On the nightstand

dreams of integrity

The Third Man

Last weekend I watched The Third Man – had never seen it, had always put it on when I was really too tired to watch anything. Wish that image of Orson Welles (small tower of black) walking into the bright sterility of bombed out buildings and a Ferris wheel had been in my mind much earlier. It would have explained the Millennium Wheel outside the Houses of Parliament so well.

(It’s not the wheel: it’s the 800 years of slowly successful struggle against the divine right of kleptocracy that lie in ruins behind it.)

Douglas Spangle - 2016 winner, the Stewart H. Holbrook Literary Legacy Award

There is a footnote in Walter Benjamin’s The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, which cites an unconsciously gender-based and class-based argument by Aldous Huxley to the effect that, because of more generally-available education and technological advance, there may be 4 men of literary talent now to every 1 of earlier times. Huxley’s corollary is that the demands of our vastly-expanded market must result in the production and consumption of a great deal of trash.

If we look at rock’n’roll we see that musical talent is widespread. Of course it is and always had been – where does the music in ethno-musicology come from if not from the ethnos? Where did folk music come from if not from the folk?

Folk tales. Border ballads. The blues.

Literary talent is similarly widespread, and that’s one of the things verbal art is now demonstrating and discovering to itself and the wider community. Speech and narrative clearly confer an evolutionary advantage. Narrative is central to humanity, and so is sputtering with rage, and so is singing.

Open mic is a forum / venue / performance / form which has proceeded quietly, and often just out of the range of vision of more formal and established literary forms and institutions.

That is its virtue, in many ways.

Being out of official sight means that literally anyone can apply, anyone can have their say and be heard. Because it is free and accessible, the concerns tend to be common human concerns – love, death, taxes… Like SF fandom it can be limited in scope by being invitational in nature – you can get fragmented groups and communities. But once the event or series is known the invitation is established, and the invitation remains open as long as the series lasts.

The Slam Poetry end of the spectrum can be quite formally innovative. The grass-roots, my first time in public end of the spectrum can often be perceptually innovative and emotionally subtle. Occasionally there is an astounding feat –

One night in late 2006, at the Broken Word open mic at the Alberta Street Pub, founded by Arlo Voorhees, a young woman read a long set of linked sestinas. They built and built and built, a Jacob’s ladder of exploration and explication from the nerve-ends of a relationship. It was the only piece I ever saw receive a standing ovation. It was a tour de force and a force of nature and ferocity.

Michael Shay organized a group of six active attendees – Douglas Spangle was one of the six – to edit the second published volume from those Broken Word readings. We all asked who that young woman was. None of the regulars knew her; none of their friends knew her; no one who listened to Talking Earth, on KBOO, knew her. We never found her. The poem's not in the book.

But we had heard it. We remember our mounting amazement as it built and crescendo’d – And then it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, this amazing piece of art from, in, and of the community. Where it has always come from, where it has always been.

For those of us caught between I can’t go on and I must go on, open mic gives us the chance to draw from each other the spirit to go on.

And so we come to Oregon, Portland, and Douglas Spangle. Who has nurtured this form and forum of weekly readings for more than 30 years.

The Broken Word reading at the Alberta Street Pub (founded and emceed by Arlo Voorhees, occasionally emceed by Douglas Spangle, and featuring readers such as Judith Fay Pullman and Jaqueline Freeman) followed the Meander reading (founded by Elizabeth Domike and Elizabeth Archers, occasionally emceed by Douglas Spangle, and featuring the intricately-talented Andrew Macarthur, sadly no longer with us); and Meander followed the reading at Murray’s Pizza (emceed by Douglas Spangle), which followed the reading at A Shot in the Dark (sometimes emceed by Douglas Spangle), which in turn followed the long-running reading at Café Lena (emceed by Doulgas Spangle with Brian Christopher Hamilton), which succeeded the long-running reading at the Satyricon (emceed by Doulgas Spangle, and featuring such writers as Walt Curtis and Katherine Dunn).

That takes us back to 1983. 2007-1983.

From 2008-2013 Douglas curated Verse in Person at the northwest branch of Multnomah County Library. The Stone Soup reading at Marino’s, was founded by Curtis Whitecarroll, an alumnus of Broken Word, who Douglas had mentored. Stone Soup and its successors, Ink Noise, Word Warrior and Poets' Challenge have featured writers such as Dan Encarnacion, Coleman Stevenson, Brita Emeel, Brenda Taulbee, and JM Reed. The young & formidable poets are often transplants to the city from elsewhere, though not always, but because of Douglas Spangle’s work, they have a committed emcee, a gathering place, a continuing reading series, and an audience.

Nurturing open mic that is not all that Douglas has done – in addition to producing fine poetry of his own he was active in Portland Artquake / Write Out Loud, co-edited Rain City Review (which debuted many Pacific Northwest writers, from Sherman Alexie to Lidia Yuknavitch), has written for Anodyne and The Asian Reporter, produced the last Portland Poetry Fest (dedicated to Mary Barnard) and been a Visiting Poet at Benson High School. His activities in and on behalf of poetry in the Pacific Northwest are really too numerous to mention here.

With the 2016 Stewart H. Holbrook Literary Legacy Award, the Oregon literary community recognizes the devoted nurturing of the weekly readings that has been the hallmark of Douglas Spangle's life: the constant, selfless, week-after-week-after week welcoming, nurturing presence, giving a venue and a voice to those who may go on to be well- and widely-known, to those who come and go in a single night, to any who write a name on a sign-in sheet.

And we at GobQ/Reprobate Books books add our heartfelt congratulations!

Golems Waiting Redux

To my unutterable delight, I've just found that MOMA, NY, holds Golems Waiting Redux.

Which is about the destruction of Portland artist Daniel Duford's experimental sculpture installation in Portland, in early October, 2002.

The vandals were never found; the motives remain obscure. But Duford's determined documentation of guesses about motives and culprits vividly describes the social forces at work in the U.S. as it was on the point of invading Iraq.

At the end of the week the figures on the wall remained:

as though their nudity were a threat and their helplessness a provocation.

How Memory Works

Because memory is visual verbal and communal and rehearsed, it can disappear under dominant images. I lived in L.A. for about ten years. I've been to Venice Beach a few times (housecleaning, showing a friend from home who wanted a particular book). And so I have visual and muscle memories of the canal, the boardwalk, and the cavernous 2nd-hand bookshop that had been there for years. (That must have been in '91.)

After seeing Dogtown and Z-Boys I now have visual memories of Venice Beach since the 1970s, when I was actually living on the bottom edge of the other side of the world in small patch of rich dairy-farms, and on the edge of the Nullarbor Plain, and in Melbourne.

So what happens in a densely populated, media-rich location such as L.A., is that underground movement proliferate, document and ultimately broadcast themselves; the wealth generated by corruption is so fabulous it makes its own myths – Chinatown and the rest of L.A. noir from Chandler on – I will mount that film festival sooner or later – and these images become our not only our images, but also our memories. We remember going to the pictures; we remember what we saw. Seeing them was what we did.

I almost remember World War 2: until Sputnik it was the largest thing in our mental landscape. My parents and brother had lived through it. The first film I have a whole sense of is The Dam Busters. The radio serial we all listened to was Five Fingers. (Adapted and directed by Morris West. Yes, that Morris West).

I remember having anxiety dreams about the Korean War. I remember the Catholics fleeing the Communists, an exodus from North Vietnam – a 16mm film at school shown by a visiting priest.

There was nothing epic, filmic, beautiful, dramatic, noteworthy, about going to work or church or school, cooking, gardening, going to the beach or the hills.

And so to the vexed matter of Australian film.

There had been a silent film industry which never gained a truly sound footing.

Efftee Studios and Cinesound Productions foundered, in 1935 and 1936, repectively, on the Australian Government's failure to introduce a quota for domestic films. (The British did introduce one, giving rise to the "quota quickie" and, via Korda's Private Lives, to Von Sternberg's failed I, Claudius.)

Once Efftee and Cinesound and failed, there were very few Australian films. Some wartime action/morale boosters (40,000 Horsemen, directed by Charles Chauvel, The Kokoda Trail, directed by Ken G. Hall), and then almost nothing.

The only genuinely working production facility in the country was the Commonwealth Film Unit, the documentary arm of the Commonwealth Government. (Tim Burstall, Bruce Beresford, and Mike Thornhill worked there.)

When I was seven or so there was Smiley Gets a Gun at the drive-in; the same night, before it, a trailer for The Sundowners. We never saw that. My family didn't go to the pictures much and this kind of thing rubbed us the wrong way: Peter Ustinov & Robert Mitchum weren't Australians, couldn't get the accent, didn't reflect our lives; the flick was a foreign concoction, an exotification, a falsification, and we weren't going to pay to go to it.

(At the same time, when I saw South Pacific I kept wanting the camera to swing around and see us. I spent decades waiting for them to turn and see us.)

And so, from the mid-'30s until the early '70s, there was a dearth of images of Australia connected to anything the movies and the world thought important: and which we, therefore, might also find  defining and iconic now that cattle-drives and droughts and generally faux-Western tropes had stopped reflecting our lived experience in even the remotest, most analogical way. (1)

In 1971 there was Walkabout, another exotification, a journey with a hilariously mad geography.

Australian Literature was by and large out of print. Henry Lawson and Judith Wright existed in school editions, like Nevil Shute, Colin Thiele, and Kylie Tenant. Frank Hardy wrote on the Gurindji struggle for land rights. Wake in Fright was passed from hand to hand among teachers who'd never intended to be teachers (a terrifying Lord of the Flies at the edge of a country school). White was... too unique, adult, aristocratic, sophisticated, bizarre, to become a generally understood vision. (2)

Lawson's world was 70 years gone. For sense of place attached to the memorable – it all boiled down to the stark landscapes and dispossessions and implied genocides in the Wright.

1975, Picnic at Hanging Rock. And there, finally, the hills we'd driven through since I'd been a small child; the hill I'd looked at through my schoolroom window as a young teenager: stubble in summer, green in winter, round, low, inevitable, the true last shape of mountain and stone.

But Picnic gave rise to a spate of chocolate-box historicals, and The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith was something you could only watch once, like Wake in Fright.

When I go to think of Australia there's only a rectangle of yellow-green, fading into over-exposure.

...

My family's photos have been largely destroyed. I met my father at the back door by chance one morning in 1988, as I came home from an errand; his hands were full of packets and books of old photos I'd never seen. He was on his way to the incinerator. (I'm so like him in so many ways I know what he was thinking. My mother had died; his life was over; there was no point to the images.)

Seeing what he carried I took everything with a cheerful, "I'll take those, Dad" – so smoothly I'm still amazed at myself – and mailed them to our L.A. address. When I sorted, ordered, and annotated them (nothing between 1927 and 1947 had been dated), I realized there were dozens from the 1950s that have utterly disappeared.

Nostalgia for the Light begins as an account of the astronomical telescope in the high desert of Chile and ends with a consideration of the deliberate suppression of evidence of the dispossession of the indigenous population before the suppression of evidence of mass murder by the Pinochet regime. That felt very familiar.

...

My parents were both very good dancers. My father loved musicals; my mother loved dramas.

"Cities are supposed to stimulate you, but Adelaide just puts me to sleep," a cousin of mine said to me a long time ago. Every time the tram crossed Greenhill Road on its way to the Bay I agreed, and thought of my mother wrestling with the washing and the shopping and the garden (that hard Adelaide clay), thinking of Joan Crawford.

...

So, if memory is visual and verbal and communal and rehearsed, then what is memorable is determined by authority. In colonial situations what the colonizing power wants suppressed will be buried. What the colonizing power thinks important will be believed to be important, and what the colonizing power deems unimportant will fade into unimportance.


Because the political has inserted itself into the personal, the personal is political. We must remember and create our own stuff. Our masters won't.

===

1. There was something called Jack and Jill: A Postscript, which arrived (I seem to remember a film can of huge diameter) when I'd asked for something else for my Film Study class in 1971. It came from something called the South Australian Film Corporation, instead of from the Education Department. I showed it, having nothing else: it turned out to be about a bloke with a motorbike and his mate and his girlfriend. It had been shot on weekends over 5 years, as funds and the availability of the actors allowed, by Phillip Adams. (He never did anything as unfunded, difficult, frustrating, unrecognized and unrewarded again. He continued in advertising.)

2. Having Patrick White for your national novelist is like having Pablo Picasso for your portrait photographer.

A Weekend on the Couch: Balm for a Bad Back

The Bourne Identity – a man betrayed into redemption by his own unexpected, unsuspected compassion.

Michael Collins – a man who hates war and waste wages the first urban guerilla struggle, expels an occupying power from his country, and creates peace.

Red Cliff – An alliance of defenders defeats an invasion.

Ah... Integrity asserted, defended, discovered, maintained. Yes.