I love you like a skateboard on the street.
I love you like a cigarette in my toes.
I love you like a plaid skirt on nothing.
I love you like a window in a house.
I love you like a movie made for television.
I love you like donuts on Sunday.
I love you like mud in a ditch.
I love you like a sad monkey cries purple horseshoes.
I love you like a melted cheerio in a bowl.
I love you like a Scrabble piece under the sofa.
I love you like Mexican chicken.
I love you like feta cheese on salami.
I love you like sweat on my back.
I love you like a nap in the afternoon.
I love you like milk comes from a cow.
I love you like gold comes from rainbows.
I love you like a far away potion.
I love you like Harry Potter is for kids.
I love you like J. K. Rowling is a mother.
I love you like Tom Cruise on Oprah.
I love you like a curtain on a window.
I love you like Peter Pan in tights.
I love you like Calypso makes me shake.
I love you like Kermit on a log.
I love you like G. I. Joe's are toys.
I love you like a robot transforms.
I love you like a signal flare in the desert.
I love you like a crowd in a stadium.
I love you like Rilke is Rilke.
I love you like balloons filled with helium.
I love you like tomorrow is Saturday.
I love you like the mirror is upside down.
I love you like watermelon on my lips.
I love you like fried chicken in South Korea.
I love you like broccoli is steamed.
I love you like a naked picture.
I love you like I Am Sam.
I love you like I am Einstein.
I love you like a four year old.
I love you like four time four times four.
I love you like Paul McCartney is still alive.
I love you like Beethoveen sings alone.
I love you like a spotlight.
I love you like Tom Waits scrapes a tin can.
I love you like Pepsi makes commercials.
I love you like Cindy Crawford in button fly's.
I love you like Sears Roebuck.
I love you like retail during Christmas.
I love you like cologne on hairy men.
I love you like an unexpected conversation.
I love you like bubbles in a comic.
I love you like images are everywhere.
I love you like Ferdinand de Sassure knows French.
I love you like a song in twilight.
I love you like a pine tree is always green.
I love you like Tang is orange.
I love you like a rocket in smoke.
I love you like nothing matters.
I love you like I'm a 1,000 years old.
I love you like I'm already dead.
I am a daddy virgin.
I am a Mars virgin.
I am a France virgin.
I am a pyramid virgin.
I am an anal virgin.
I am a hang gliding virgin
I am a Mac OSX Leopard virgin.
I am an animation school virgin.
I am a jungle virgin.
I am a snowboarding virgin.
I am a CPR virgin.
I am an astrophysics virgin.
I am a nun virgin.
I am a priest virgin.
I am a wheelchair virgin.
I am a woman virgin.
I am a cancer virgin.
I am an AIDS virgin.
I am a heart attack virgin.
I am a dog virgin.
I am a cat virgin.
I am a penguin virgin.
I am a San Francisco virgin.
I am a Korean Christmas virgin.
I am a boob job virgin.
I care about one thing these days - that's living. I'm sure this is an attachment according to Buddhism and all, but that's what I got. I want to live. That is why I am not interested in eating processed foods anymore. I will not eat anything that is packaged. No cookies, crackers, frozen foods, nothing. I am just not interested.
I am also not very interested in meat. The idea of it makes me sick. At least how it is served in Korea. I won't eat any of these strange things again. I just don't like it, and it doesn't make me feel very good. I want to live. I don't want to die. That is why I am going to eat only veggies, fruit, and rice that I make from now on.
I am also not going near tobacco of any kind. I am just not going to do it.
It is winter. I have no gym to go too. I don't want to walk anywhere in this cold. That is why I have started a dance regiment. I dance to whatever is on the MP3.
I like this exercise. It is the only one I will do besides running, sit-ups, and crunches. I am not interested in any others. Sorry. They just don't work for me.
I suck at meditation. People can sit for hours. My legs are always tired. Why do they fall asleep? I need better circulation. I am doing yoga every morning.
I don't give a shit about jobs or money. I care about my health.
I am not going to do three jobs at once, or even waste my time worrying about getting the right job ever again in my life. If I can pay my bills and do alright by me, then that's the way it'll be.
I am done with fighting for relationships. Either they work or they don't. I am just done fighting for things like that. If it means I'll be alone for the rest of my life, well then, fine. Although I sincerely doubt that will happen, if I am healthy and human and me.
I like getting my heart rate to about 120 BPM, and then sitting down and feeling it slow down. I like that feeling.
The human body is cool. I like my body. I am hairy, but I like the way it looks. I think I look like Wolverine from the X-Men Comics - not the movie.
I am probably going to stick in Korea, if I get the chance this year. I am saving money, and I have a really nice girlfriend. I like that she is kind, talks back to me, puts a thumb to her nose like a boxer when she's ready to fight, and is just basically as cool and crazy as me.
I like myself. Some people don't like me where I work. I have heard it said that I am way too Hollywood. This makes me laugh. I mention the nice weather too many times, and I am suddenly all about Hollywood.
As most of you know, I grew up all over the states. I spent my longest stint of time in Delaware. It's far from Hollywood. It's also not all that different. You do have a nice music scene in both places. You just don't have the same kind of diversity, but whatever. They are still both good places to live.
I wouldn't mind living in Delaware again. It was nice. The air was clean. The winters weren't that bad. It was nice.
I don't like the cold that much. I do like ice cream though. I might have an ice cream this weekend. I won't buy it processed though. I am going to the Coldstone Creamery. I am going to buy a cone for me and my girl. We can share.
Okay! That's it!! The record is off to press. Chris at SIRE PRESS says it'll be a 10-day turn-around. I will be sending some copies to Hollywood, Philly, and Korea. If you would like some press copies to review on your blogs, zines, or simply to have for your own enjoyment, let me know at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Well, I am flirting with the possibility of a new job in Korea, or to head back to L.A. to join UCLA's Animation Program. I don't know if I'll get in, but I figure I'll give it a try. I'd like to make some cartoons for a couple years (job #39).
I talked over the possibility with my folks and friends. Most seem to be supportive of the venture. I'm just not sure how good of an illustrator I am for the job. I guess UCLA can decide if I got the right stuff, as they only accept 20 candidates per year. I'm guessing they might like me. I do have a killer smile.
Aside from that, I have now taken to wearing pinstripe suits everyday. I am so gangster, but without the misogyny, drugs, or purple hankies. I wouldn't mind bringing the hankie into play though. It might start a trend in Korea - a land known to follow the latest fad until it trails out to remote villages, and the purple hankie dies slowly and quietly in a mountain valley in Pusan.
As of now, there is no hankie. I do have the killer smile though. I am wearing it now. I've got this order of Mexian chicken coming through the door, and my application to Stanford to fill out - all in a typical day of a writer trying to find a way to keep writing.
I don't know how many other people feel this way, but I'm constantly looking for that extra moment. It can be hard when your working your way towards making a living, and trying to write a sestina at the same time. At least for me it is. I like not working at all when I write.
Either way, I am hitting lots of competitions and possible fellowships. If I egt UCLA and a fellowship, I will do both. If I get nothing, I will still write. I will write my way into a fellowship. It'll be a story. It will start with a girl. Her parents say she can't date no megook (American). They want her home by midnight - not in the arms of some gangster. I try to tell them that the purple hankie is just for show, but they can't believe I started the trend. Neither can the fellowship program. They say I'm a little too dinosaur to roll with Fred Flinstone. Maybe, if I looked more like Dino. I am a badass T-Rex though. I sing Eminem's "Lose Yourself" with 20 Korean girls. I stomp my feet. I shout it out: "You got to lose yourself to the music, the moment, you own it, don't never ever let it go!!"
Now there is a girl on my iChat. She's got a killer smile too. I'll catch you on the flip.
For the past couple weeks, we were able to chat about CMP, and some of the other works he has completed throughout his career. Of course, it wasn't done in a typical interview format. I didn't really know where we would end up, when Aram said to frame our discussion with several cartoon captions from The New Yorker. I just figured it'd be fun. I think that's what I love about Aram the most. Everything he does is about play, but it's also about the play inside that play - a place he is searching for as well - that gets you turned in an opposite direction from where you thought you'd be. It's all about that journey. Something Aram takes us through in his poetry, plays, fiction, or even interviews, that turns the light on right from the word go.
PK: I just burned some white sage. I got it from the Farmer's Market in Hollywood. One little bushel of the stuff has lasted me an entire year out here in Korea. I burn it now and again in the morning.
(I would replace this caption with "Naked Lunch Meets Jungle Fever." Kafka could play the role of Denzel Washington. You could be the guy that brings him some bug spray. I would be the woman in bed with Kafka. I would complain in a supportive way. Then we would have a wedding in the third act. Kafka would quit the bug spray business. This caption would be a still from the last scene in the movie. I would go to snuggle with Kafka, but he would be dead. He needed something to live for. Life just wasn't worth living without a corporation.)
Words can change our experience with a visual image. In your poems, the word and image are simultaneously united. This blend creates an interesting shift in perception. In a sense, it requires a different way of looking, and that, for me, is a different way of being. I am often attracted to art that brings me such a moment of connection. Thank you for that.
I remember looking at a Jackson Pollock painting, and feeling a similar way. For one brief instant, there was a lack of thought. In that space, was the experience itself. It was akin to a "What's that smell?" moment. Of course, the "smell" was simply my previous conception of "looking" being dropped for some actual face-time with that moment.
Is this what you hope to achieve with your pieces? If so, how do you go about a poem's conception with such an intention in mind?
Aram Saroyan: I remember when I was a teenager my dad took me to the Museum of Modern Art in New York and I saw a work by Franz Kline for the first time, and I thought, this guy has really gone out of his way to make something ugly. The ugliness is probably what shifts the way you think, or the way you are, for a moment—I think that’s what you’re talking about. The poems by me you refer to are probably the ones in Complete Minimal Poems and they’re now forty years old. When the book came out I read it through from cover to cover a couple of times and had a number of different ideas about it. One was, it’s about a young man in his room and at the door of his room.
I didn’t have any particular conception I wanted to get across when I wrote or when I write today. I think artists think with their work, not before they go to work. After I finish a piece, I always wonder, does this work.
Eventually, after many years (or maybe it was just a couple of years), I realized that Franz Kline’s work was the height of elegance. So it changed and/or I changed.
PK: I hear you. Franz Kline. I never went deep into his work. I remember seeing a couple pieces at the MOMA and The Philadelphia Museum of Art. I remembered that Jean Michel Basquiat cited him as a big influence on his work. I didn't stop long enough to stick with him though. I was busy checking out Cy Twombly. I didn't really like it, but I didn't dislike it either. I think seeing his pieces made me feel that kind of "ugly" you are referencing. I don't know though. I tend to see pretty in ugly and ugly in pretty. I don't know. I get so confused sometimes. It's not a bad confused, but simply a blending I suppose.
Were there any other visual artists that changed on you?
AS: I always loved Warhol. And Donald Judd. When I saw the first Eric Fischel at a Whitney Biennial in the 80s I thought, oh, that’s ugly. I didn’t like it. And then, sure enough, of all the painters of that epoch like Salle, Schnabel, etc., I started to like his work the most. I think Schnabel’s movies, especially Basquiat, are wonderful.
Warhol was such a great colorist, so inventive and elegant. I think I picked that up at an unconscious level. Later on you realize what it was that got you. His protégé, Basquiat, is also an extraordinary colorist. And sometimes he does great things with words. Like he has the word milk with a little copyright sign beside it. Exactly how insane our global corporate rigamarole has gotten.
When you live in New York, as I did, minimalism like Donald Judd’s work is terribly appealing. It balances the environment. I think I had to get out of New York to write differently. The environment is transgressive. Either that or I’m just a natural born country boy.
PK: Genesis Angels: The Saga of Lew Welch and the Beat Generation is a fascinating book. It reads very much like fiction. In fact, there were several times where I wasn't quite sure. In fact, it almost reads like an autobiography. Why did you decide to write in this style? Was it to capture Lew in a way that a traditional biography couldn't?
AS: There’s a first draft of that book, a more traditional, rather academic biography, which I reread recently. There’s a lot of direct quotation from Lew Welch—interviews and correspondence mostly—and that’s the best part of it. After I reread it I took some of the Lew Welch parts and made a solo performance play of it. It would be great I think for someone like Liev Schrieber or Joseph Fienes. But that first draft was, the Lew Welch quotes aside, a bit dull. So I rewrote it as a sort of Kerouac novel. Some of it is novelistic and/or autobiographical: I was trying to capture the spirit of Lew and the people around him, the Beats.
PK: You say a Kerouac novel, and I definitely feel that. There is that mad rush. At the same time, it's still very much you. I don't see Kerouac's long dash in continual use. You also vary the speed of your sentences by throwing in the occasional one or two-word sentence. Was this an intentional move? Was there a reason that you stayed away from the long dash continually and non-stop as Kerouac did?
AS: Kerouac was a writer I felt I had to come to terms with, and Genesis Angels was my moment of reckoning, so to speak. The book was written a chapter a day and not greatly edited by James Landis, my editor at Morrow. I suppose my technique is a little different, but the idea was to let go and write what came to mind. I started it right after my wife Gailyn gave me the verdict that the first draft was a tad dull. We were living in Bolinas and it was a beautiful day. I was crestfallen, but somehow energized too. As I walked back into the house to start the book again, I looked up the sky and thought to myself, “Just this blue” [meaning the color of the sky]. It’s interesting because the second draft written quickly in my version of Kerouac’s “spontaneous bop prosody,” told a more complex story than my first draft, which was ostensibly more reflective and took much longer to write. Probably I was laying the foundation, familiarizing myself with the story, so that I could then take off.
PK: You mention "Just this blue". That reminds me of Zen Master Seung Sahn. In his book, "Only Don't Know", he speaks of the clarity of one's moment being as simple as "Just like this".
Was your recognition of the sky on that day linked to your experience or knowledge of Buddhism? If so, how has your experience with Zen informed your writing? Has it changed over time?
AS: I love that, “only don’t know.” It reminds me of one of my favorite words: though. Not too much baggage. As though you just turned a corner and encountered a new vista.
I’m an amateur, or really just a fan of Zen Buddhism. I was very impressed by “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind,” especially the part where he returns to his monastery after 25 years and discovers there are tears in his eyes.
PK: Zen is definitely interesting. I spoke to a monk who was one of Seung Sahn's students. He asked me why I write and to answer without words. "No words," he said. I knew that typically one answers those types of questions in the Zen tradition by pounding on the floor or what have you, but I felt like it would be a cop out, so I just said, "I don't know." I guess I could have followed Allen Ginsberg's "first thought, best thought" model, but I figured I could sit with the question a bit longer. That was when I asked him why he meditates. "For you," he said. I thought that was interesting. The whole "live for others" mentality. At the same time, he answered with words. Who knows where it all stands in the end? I could just end with a big, "I like questions though" and leave it at that.
How often do the questions you ask lead you into the work that you do? Do you find yourself trying to break a convention, or having a particular model before you begin something? Is it just a sentence? Or is it more like the "It's snowing" concept that you mention in your essay, This Is It?
AS: I’m not sure about questions. Nor about breaking a convention. As a model, I suppose the mind is full of them and picking and choosing may take place at some pre-conscious level. But for me it begins with a word or a phrase or a sentence that has some generative dimension so that it begets another word or phrase or sentence, and on (or off) from there.
If you can try to locate Ted Berrigan’s Interview with John Cage (reprinted in the American Literary Anthology 1)--it’s made up, a pastiche from many different sources (Cage, Warhol, Burroughs) as well as Berrigan himself, and it has some funny stuff about Zen. “Somebody should have kicked that monk’s butt”--or the equivalent.
PK: "Make love to the police. We need highly trained squads of lovemakers to go everywhere and make love."
That is very funny and so true! I remember walking through the streets of New York after 9-11. There was that same paranoia. I thought the same thought - not actually making love to New York's finest, but some sort of kindness to change things. I don't know. I guess I was feeling paranoia too. Maybe, we need an entire squadron of ass kickers and lovemakers side by side, kicking ass and making love, depending on how badly they want one or the other; and, of course, always providing the opposite of the desire, so that the lovemakers and hate mongers actually get a beating and a kiss, respectively, as well. I don't know. I am really as clueless as the monk who needs his ass kicked. Like, the other day, I was looking around my room. I saw everything in a particular order, and yet, at the same time there seemed to be a continual disorder going along as well. I don't know if this is because I spent the night reading The Complete Minimalist Poems, or just because I find myself confused in each moment. It's like there's a new person everyday. I wake up. I look in the mirror and I have no idea. That's what I see: No idea. I wonder if writing is often "just like that." Like there's no writing as much as there is that building that " begets another word or phrase or sentence..." as you said; and how that building is very similar to acting - that moment where you piece together a character and see it push forward through the body, and then BOOM - there you are - outside and inside yourself, and you still don't know what happened.
I don't know if I make much sense. I like acting though. It is one of my favorite things to do; even though I have no idea what I'm doing when I do it.
Do you like acting?
AS: I’m a playwright, so I depend on people to love acting and to act, and I think you’re right: I learned that an actor has a process when my play “At the Beach House” was done in Los Angeles recently. It was a six week limited run, and the performances kept getting better and better as it went along. A certain moment in the play got illuminated by something two actors did together quite far into the run. It wasn’t in the text; it was them. I’d had staged readings of all my plays before but never a full production, and it’s very different. For a staged reading there are only a couple of rehearsals and then the performance with the actors holding their scripts. They don’t memorize the lines and go through the process of connecting the dots and having a character coalesce. It’s funny, certain actors would come in hot—seem to know everything from the beginning—but it might not deepen from there. Others might be that way, a quick study, and still keep building. I love the theater: if I were 30 years younger it would be my life. Now I must depend on others to do the heavy lifting I did for that first production, where I was in essence the line producer. Too much work! However, when it works I don’t think it gets any better for a writer.
About your room: my father always told me to keep my room clean and neat, and after a while I took his lesson to heart. But other people don’t mind a bit of (fertile) chaos, and actually he proved to be a packrat, so go figure.
PK: Yes, my room and mind go in waves of cleanliness and disruption. My latest coffee/computer mishap definitely put that to the test, as papers piled around the empty shell of what my computer once was. Of course, I could have taken a nap through the experience. Sometimes I find that's the best thing to do when the body is just plain tired. In fact, doing so, may have prevented the "coffee spill" in the first place. Who knows?
AS: That’s interesting about the nap. When I had a crisis in the production of the play—and they occurred regularly—if it was close to bed time I would have a choice between going crazy with being upset or going to sleep. My age definitely helped here. I would opt for going to sleep. And often in the meantime the theatrical team that had been assembled would solve the problem. That old saw about how the show must go on is really an ethic of a kind among certain show biz veterans, thank God.
I once spilled ink on a new desk (bought with part of my $500 NEA award for poetry back in the sixties). A friend had been doing drawings on the desk and left an open bottle of ink under some papers I was summarily cleaning up, the neatnik. So it can cut two ways.
PK: I really love the first act of At the Beach House (that's all I could get online). It's got a quick pace. It's also radically different from your poetry or fiction, and, strikingly similar. There's the blend between fiction and reality again. It's almost as if you are pulling as much from real life, as you are the fictional transgressions that your writing voice might have carried you too.
AS: I’m so glad you like the play. It was such a kick to see it fully staged. It was like giving a party for six weeks. Writers don’t have that kind of good time very often I don’t think. As for real life and make believe, it’s a mix, a creative amalgam. These are people and circumstances I know but the chronology and the setting are different. And it all has a magnetic field of its own once it kicks in. The people talk and something happens because that’s the next thing that the nervous system of the writer wants to happen. “First thought, best thought,” as Allen Ginsberg told us.
PK: It also captures L.A. really well. I have been to those beach houses, and I have seen those young upstarts trying to manuever into a possible conversation with the famous.
As far as drug habits, I have seen my share of that lifestyle as well.
Was "At the Beach House" based on your family or an amalgamation of several you've encountered? Did the moment between the two actors blend fiction and reality to bring it to a point of confusion as to what was real or not from your perspective? Is this what you are talking about in that moment of coalescence for the players?
AS: It was a piece of business. In the second act Angela, the drug addict, throws a brick at her brother, Nick, who’s trying to get her into rehab. It turns out it’s a rubber brick, but Nick and the audience don’t know that until it bounces off Nick. It’s an emotional turning point in the play, although I had no idea of it until I actually got a rubber brick and the actors did it on stage. Nick is so startled that his mood changes—from fear into a kind of tender regression: as if the two of them were little kids playing while they take a bath together. Past the middle of the run, I saw the play again and when Nick gets hit by the brick he gets up from a chair and grabs Angela and pins her to the ground and growls “I’m still bigger than you are.” Then he gently helps her to her feet and she leans against him and in that moment the whole brother/sister debacle is beautifully illuminated. The actors invented the rough-housing—a perfect touch.
PK: Wow. I love that move from the actors. It sounds like you gave them a lot of room to go places. That is a really wonderful thing in a production. I have been part of shows where the same liberties were not necessarily as forthcoming. Directors can sometimes be dictatorial for what they want to happen.
AS: The director was Marcia Rodd, who starred with Elliott Gould in “Little Murders,” an actress as well as a veteran director, so she allowed plenty of room and encouraged the actors to be in process, and understood all about it. Which I didn’t. I could never have directed the piece, although at some early stage I probably imagined that I could have. Writers and actors are different. But then you get Sam Shepard. And a lot of Mamet is riffing on the “repeating game,” which is a Sanford Meisner acting exercise.
PK: Did you ever step in for guidance? How did you balance your need to say something with the urge to hang back and see what would evolve? Was this difficult as it was your writing?
AS: Marcia very rightly wanted me to appear only at intervals to check in with notes. She didn’t want me around the actors while they let the roles sink in, which can be a chaotic process. In the end I grew to respect the very different process that evolved because of the results involved. And of course what a kick it is, to see your play take shape with a good cast and director.
PK: Playing music is often like theater for me. Back when I was touring regularly, some of the groups that I played with, would get caught up in the lifestyle or in how many CD sales were being generated, etc. It would quickly make the song writing process pulling teeth in so many ways. Someone would want their chord progression to be part of a song, or another would feel slighted that we had not used theirs. It was a real sense of balance on my part at times.
AS: Ego can so easily get in front of the process. Suddenly for reasons unknown an actor will start saying lines too slowly, taking up more time than is necessary—and I’m not talking about James Dean or Brando. There’s some psychological snafu that can derail an evening.
PK: Nowadays, I find it easier when I collaborate with others, whether it's music, writing, or film, to leave room for the unexpected. Those accidental happenings can be so much more powerful than anything pre-meditated. I have even heard that the jam band, Phish, often rehearsed in the dark, to try and sync up their transition skills, and I assume, to leave more room for the happy accidents that may have occurred.
AS: Playing in the dark, great! I remember writing certain poems in the dark in the middle of the night, having woken up with a line or two. It’s easier to keep track of a sound when the lights are out.
PK: Do you have any exercises that you take your actors through to bring them closer as an assemblage? How about yourself as a writer? Are there ways you have found to allow yourself to be more free with the writing of a play that is different from poems or fiction?
AS: My dad once said that getting ready is 80 or 90 percent. For a writer that can mean to “loaf and invite the soul,” as Whitman says. Really, in our media-centric society, it seems to mean turning down the volume on all the noise so that you can hear “the single, small voice”--that’s Doris Lessing I think—that’s your own. I really enjoyed writing plays. It was like I imagine composing music might be like. Instead of instruments, you have these different voices going on inside you, high and low notes, etc. I wrote five of them in a row over a two and a half year period. The form seemed to be a good fit for me right then.
PK: What notes are you hearing now?
AS: My work of forty years ago, Complete Minimal Poems, is in print, as well as a facsimile edition of Coffee Coffee, published during the same time by Vito Acconci and Bernadette Mayer’s 0 to 9 Press. It’s a nice affirmation. Complete Minimal Poems is #4 this month on the Small Press Distribution poetry best seller list almost six months after it was published, and the buzz about it, as well as serious and lengthy reviews of it are on the web, not in the print media for the most part. There’s a paradigm shift. And for me it’s like coming full circle. What most interests me at the moment is the theater. I like getting out of my room.
ARAM SAROYAN is an internationally known poet, novelist, biographer, memoirist and playwright. His poetry has been widely anthologized and appears in many textbooks. Among the collections of his poetry are Aram Saroyan and Pages (both Random House). His largest collection, Day and Night: Bolinas Poems, was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1999. Saroyan's prose books include Genesis Angels: The Saga of Lew Welch and the Beat Generation; Last Rites, a book about the death of his father, the playwright and short story writer William Saroyan; Trio: Portrait of an Intimate Friendship; The Romantic, a novel that was a Los Angeles Times Book Review Critics' Choice selection; a memoir, Friends in the World: The Education of a Writer; and the true crime Literary Guild selection Rancho Mirage: An American Tragedy of Manners, Madness and Murder. Selected essays, Starting Out in the Sixties, appeared in 2001, and Artists in Trouble: New Stories in early 2002.
The recipient of two National Endowment for the Arts poetry awards (one of them for his controversial one-word poem "lighght"). Saroyan is a past president of PEN USA West and a current faculty member of the Masters of Professional Writing Program at USC. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the painter Gailyn Saroyan.
What else? Well, Miss Ahmad, formerly of Glamazonlife, and now posting under the heading STOOP TALK, found this interesting gem. I was curious, and not that uptight, so I chuckled slightly at this re-make.
I did find some interesting news items elsewhere. It seems the Writer's Guild continues to strike in Hollywood, and its effects are now being felt in primetime. Curious? Good time to start screenwriting? Who knows?
Aside from that, I did see that Iraq continues to get worse, as there are now 1.6 million children who are now homeless and abandoned. The Iraqi Red Crescent is trying to help in this dire situation.
I am getting better. It looks like I got sick, because I just didn't give my body enough rest. Too many jobs. A little too much stress. That's how it goes. Now my schedule has become really free. I am back down to two jobs. I got the record mastered by Mark Moss at Target Studios, and it is now off to a printing press in Philadelphia. (Thank you, Frank for that last minute sax part on Dues. It is so good.) The website is up, and now it's onto the next project -animation!
I initially thought of doing webisodes for the first part of Enlightenment in a Box (formerly known as "The Whopper Strategies), but now I am thinking of something slightly different. I will still animate certain elements, but I am more interested in creating a text that works in a multimedia format. In other words, a book that is it's own website.
The idea: Links can trail off from the initial text to images, animated segments, or audio. As far as navigating through the world of the book, it would be a true simulacrum, as there would be no intial starting point; but rather, a discourse, that would be as much about what links one would choose and how these would then affect the next pages that would open.
I am not really sure how it will work, but I can feel this play with a novel being very possible. Only time will tell, if I get more interested in making animated segments versus this larger meta-framework.
Who knows? I will play with the possibilities. In the meantime, it's about resting and dreaming.
Now it's official. I am sick.
In Korea, when you get sick, it's like a bulddozer lives inside of you. It's very heavy. The head sways at every noise, and you, if looking at one afflicted in such a fashion, may just find yourself imitating the lopey dog they have become; as you both crane and un-crane your necks to the rhythm of a reggae song that is not playing.
It is now 1:51 p.m. I am still sick.
Yes, you can say it now. I am a bulldozer. I am a lopey dog. I am trying to keep my head straight. I do not hear reggae. I am...
I will sleep.