Sorry for the silence. My family has upped-sticks (again) and we have moved across town to a new home where there is no internet connection yet. On top of the disorientation that comes with a relocation, I'm also being rather busy at the moment, so I will catch up with you soon.
Looked up an old favourite for your listening pleasure this weekend. Enjoy :-)
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Thursday, July 03, 2008
I am not sure how many performances I have done since that first reading in Seksan last year... this is probably the eighth one, and I am starting to feel comfortable in my stage shoes. I was a nervous wreck during the first slam, but this time around I felt quite relaxed. After a year of writing, I have my basic set of material now from which more would certainly evolve. So let me work on my voice before I go on to movement, but progress is slow when night after night one works alone, always unsure of one's self until it comes to the final test. "Art is born out of humiliation", said Auden, and from this I take courage. I know that, one day, in time I would deliver the performance I know I am capable of.
There be pretty days ahead. Stay with me.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Why I Am Not A Painter
by Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANCES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.