Happy Halloween

Today's the day! If you know me, you probably know I love Halloween. The disguises, the sugary snacks, and—best of all—being scared out of your wits.

I appreciate the simple escape of horror. There's something paradoxically reassuring about the performance of terror. At a scary movie, for instance, we're scared because we want to be. Sure, media can still get under our skin, but we see scary movies because they give us a sense of control. The fictional terror on the screen is a distraction from the very real fears in our day-to-day lives.

Stephen King has a wonderful essay called "Why We Crave Horror Movies." He expresses the above points better than I can, so I'll send you his way instead. You can read the essay here on the King's College website (though be aware that the link is a file download).

Thanks for reading. Eat some candy, and happy Halloween.

Plan 9 from Outer Space

In the spirit of Halloween, I thought I'd share one of my favorite (non-) scary movies: Plan Nine from Outer Space. It's a delight, and an absolute disaster.

The film is remarkable for several reasons. Aside from being known as one of the "worst" movies ever made, it's the last film to feature actor Bela Lugosi (the guy who played the O.G. Dracula in 1931). Lugosi died before production really took off, so director Ed Wood hired a random actor to replace him. Wood still had footage of Lugosi, however, and he opted to simply splice the two actors' performances together.

Most audiences were unimpressed.

Now the movie has a quasi-legendary status. Almost everything about it is, by conventional standards, terrible. The acting, the writing; the production. Even when I first watched this as a naïve and impressionable six-year-old, I knew it was not a well-made movie. But that's its whole charm: as ridiculous a film this might be, it never takes itself too seriously.

For your enjoyment and chagrin, here's the whole thing.

- Plan 9 from Outer Space (1959), directed by Ed Wood

The School Children

"The School Children" 

The children go forward with their little satchels.
And all morning the mothers have labored
to gather the late apples, red and gold,
like words of another language. 

And on the other shore
are those who wait behind great desks
to receive these offerings. 

How orderly they are — the nails
on which the children hang
their overcoats of blue or yellow wool. 

And the teachers shall instruct them in silence
and the mothers shall scour the orchards for a way out,
drawing to themselves the gray limbs of the fruit trees
bearing so little ammunition.

- by Louise Glück, from The House on Marshland (1975)

Little Love #4: Radio Tuning

Little Love Number Four: Tuning to that exact radio frequency

Since before I can remember, the radio has almost always been on in my living space: in the car on the way to school, at night as I fell asleep, on Saturday afternoons around the house. A constant companion, more or less. (I should also mention that my dad was, for years, a radio reporter, so that probably factored into our family's near-obsession with the format.)

Last Saturday, I was—somewhat unusually—changing the station on my little clock radio. It had been a while since I'd wrestled with the dial, and I forgot the small sense of victory one feels when getting the tuning just right. There's almost an entire dramatic arc within the act of tuning a clock-radio: the initial frustration of losing your channel; the false triumph of hitting your station and (alas!) replacing the radio on your bedside table, only to hear further static; the tentative hope when, fumbling with your radio (this time still in its place), you think you might have gotten it this time; the final, humble relief when you sit back to a crisp, unobstructed frequency.

Or maybe it's just me. 

A Cottony Fate

"A Cottony Fate"

Long ago, someone
told me: avoid or. 

It troubles the mind
as a held-out piece of meat disturbs a dog. 

Now I too am sixty.
There was no other life.

- by Jane Hirshfield, from The Paris Review (Summer 2014)

Shorter Days

So long, summer

Cool Cat

A lot of people would say that Queen's music wasn't as good in the '80's. That they shouldn't have explored disco; that they shouldn't have used synths. While I'd agree that Hot Space isn't their best album, this song is catchy as all get-out.

A few extra tidbits:

1. David Bowie contributed vocals to a demo, but later asked for his contribution to be removed before the album's release. Apparently, he didn't much like the song.
2. Michael Jackson allegedly cited this album as an inspiration for Thriller (though, to be honest, I don't have a reliable Internet source for this one).
3. One of my adolescent bedroom walls might have been covered with posters of Queen, and I might have spent too many lost dollars on VHS tapes, DVDs, and books about their work.
 

- "Cool Cat" by Queen, from Hot Space (1982)

A.D.D.

- "A.D.D." by Yannis Pappas, from Let Me Be Yannis (2016)

Dream Variations

The below poem is by Langston Hughes, a fellow Missourian.

Langston Hughes, February 1959

"Dream Variations"

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
     Dark like me—
That is my dream!
To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
     Black like me.

- by Langston Hughes, from The Weary Blues (1926)

Little Love #3: Wool Socks

Little Love Number Three: Warm wool socks

As the weather gets colder, I'm increasingly impatient for the heat to come on in my apartment building. The whole place relies on a basement boiler; and my neglected, dusty radiator is itching to come alive again. Until that day, I'll be drinking lots of warm liquids and wearing only my coziest socks. My favorite pair is covered in constellations. They were a gift from my friend Hayley during our first year of college. She and I were on the crew team together, and those socks kept my toes warm through many cold mornings on the Charles.

As a kid, I used to think that socks were the worst gift a person could give. Now, I would be overjoyed to get some. It's funny how those things change.

Common People

If an alien beamed onto our planet and asked me to describe 1996, I would show it this music video.

-"Common People" by Blur, from Different Class (1995)

Once More to See You

- "Once More to See You" by Mitski, from Puberty 2 (2016)

Behind; Above

Looking up; the National Portrait Gallery (January 2017)

The Writer

We lost the poet Richard Wilbur this week. I was unfamiliar with his work until a poetry class I took last spring, and I'm grateful to have found his poems. Though he isn't my favorite poet (not by a long shot), many of his poems are impressive and surprising in the way of most honest art.

If you like this, you can learn more about Wilbur's writing career here.

"The Writer"

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale. 

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage. 

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which 

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent. 

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash 

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark 

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top, 

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure, 

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world. 

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

- "The Writer" by Richard Wilbur, from Walking to Sleep (1969)

Chuckle Buckets

- Maria Bamford performs at Just for Laughs in Montreal (2003)

Fernando

And I'm not ashamed to say

This song almost makes me cry

- "Fernando" by ABBA, from Greatest Hits (1976)

And Then It Was Less Bleak Because We Said So

"And Then It Was Less Bleak Because We Said So"

Today there has been so much talk of things exploding
into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we
all run outside into the hot streets
and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones
anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth
you can always see. With more sparkle and pop
is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes
into acid jazz. Small typewriters
that other people keep in their eyes
click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard
to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always
eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later
to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong
if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving
their broken little hands.

-  by Wendy Xu, from You Are Not Dead (2013)

Little Love #2: Friendly Neighborhood Cats

While I could write a whole encyclopedia about why I love my cat Nala, there's something equally special about sidewalk cats.

Little Love Number Two: Outgoing neighborhood cats

I was out walking the other night when I heard this irrepressible meow coming from down the block. I kept walking, eventually reaching the source of the noise: a peppery black-and-gold cat with a smushed-in face and a fierce scar over its left eye. It was balanced on the wet wooden rail of a small balcony, but when I came close, it tentatively slid down the railing to jump onto the sidewalk and say hello. I extended my hand, and the little guy ran toward me.

Man, this cat was all about being pet. I guess a lot of cats are, but this one wouldn't shut up for one second. I adored it for that reason alone.

After a few minutes together, I noticed a sign that said "Don't beware of dog: beware of owner," so I slipped away as I heard the front door open. A young kid in a yellow t-shirt emerged, and the cat followed me to the corner before going back home.

I'm smiling now, just thinking about it.

Don't Get Me Wrong

The only thing that needs to be said here:

Chrissie Hynde is iconic.

Also, I get a chuckle out of the strange symbol that she finds written on her datebook. The triangle inside a circle is also used by Alcoholics Anonymous to represent recovery. I doubt that's what the Pretenders were getting at here, but it adds another outlandish layer to this already absurd video (which itself is apparently a reference to the series The Avengers).

- "Don't Get Me Wrong" by The Pretenders, from Get Close (1986)

Sudden Impact

Last Friday night, I took a walk to Gillham Park and wandered around the storied old wading pool.

Built in 1977, it replaced an earlier wading pool from 1913. Because this was Kansas City in the '70's, the new pool was heavily informed by Modernist architecture: lots of low, flat, rectilinear concrete planes lead gradually into the shallow pool, which was only three feet at its deepest. This practical design meant that, though there wasn't much shade, parents and friends could nestle into the elevated concrete corners with a clear view of swimmers. It also allowed for closer proximity among strangers, as the segmented planes dictated a certain degree of personal space while still allowing visitors to sit close to one another and, perhaps, strike up a conversation. By many accounts, people felt safe and relaxed here, like they were part of a community.

The pool, which lacked a pumping and filtration system, was eventually shut down last summer after its thirty-ninth year. This represented, for many folks, a significant loss. Gillham Park had one of the few free pools in the city, which meant that it was accessible across socioeconomic boundaries. It was seen as a friendly and welcoming neighborhood space.

Neighborhood groups are currently working to raise money for a nearby spray park. This potential project would be an adequate replacement for the beloved pool, which now sits empty. Its plain white interior has become a free canvas for local artists and bored kids. Though I doubt the pool will remain the gathering space it once was, I'll watch these walls nonetheless.

"Bouncy bouncy—it's such a good time"

Southbound

Bright Blue Self-Portrait

The below poem, "Bright Blue Self-Portrait," is by the American writer Frank Lima. Born in Spanish Harlem in 1939, Lima's youth was marked by drug addiction, recovery from which led him to realize his love of poetry. After earning an MFA from Columbia University, Lima decided to pursue a career as a chef, though he continued to write until his death in 2013.

Lima was also featured in this painting by Wynn Chamberlain, which features Lima standing behind fellow New York poet Frank O'Hara:

Wynn Chamberlain, Poets Dressed and Undressed (1964)

If you enjoy this poem, you can read more of Lima's work here.

"Bright Blue Self-Portrait"

I thank the spiders’ webs and the circus dancers who stain our eyes with
Rapid movements and authorize our handcuffs to make no distinction
Between night and day or love and hate.
No one will know the sum of our arduous daily separations from bed to

Work. These pillars actually belong to you since I have not counted them
Or know any more than you do where they are or in what country they
Still exist. We can put all our concerns into a loaf of bread and French
Kisses, go to movies and watch the splashing milk on the screen imitate

the forest in the moonlight. Why all the fuss about the patrons becoming
Feathers, discharging their ideas of nobility on the evening news? There
Are no lights in the theater just soft snow from the balcony that is the
Little red schoolhouse where all this began.

Actually it was because of you I did not attend as often as I should have.
I was too embarrassed to face you across the clay modeling tables since I
Always felt like the clay in your hands was a cartoon version of my teen
Years, dear slippery-fish ladies of the sleepy west.

Don’t forget, my early life will be yours, too,
With its self-descriptions of poetic justice,
The tiny creatures we write about can describe themselves in the moss
We leave behind.

- by Frank Lima, from Incidents of Travel in Poetry (2016)

Big Umbrella People

"I'm definitely a small umbrella person; I voted for Hillary"

- Comedian Jordan Carlos, live at Paste Studios (February 2017)

Body and Kentucky Bourbon

In the dark, my mind's night, I go back
to your work-calloused hands, your body

and the memory of fields I no longer see.
Cheek wad of chew tobacco,

Skoal-tin ring in the back pocket
of threadbare jeans, knees

worn through entirely. How to name you:
farmhand, Kentucky boy, lover.

The one who taught me to bear
the back-throat burn of bourbon.

Straight, no chaser, a joke in our bed,
but I stopped laughing; all those empty bottles,

kitchen counters covered with beer cans
and broken glasses. To realize you drank

so you could face me the morning after,
the only way to choke down rage at the body

sleeping beside you. What did I know
of your father's backhand or the pine casket

he threatened to put you in? Only now,
miles and years away, do I wince at the jokes:

white trash, farmer's tan, good ole boy.
And now, alone, I see your face

at the bottom of my shot glass
before my own comes through.

- "Body and Kentucky Bourbon" by Saeed Jones, from Prelude to Bruise (2014)

Yo Vivo Con La Verdad

These dudes are just another reason why I'm proud of Kansas City.

- "Yo Vivo Con La Verdad" by Making Movies, from I Am Another You (2017)

Little Love #1: Frozen Leftovers

I've decided, for my own selfish reasons, to begin a modest little series of "little loves:" minor things that make me disproportionately happy. I don't spend enough time celebrating these things, I don't think, so I'm trying to change that, and to share my tiny excitements with all of you.

I could, of course, just embrace my own Goop-iness and call this what it is—a stupid little gratitude journal—but I've got too much pride for that. So here we go.

Little Love Number One: Defrosting and eating six-month old frozen leftovers 

A few days ago, I dug into my freezer and pulled out the verenika I'd been saving. Verenika, in case I caught you unawares, is a gift from on high: little pierogi-type dumplings filled with cottage cheese and covered in ham gravy. They're a cornerstone of Mennonite cuisine, and I used to eat them every year as a kid. My parents would take us to Hutchinson, Kansas, for the annual MCC Sale, and we'd load up on the stuff. My sister and I went with our mom in April, and we both froze some to eat later on.

I'd held out for half a year, and now my wait is over. I'm eager for the small comfort of this food, this piece of my youth and my family history. I know they won't be as good as they are fresh, but verenika are like fries: even when they're bad, they're still pretty good.

Birthright

"Birthright AKA My Father Explains How We Got Here"

I’m not sure how many more times
you want to hear your own myth

The Blue Moon spit you out
which I thought was your first mistake
Son you only get a few resurrections
and you used one already
in a night full of red wings
and light dangling in steam
but hey sometimes we don’t have a choice
in what blood we rode in on

Anyway the cardinal came to the window
and I knew
somewhere something I cared about
was spilling

So I take off running after your mother
a scarlet prayer unraveling behind me
“God, I hope he looks like his mama”

I got in just before the blades
sharp things brought you into this world
sharp things might be what keep you here

they cleaved your mother’s stomach
like a fresh snowfall
you came from scars boy
if nothing else you get that from me

 - by Julian Randall, from Vinyl Poetry (July 2016)

Hisen

- "Hisen" by Susumu Yokota, from Sakura (1999)

A Small Stretch

From the backlog of things I never posted:

Grand Junction, Colorado; July 2014

Concrete Seconds

- "Concrete Seconds" by Pinback, from Blue Screen Life (2001)

Genealogy

"Genealogy"

This stream took a shorter course—
a thread of water that makes oasis

out of mud, in pooling,
does not aspire to lake. To river, leave

the forest, the clamorous wild.
I cannot. Wherever I am,

I am here, nonsensical, rhapsodic,
stock-still as the trees. Trickling

never floods, furrows its meager path
through the forest floor.

There will always be a root
too thirsty, moss that only swallows

and spreads. Primordial home, I am dying
from love of you. Were I tuber or quillwort,

the last layer of leaves that starts the dirt
or the meekest pond,

I would absorb everything.
I would drown. Water makes song

of erratic forms, and I hear the living
push back branches, wander off trail.

- by Jennifer Chang, from The History of Anonymity (2008)

Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me

- "Jazz for Lovers, Solitude for Me" by The Marshmallow Kisses, from Ciao! Baby (2011)