Those mean texts worthy to traverse through tough sledding. I said to her, when

she spared enough Time to walk the Eastern Shore, to ungrapple herself long

enough from her own course, the graphs & texts, as we looked over & saw the

young punks sprawled out on the grass, smoking, lonely, wanting knowledge

knowing so little, that they should open a book. Not for knowledge that already

exists, but to lend their own discoveries to what presents itself within the pages.

That’s just what Nietzsche complained about in 1873, or so, that the facts of

history twisted the young generation into. & as just so these. The ones tested into

deformity & disgust. We agreed they all should be freer to choose what to read,

to pursue their own curiosity, rather than the stifling questioning for right

answers. The sun rolls down this afternoon, or earth tumbles round toward it,

drawing heat into my study as the sources spread out before me await their say.

Hunting for Truth via Goya, Olson’s been patient there in Poetry and Truth on

top of Death in the Afternoon, with the Francis Bacon postcard as bookmark

marking where I last left off in the tough going, sent from, no kidding, just turned

it round for the postmark, no, no kidding, so terribly uncanny to follow one’s

own instincts, where just before I set up to address this friend, the blank page,

Olson reached the point, where he could say to the weary audience at Beloit

College in March, no less, in 1968, that it was Keats in 1819 that gave him the

notion that any irritable reaching after reason undermined the ability to work

within doubts. So there I was addressing the blank page with the date of Keats’s

breakthrough running parallel with Goya purchasing the Quinta del Sordo, &

beginning to paint The Black Paintings. So, now, look, the postcard as bookmark

marking the page where I left off in the tough sledding of difficult reading is on

one side Francis Bacon’s image of the Study after Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope

Innocent X, 1953, sent as communiqué from David Anfam on December 4, 2009,

from the Prado itself in Madrid, which houses each of the paintings of both

Bacon & Goya.

Look for Robert’s forthcoming 6th book of prose, Jagged Timeline, a bilingual American/Danish translation of 64 pieces selected & introduced by our own Bent Sørensen. Robert is the poetry & fiction editor of the interdisciplinary journal Janus Head.

The title refers, of course, to Walt Whitman, that eminent American poet largely unread by me. The opening scene involves Bill giving a lecture on Socrates and the concept of passion. How when we think we understand our lives and think we have achieved the desired balance, we “pretend divinity, and will crash, like Ikaros, flaming into the sea.” Balance versus chaos. Bill the Academic and Brady the Hick. Both brothers are extremely intelligent, and there is an interesting exchange in which Brady confesses to Bill that he has read and understood all his printed papers and articles. His only complaint: the language. He can’t understand the necessity of words like epistemology and polemic, and when Brady tells Bill that he is tired of all Bill’s articles being critiques or reviews of stuff other people have written about what some third person thought about etc., we kinda get his point. Bill’s reply: “the humanities haven’t changed all that much.” To the people of Little Dixie, Bill is a thinker. Not an academic, just someone who has opinions beyond their understanding, and the movie lovingly portrays this as both a good and a bad thing.

Back to the title. Bill meets a local English teacher, a young woman who in her spare time writes poetry. She praises poetry for being without rules; Bill rejects the importance of poetry because it has no rules. He draws on his dear, old philosophers; she draws on Walt Whitman, gently explaining to him that Whitman’s free verse represents “pure, unashamed passion, without definable restrictions,” because in poetry you make your own rules. Bill asks: then how do you know what’s true? what to rely on? Answer: “once you think you’ve got it all solved, what’s left?” The most interesting opinion comes through Brady. He compares God and perfection to the impossible concept of parallel lines. We know how it works, and that it must work, but since we can never prove it we can never be sure. Brady’s subtle suggestion early in the movie of the redundancy of the Humanities is made obsolete by the movie as a whole. The way the movie and its characters invite and encourage debate and discussion is exactly what the Humanities are about. More than anything, Leaves of Grass feels true. Look for it, though, it may crawl under the radar here in Denmark.

From fiction to non-fiction, The National has a three-in-one review up for the latest efforts by Dave Eggers (Zeitoun), Jonathan Safran Foer (Eating Animals) and Michael Chabon (Manhood for Amateurs).

On the future of printed books, Steve Wasserman at thruthdig.

“All I know is I’m losing my mind,” Franny said. “I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting–it is, it is. I don’t care what anybody says.”

Franny Glass, in “Franny” (1955)

Quite a statement from a character born in the mind of a man who once strode around New York City as a poor student proclaiming to all who would listen that he would one day be the greatest author of his generation. This is of course Jerome David Salinger, who passed away at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire, on January 27th. Despite a surprisingly small body of work Salinger became a legend, perhaps as much for his attitude toward literary notoriety as for his published short-stories, novellas and his novel. The Catcher in the Rye has been as influential as any novel can be, and its repercussions in the American mindset of its time cannot be exaggerated. But what about the time after that, our time, my time? Many of my friends know only of the novel by its Danish title, Forbandede ungdom (or by Klaus Rifbjerg’s newly translated title from 2004: Griberen i rugen, a direct translation), and few have read it or even know who the author was. As a result, the death of J. D. Salinger went largely unnoticed in my social circles in Copenhagen, though American and British newspapers continue to publish stories and features about everything Salinger. It is fair to say that whatever impact Salinger’s novel had has long since been made into an integral part of American consciousness, something subtle, and apparent perhaps only when specifically looked for. He had passed into legend and out of the public’s eye, and now he has passed on. Rest in peace.

I know it’s kind of late for an obituary, and I apologize for the dark nature of this return, but remember that one of the first pieces in this column mentioned the death of Eve Sedgwick, and maybe death is an occasion for revival as well, a beginning. Everything has been kind of hectic since late last summer, and I regret not having the time and energy to do this column for the past five months. This will hopefully mark a return to form, though I dare not promise that I will be able to post something every week. As always, I will attempt to perform some daring feat of update in regards to literary and cultural stirrings in this particular corner of the world, and if nothing much is happening, well, then I’ll just ramble on a bit.

This week, returning first to our beloved New York Times’ Book section, we find and interesting review of Joe Hill’s latest, Horns. Joe Hill is the son of Stephen King, which should be interesting, albeit I’m not well read in King. His book on the art of writing, called simply On Writing, is remarkable, however, in being an inspired meditation on the craft while also being a sort of confessional autobiography. When King admits that he does not remember writing Cujo due to his cocaine and cough syrup abuse, one doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Let’s hope Joe Hill knows which of his father’s footsteps to follow and which ones to avoid.

Up in the Old Hotel

Speaking of authors who like(d) to binge out once in a while, LIFE has an impressive photo gallery of authors, playwrights and poets notorious for just that. There are some really beautiful photos here of people who will never be forgotten.

In reading, there is one book from these past months of silence that I would very much like to recommend. Up in the Old Hotel is the collected works of Joseph Mitchell, a staff writer for The New Yorker for more than thirty years. His pieces make for an impressive and heartfelt peek into bohemian New York City, and to a lesser degree a thorough introduction into the various fishing communities in New York State. This may not sound intensely exciting, but Mitchell’s flair with words is amazing and the writing alone will bring a smile to the face of anyone who likes good reporting and honest observation. Of special fame and interest are the two lengthier pieces on Joe Gould, eccentric would-be poet of Greenwich Village.

Finally, a quick heads up: The Oscars. Sunday night. What would have been the highlight  (Jeff Bridges singing “The Weary Kind” from Crazy Heart) apparently won’t happen, seeing as the Academy has thrown out the live musical performances. This makes for a dreary year, though it will be nice to see Bridges hop off with a deserved statue after four previous nominations. For a touching tribute to the awesome Jeff Bridges, check out this blog entry by Jeff Dowd, the inspiration for the Dude in The Big Lebowski. Other than that, all fingers crossed for The Hurt Locker come monday morning.

Stay tuned.

Fortunately I’ve an American friend in town who’s got a great connection for Tylenol Flu pills  (Acetaminophen, Dextromethorphan and Phenylephrine, yeah baby!) from his puertorriqueña mama back in New Jersey. I learned of his elicit drug activity while our families were spending Thanksgiving Sunday together. We don’t have Thursdays free. I felt, and looked, like death eating a cheeseburger under a bad bout of flu symptoms until popping one of those pills helped mask the pain, allowing me to get through our dinner before heading for two days of under-the-covers. Danish medicine you see, does NOT treat symptoms as my GP was quick to explain. But that’s what American medical culture is all about. Just take Tylelol as one illustration whereby they market their drugs at the level of street pushers: Feel Better During Flu Season!

That was ultimately where our discussion led to, an understanding that our two different approaches to treatment are neither “right” nor “wrong” but culturally specific to particular societies at given moments of history. That led me to recommend a terrific book I’d recently read by poet and cultural historian Jennifer Michael Hecht, The Happiness Myth.

“We think of our version of a happy life as more like physics than like pop songs; we expect the people of the next century to agree with our basic tenets—for instance, that broccoli is good for a happy life and that opium is bad—but they will not. Our rules for living are more like the history of pop songs. They make weird sense only to the people of each given time period. They aren’t true. This book shows you how past myths functioned, and likewise how our myths of today function, and thus lets you out of the trap of thinking you have to pay heed to any of them.”

I still remember when my deeply Southern Grannie temporarily stopped making us fried eggs, not because they were fried mind you, but  because “doctors now say eggs aren’t good for ya.” Remember that? Hecht’s arguments make a lot of common sense when we apply personal anecdotes like the one above and start thinking about all the silly “scientific” trends we’ve been subjected to during our own lifetimes. On a more theoretical level one can’t help but appreciate what Rorty had been screaming about. “Cultural relativist!” his critics called him. Well duh.

The entire book is worth a read whether you think you need to escape the “cultural trance behind our drug paranoia” or are simply interested in the ways societies construct their cultural norms within specific historical context. Or both! In this vein, Hecht’s chapter on drugs is a must smoke. There she locates a particular American fear of happiness, which is really a fear of unproductive happiness. And that’s were Tylelol reenters the story. That’s also why I’m home today, blogging about drugs rather than diligently at work writing course applications as I had planned. I couldn’t get a hold of my dealer! But looking out at the hopefully final snowstorm of the season I think I made a wise choice regardless.

Note: Along this vein, the always provocative Historiann recently took up a similar discussion spring-boarding from Kathleen Brown’s, Foul Bodies: Cleanliness in Early America to Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move initiative.

Illustration by Robert Arthur @ Narco Polo

In the late 1960s, Texas poster art, long an important mainstay of the state’s printmaking tradition, entered a fertile and innovative period in Austin. Drawing inspiration from the counter culture and psychedelic music movements, a new generation of Texas graphic arts designers created one-of-a-kind posters. Today their works are considered some of the finest artifacts of this music poster explosion.

The Dolph Briscoe Center for American History at the University of Texas at Austin has digitized 400 of these extraordinary posters. Brenda Gunn, the Briscoe Center’s associate director for research and collections, said, “I thought we should expand our digitization efforts to include our extraordinary Texas Poster Collection. Our digitization team had perfected the process we needed to use, so the poster digitization project was a natural direction to take in our efforts to increase access to the Briscoe Center’s visual treasures.”

Image: Guy (De White) Juke, Devo, 1980. Texas Poster Art Collection, Briscoe Center for American History, University of Texas at Austin; TPA_0102. ©Guy Juke/Briscoe Center for American History.

"We're Totally Fucked" Second Edition Signed and numbered 2-color Edition of 100 18 X 24

@ Sophie’s

Upward flies our sense; thus it is a parable of
our body, a parable of elevation. - Nietzsche

Yellow-shafted flicker darts across my line of vision from thorn tree to cliff ledge

animating crown of rock face. Cold February day sighting a bird not seen in

years. Possibly resorting to those indigestible red berries starlings, mockingbirds,

& even gulls do, when half-starved. Man takes up too much World. Across the

way both Cap Victor & Nordstrength empty holds of oil. There’s an expanse to

the air today reaching east & north, demarcated at intervals by minor clouds,

enhanced by steady wind evident from tree limb to waves at sea level inducing

the hard-won balm of Freedom. Flicker may be hungry, but Free. I’m skipping

lunch, again, hungry to see as much as I can, despite the cold. Hours, days mean

a great deal to someone living in the moment, senses rising upward, keeping

resentment at bay.

(Carlos Barria/Reuters @ The Big Picture, boston.com)

BAGnewsNotes is simply one of the most interesting communities in the online progressive landscape. Michael Shaw, a clinical psychologist by trade, not only provides daily, intelligent deconstructions of US political visual culture but has also built a dynamic community where citizens, activists, academics, political analysts and photographers all interact in creating compelling multivocal critiques of American political and media culture. One of the more ambitious projects is BAGnewsSalon, “an on-line, real-time discussion of selected images between invited guests in a live chat room on the BAGnewsNotes blog.” Later today, “counter-programming the Superbowl” (21:00 CET), the Bag is hosting its seventh Salon installment. Past Salon discussions are archived here.

Haiti Aftermath: A Look Back at the First Week

Sunday, February 7, 2010

3:00-4:30 pm EST

This BAGnewsSalon will examine a small group of images from the week following the devastating Haitian earthquake. From these pictures, we hope to consider various issues, including:

- the role, boundaries and “weighting” of the graphic and sensational

- how much the pictures presented a representative, as opposed to a generic or stereotyped view of the Haitian people

- whether the pictures might have overly skewed toward human suffering and physical devastation at the expense of, say, the general scale of the disaster, the response of Haitian authorities, the impact on different Haitian social classes, the unfolding of the relief effort, etc.

Those scheduled to participate include: professors Loret Steinberg (R.I.T.), Nathan Stormer (U. of Maine) and Fred Ritchen (NYU); photographer and BAGnewsNotes contributor Alan Chin; photographers Erin Siegel, Aric Mayer, Tim Fadek (Polaris), Chris Hondros (Getty) and Willie Davis (Veras); host Michael Shaw (publisher – BAGnewsNotes); BAGnewsSALON producer Neil Harris; and moderator Cara Finnegan (U. of Illinois).

Tim, Chris and Willie were all shooting in Haiti that week.

*******

The RZA, Victory or Death, 2010

Brilliant! Talk about contesting meta narratives. However, upon closer scrutiny of Emanuel Leutze’s original iconic work, a more complicated relationship emerges between the two pieces. “Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothin’ ta fuck wit.”

Shifting between manic bouts of depression and elation, familiar stability and personal insecurity, I’ve been building, writing vernacular poetry with hammer and spade. But an authoritative Nordic winter finally came to Denmark this year. Immovable leeks in the hard frozen soil. Nothing to harvest, impossible to build. Salvation through my garden cottage frozen in a dream.

Stop. Don’t jump! Reconnect. The University of Copenhagen has hired me on for a three year research gig. Yesterday, Day 1 – traveled to the “big” city for meet and greet over coffee and lunch. But Copenhagen was a BIG city yesterday. Or perhaps I just felt small. As the lightning train hurled me over and under the icy Storbælt towards my destination everyone seemed so grown up and serious. Even the children.

Speeding home through the uncanny Zealand winterscape I dreamt of Spring at Mi Ranchito Triste and my Fynen Alamo under the walnut tree.