Wednesday, January 30, 2008

sitting around, doing nothing

well, not quite since i worked a bit on the poem posted below while listening to aphex twin at pandora, then i read this piece about tom stoppard's habit of lugging his way heavy book box on his travels versus the comfort and ease and portability of the e-book reader kindle. and it reminds me of the time when i moved to south florida for a bit when i was in my early 20s. i had 2 suitcases with me: one for my clothes and assorted sundries, and the second for my books, which included copies of the dream songs by john berryman and a selected borges reader.

one of my roommates was a tech freak, she at the time subscribed to a very early internet ipo whose name eludes me at the moment. the year was 1990. anyway, she said if there was an e-book i'd not need to lug a 100 lbs of books like i did.

i scoffed at the notion. now i think she's right and here i am reading poems, listening to music and working on poems on my laptop and blogging about it. and yet, i love my books. the weight, the smell, the dust that accumulates so quickly. i gaze at their spines as they sit on my shelves as if i were looking into the eyes of a lover. and each room i go into i have an annoying habit of stopping for a few minutes, pulling a collection of the shelf and read a page or two, a poem or two.

so no. i'm still like stoppard and will lug my books thru the end of my days. lifting their collective weight is not a beast of burden but the labor of a deep and abiding love and passion. sure i'll get an e-reader too. print whether in digital or analog forms is still language. and it is not an either/or thing regarding paper or pixels. i want them both and now.

in other yet i think releated news please read ernesto priego's finsbury park manifesto.

word to your mother


At 9:11 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

richard. what say you matery?
are there poetry readings there? many? is there spoken word as it s called or spoken thought, let me ask you, where does the poetry machine end and start, and where is power, the power lines brother... the lines of escape are tied up by arseholes, which poems undo and poets are sometimes wrenches. give my regards to Steve.

At 10:54 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

thanks for the shout-out again, mate.

At 12:32 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...


At 12:32 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...



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