I showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time and instead made my suddenly unpurposed errand purposeful by walking to the library. The book about lady authors of a certain age (the worlds, not theirs personally) was out and has been out and due back for exactly six months today according to the 7th floor (literature) librarian. I settled for Frank O'Hara instead. Settle is wrong. When all the big and small particulars seem wrong, or beyond comprehension, I wind up sticking to poetry until it passes or until sense has settled. I only have a slim O'Hara tome at home, so I nabbed the thickest volume they had--I want it all. It's unwieldy to drag on the plane, but I don't give a shit; I don't do drugs and I do not drink, there is little that works for getting lost in save for excitable narratives, gossip and Fassbinder films (respectable vices for the viceless).
O'Hara is new to me and he is a good one to be new to, it's first time wow all the time. (I got to the party late, I skipped the New York School it all seemed cool of passion, and I'm into hot gutz and drug blazes and America softly dying). I think of him whenever I get edits back from one of my regular editors who often adds in exclamation points to my copy and I think "I'm not Frank O'Hara, I'm not Lester Bangs, get these !'s out of here." Those are the only two whose frequent use of them is defensible--they are popping with jubilation and life life life--their use cops to an awareness that the ! is meager, it belies it's suffiency; the rest of us just sound like overemotional gaga sops when we dole them out.Posted by Jessica at September 22, 2008 05:42 PM | TrackBack