white, encased
Face will ask out at you who
It is you are or if you will
Finish him off. His eyes are open.
Imagine he does not speak. Only
His beard moving against the metal
Signs that he would like to speak.
Imagine a room
Where you are home
Taking your boots off from the wood
In that deep ballad very not
A dream and the fire noisily
Kindling up and breaking its sticks.
Do not imagine I put you there
For nothing. I put you through it
There in that holt of words between
The bearded liveoaks and the beeches
For you to meet a man alone
Slipping out of whatever cause
He thought he lay there dying for.
Hang up the ballad
Behind the door.
You are come home but you are about
To not fight hard enough and die
In a no less desolate dark wood
Where a stranger shall never enter.
Imagine a forest
A real forest.
W.S. Graham
Taken from
http://www.7greenhill.freeserve.co.uk/graham.html
My thanks go to Pascal at
http://nowlegwarmers.blogspot.com/ who first introduced me to the works of W.S.Graham
----
*
p.s. Hey. 'Stoopid Slapped Puppies' aka the d.l. formerly known as Put The Lotion In The Basket aka the magnificent writer/artist Nick Brook has the floor today, and the very fine, lesser known poet W.S. Graham is his and, consequently, your mission. Please accept it and talk back to your guest-host in the designated area. Thank you, and my warmest thanks to Nick. ** Killer Luka, I can't feel your legs either. Something's fucked up. ** David, I quite like Arthur Penn's 'Mickey One' too, and even his messy, strange 'Missouri Breaks'. I wonder if time has rendered 'Alice's Restaurant' unwatchable. Probably. Speaking of Godard, I think I'm seeing his new one 'Socialism' this evening. I'll let you know. Thanks a lot about the post, sir. Greatly appreciated. ** Oscar B, Please let me know how it went this morning, pal. All quiet on the Recollets front. They repainted the walls behind the new light fixtures, not very professionally, mind you. Miss you. ** Bill, You're back to SF today? May the gods of jetlag be kind. Yeah, I think my headache has had its say. Safe trip. Report in upon your return please. ** David Ehrenstein, Yeah, that's so true about Anderson, isn't it? That must be one of things I've so adored about his films without even knowing it. Oh, this might be kind of interesting. You know that short film by Christophe Honore in which I played a small role? Apparently, it turned out so well that he expanded it, and now it's his next feature film, hitting theaters here this fall with a splashy premiere and everything. Kind of exciting. ** Paul Curran, Even though our novels in progress are likely very different, I feel like I know exactly where you are in the process and feel the very doubt/confidence of which you speak. A very similar point and quite related dilemmas, I think. Anyway, all of which is to say, I hear you, bro. Courage to us both, I say. ** Joseph, Well, you get the great view thing in the tower thing, I guess, right? Views are usually good things. Hope your dad is snagging that slice of tower as I type, although it's 4 in the morning or something where he is at the moment, so never mind. Cool re: the chap Day. I'm ready whenever you are. I'm all right. It's sunny, and I'm glad I don't have a headache. ** Creative Massacre, Yeah, sad about Rue McClanahan. She had a lot of pizzazz. Oh, dude, yeah, totally about the big stress around traveling. I'm like you. It's awful until I get on the plane and sit down. After that, I figure I'm helpless and try to get into the helplessness. But I've flown a lot more than you have, so it's a bit old hat to me. The traveling always seems so much worse before you do it, just remember that. It's just a stupid hassle, really, when it comes right down to it. ** Koes, So, what happened? Spill. ** Heliotrope, Urgh. Re: your chest cold, I mean. 'Sleeve'. Wtf?! That's so weird a dream idea, it has to mean something. You should paint it on the fence for real. Even in microscopic letters. I don't know what 'Beautiful Losers' is. Well, I know the Leonard Cohen novel. It's a Mike Mills film about skateboarding or something? I'll google it. Never saw the Mills film on Templeton. Didn't know it existed. I'm way out of it over, clearly. Nyquil, yum. Seriously, I love me some Nyquil. ** Statictick, Hey. Hm, okay, I'll try to find 'Food Party'. No Food Channel over here, but I'll try their website or Youtube. It can't hurt. Thanks for the thoughtful tip, tipster. ** Math, I wish I had somebody I was scared to see. I'm kind of scared to see the new Godard movie tonight, but that's a fear that it'll be extremely talky, entirely in French, and I won't understand anything. Best of luck on the trip preparations, the trip, and NYC's welcome. ** JW Veldhoen, Well, but you're a fantastic writer and artist, so you know as much as I do. I guess I'm just lucky in the sense that the games I construct keep my nose to the grindstone more regularly or something? I tinker because I have no choice. I don't recommend it. My real voice is vague and shabby and skims across my ideas, and I have to rumple and unrumple it to get its goods. The way I do it is the wrong way to do it. It just works for me for some weird reason. But I'd kill to have everything at my fingertips. ** Patrick deWitt, Congrats to your bro. I think I'll try to find one of those Neti pots. I'll just pretend I'm snorting coke. It'll be nostalgic. Oh, that's really great about the places the novel has landed. So, does that mean you're picking and choosing which of them you want? Or are you awaiting their respective words? In any case, fantastic! Of course, I'd dig it if you were at Ecco since we'd be conglomerate buddies. ** JoeM, Thanks a lot about the post, Joe. Yep, no new spam from you as yet. ** Kier, So happy to have made you happy, pal. I made myself happy too. Oh, wow, I love that thing you made in school. I'm even in love with it. Everyone, vis a vis yesterday's scale models post, check out this model the great Kier made in school. It's delicious. And here are some really cool, atmospheric b&w shots of some awesome scale models in Stavanger's Oil Museum, also courtesy of Kier. Thanks a ton. ** Alex Rose, Hey, Alex! So, those numbers were your grading system, I'm guessing? I don't think I know the highest rated Micheal Cashmore. I'll fix that. Fashion shoot, whoa, cool. Hm, I bet I know what major magazine it's for. Maybe not, but I have a suspicion. But I'll stop tempting the hex-related fates and just wait for it. ** Little foal, Hey. If I can find that issue of Critical Quarterly, I'll grab it. I love Ariana's work. You probably she was a d.l. here for quite a while a couple of years back under the moniker Antler. Let me ... Everyone, here's an alert from little foal: 'hey everyone, i just wanna begin by saying, i figured it'd be good to bring your attention to a new piece of writing by the amazing poet ariana reines. it's named 'violet', and it can be found in this year's april issue of the journal 'critical quarterly'. if you have access to the journal you should check it out, it's really beautiful.' Yeah, it would probably better for your soul and conscience to leave your parents frowning at your move rather than freaked out by your disappearance. Hopefully, they'll be understanding at least. Sure, why not reengage with Recon. What's wrong with compliments anyway. I guess I'll probably see your new profile when I start trawling the place for my next batch. Hope so 'cos I want to see '[infected]'. Thanks a lot for the description of the Bataille book. I didn't know of that one at all. Man, he wrote a lot of books and not a clunker remotely among them that I've seen. Very wry, funny Woody Allen interview too. More thanks still. Plus, love and lustrous wishes for your day. ** The Dreadful Flying Glove, Bekonscot looks like heaven on earth. I'm easy, I guess, but it does make my toes curl up in the good way. I think ... hm, I think when my pal Joel and I did a UK road trip some years ago while scouting rave scene remnants for an article we co-wrote about rave for Spin Magazine, we tried to see that very place but couldn't do it for some rave-related reason that I can't remember. I would and maybe will come to the UK only to have you take me to that wondrous place. I think I came up with that not so apt maze idea because, tentatively, Gisele's and whoever else's and my next theater piece is going to be a walk-through maze. Attendees will walk through it, and things that are only semi-determined thus far will happen. Could be good, I think. ** Steevee, I might hit a record store while I'm out today since I'll be near a decent one. If I do, I'll check if that album's in stock just in case. I'd like to get it too. ** Flit, Hey, pal. That's a nice doc. I saw it a while back. I was kind of way into Ohno and Japanese Butoh for a bit. Everyone, if you don't know who the late, great Butoh genius and co-inventor Kazuo Ohno is, or even if you do, Flit links us to a fine, older documentary about him, and he was astonishing, and this is very worth watching. Thanks a lot, Flitster! ** Alan, Ha ha, excellent. ** Bernard Welt, Hey, B! Oh, man, I'd kind of kill to see those crime scene scale models. Damn. I guess there's a book according to Killer Luka. I'm so as there as possible. How are the classes and book and everything else going? ** Justin, Yeah, if by a total miracle the 'God Jr.' film happens, it'll be partly live action and partly animation. Hence, the Pixar schmoozing. I don't think you're a psycho. I bet you a million dollars that your other pals here don't think so either. Quite the contrary. Kick that threatening depression in the nuts, man. It's wrong headed. I'll pass the Pugh scoop along to Yury, you bet, thank you! Hang in there, my dear friend. ** Dennis Cooper, Yeah, one of these days I'll become a master of resizing photos, I hope. Until then, dig the punk vibe. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, I'm not exactly sure what the particular scale model represents. I think your guess is a good one. It might make a cool rocket ship too. Yesterday wasn't as horrible as I feared, but I did have a headache all day, so it wasn't a day for the books either. I saw Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers live one time right when they first started. They opened for Blondie in the late 70s, and they got booed off the stage. I didn't boo, but I did think they were painfully old school at that time. My favorite Tom Petty song is the Alvin & the Chipmunks' cover version of 'Refugee' on the now forgotten but once huge successful novelty album 'Chipmunk Punk'. A friend of mine starred in a Tom Petty video. The one where alterna-teens are wandering around in a mall. I can't remember the song. I finally saw that gay McDonalds ad on TV last night. Eh, what's the big deal. My Thursday: A lot of 'oh, my aching head' and not a lot of anything else. I wrote a little. Most everything that was interesting happened via the phone or Facebook. I already said to David E about the cool thing where that Christophe Honore short film I'm in has turned into a bonafide feature film. Maybe it'll even get released in the States. Anyway, Christophe told me that yesterday via FB yesterday, and I'm jazzed. Gisele called me, and I guess the radio play version of 'Jerk', which was the original version, is going to be published in book form. There'll be a CD that has the radio play in French and in English, and I guess we're going to record it again in English in September because it only exists in French right now. And there'll be photos and extras in the book and all kinds of goodies. So, that's cool. That stuff helped my headache a little. I desperately need a haircut. I mean desperately. Yury said he'd cut my hair last night, but he was too tired from work, so maybe tonight. My sister called. My psycho brother is starting to rumble about something, and I hope that doesn't explode. Yeah, that's it, I think. Today might have more reportable things, who knows? Wow, it's Friday already, Jesus. Okay, tell me about yours. ** Misanthrope, No, I didn't know that Justin's been staying with you. Well, that's nice, right? Does he have an interesting outsider perspective on your family that he has cared to share? Say hey for me. Have fun at the museums. Well, I guess fun and the Holocaust museum don't really go together unless you feel like going all Hogan's Heroes on its ass, which I only semi-recommend. ** Sypha, Man, I hope your innards start treating you more respectfully post-haste. I'm sorry to hear that. Gee, I think you telling your old crush how you felt is a good idea. I mean, she may not know how to respond since it can be an awkward situation, but she'll be flattered even if she can't find the words to say so. Everyone is always hugely flattered whenever they inspire a crush. They just don't always paraphrase their reactions very well. ** Nb, Well, I appreciate your hi, man. Anytime, anyplace, and more. Iced tea accident ... broken glass? Evil lemon wedge? My head's okayish now. Sinus thing, it seemed. French pollen or dust de l'France or something. A book day coming up? Let me check. Mm, I'm doing my mid-year top 10 best books, etc. of 2010 so far lists soon. Among new books, Mike Young's 'We are All Good if They Try Enough' (Publishing Genius) is really good. Most of the other things I'm reading right now are pre-release (new Blake Butler, Justin Taylor, a.o.). What's the last thing you read? ** L@rstonovich, Glad your pre-doctor anxiety was unfounded. Anxiety can be such a fucking liar! Why does it do that? It's so wrong and unnecessary. Dude, your wife's wine-related anger is totally her displaced weird feelings about your thinking that the tarot reader was hot, no? Shit, why did I just turn your sentence into a puzzle and try to solve it? It's my novel, man. It's fucking with me, sorry. Love you too. ** Davidc, Hi, David! You made it back safe and sound. And you made it to Versailles! I was watching the skies that day and thinking you might have ventured there. It's massive, right? It was really lovely to see you guys. It did my heart and brain good, let me tell you. I hope the interview/ presentation charmed the powers that be into a state of helplessness and vigorous head nodding. ** Bollo, Mm, I'm pretty sure that boat thing was a scale model, but, hm, maybe not, and your version is tons more exciting. It was the Munsters House actually. We've got really nice sun here too, and, this being Paris, or me being such a Francophile, there's more pretty flesh than not. ** Memoirs of a Heroinhead, Okay, well, I just want to make sure you'll be okay. I'm just saying that if the blog needs to magically transform into a bank somehow, I'll definitely give it a shot. Nice weather, right? I mean if you like the sun. I sort of do, at least when it behaves itself. Is that true about English penises? I'd never heard that. Well, you know what they say: small penis = great ass. ** Let SSP's paean to W.S. Graham wash over you now. I have a quick shower and a big meeting on my agenda. Meet you back here.
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