Perfect

A rare honor bequeathed on a relatively new poem: Perfect, from the Nineties section of Something Solid. Perfect is now distinguished by a dual placement: as a discrete file on PennSound, and as part of the issue pdf for Otoliths 65, preserved on Trove (National Library of Australia). Its heels are dug in. Cheers. 

P.S. Perfect is a manifestation of a new literary form: the double sonnet.

 

Where was she?

It's been mentioned that, during the year-long heyday-cum-orgy of the original Philly Free School, Mary H. was mostly missing in action (which Abby was not). Where was she? I have bothered to insinuate, that when Abby and I finally hooked up all the way in early 2005, it was karmically appropriate in relation to Ms. H. This, I still believe to be true; as of early '05, Abby and I both felt betrayed by Mary. The issues around who Mary H was in '04 and '05, and why Abby and I felt betrayed, are delicate ones. Some of it has to do with what was then a newfangled alliance formed between Mary and her family. Her family, who disapproved of her decision to be a painter, and disapproved (of course) of Abby and I. Her family weren't overtly unfriendly to me, in '02 and '03, but the truth emerged in the mid-Aughts. Mary's new hubs guy after me, Abby and I felt, was a cad and a curmudgeon, who also steered her away from painting. And finally, I will have to be inscrutable to once again insinuate something and leave it, out of delicacy, indefinite. To make a few more long stories short, Mary, at the behest of the forces then around her, was willing to fake a bunch of things about herself. Major things, and (suddenly) nose-in-the-air things, too. Was she out of her mind? Abby and I more than half thought so. Sorry to have to leave some of it vague.

As of '06, by which time no one knew what to expect from her, she spun more or less around to where she had been. She'd also added a layer of thinly-submerged upset about my tryst with Abby. Yet she began painting seriously again, and renewed contact with me. Abby, less so. Then, at the end of '06, we began courting again, and we were an item again as of early '07. Yet the demons from the mid-Aughts were constantly hovering around her. I did my best, but it was obvious that the tug of war in her was intense (double Libra....ouch), and my power with her, even as her boyfriend, was limited. That note, of a sense I had of her vacillating constantly, was there for the remainder of the time I knew Mary Evelyn Harju. She was never again as strong as she'd been in the early Aughts. Yet she loved me as much as she could've loved anyone, and the love was reciprocated.   

Be it ever so sloppy...

This is my interpretation of Mary Evelyn Harju, in astrological terms. Occultists will note: this is an "impossible" chart, i.e. one that shows configurations of planets not possible as one would see in an ephemeris. My presupposition is that the 1-24-78 chart was a used one anyway, and this shows you far more about Mary than the bum 1-24-78 one ever could. Astrology, for P.F.S., does not literally work all the time; even as the archetypes are almost always useful ones for breaking people open.  

Hinge Online in Northern Liberties: Spring 2004

 

The story of Hinge is not one I can tell; or, rather, one I can tell conclusively. They were around for a number of years in Philly; their el primo era seems to have been the early Aughts. I published in Hinge several times; they also accepted, eventually, several mp3s from Ardent, the '04 EP I made with Matt Stevenson in South Philly. Hinge for me are made most memorable, other than for their benign online presence, by the Northern Liberties extravaganza they put on in the spring of '04, in the middle of Ardent recording sessions and me finishing at Penn. It was a brilliantly sunny, warm, spring day; we got lucky, especially as the warehouse space where the show was held had a big yard in front where everyone could hang out and imbibe. It was, for the multi-media nature of what was presented (including my reading), and for the general Aughts Philly ambiance of permissive indulgence, as halcyon as it could be. As I watched Lucky Dragons weave a weird sonic web over the crowd and conquer our sense that computer-generated music couldn't have vibe and depth-resonance, I felt a deep sense of euphoria, and knew in the pit of my stomach that this is where the public side of my art had to go. I was thinking, still at the Hinge event, of the London Free School around Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd; that was the cultural reference point which occurred to me in there. Of course, London has few brilliantly sunny days, and what I imagined that Free School, the London one, was like, might or might not "op over" Hinge in Northern Liberties. Still, I wanted to conglomerate Hinge/Northern Liberties with my Swinging London fantasies, and by 7-10-04, was at the Highwire Gallery doing so, thanks to the generosity of Matt Stevenson, who introduced it to us.

Symbolists and Hallucinogenics

Nineties heritage, as it could start from State College, works under the aegis of what was being imbibed by the kiddies— not uppers or downers (that much), but hallucinogenics. Many nights in the mid-to-late Nineties, the Nineties revolution in State College was a revolution-in-consciousness around skewered perspectives and visionary trances. State College was and is serviced, in this respective, by something beneath the surface which illuminates the entirety of Happy Valley— a mystique emanating from Mother Nature herself, around a sense of earth magic resonating from the greener areas in and around State College. Nature breathes there. Hallucinogens heighten the sense of ecstasy and fulsomeness bestowed by greenery on the place.

No joke that, on the syllabus for true Nineties State College hipsters, a place was made for the French Symbolist poets of the nineteenth century— Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Verlaine. Hipsterism, in an era of turmoil, balanced imperatives other than just popular music and parties— reading culture in State College wasn't nothing. Other than the philosophy texts I was studying, up to and including Kant and over to the Deconstructionists (philosophy was my major at PSU, and my philosophy credits did transfer over to Penn), the heaviest lit in my brain were the Symbolists, who took all of our sense of being on trips and navigating mind-scapes and articulated what we couldn't, yet.

So, the lot of us had not just a sense of a soundtrack for our adventures— we had texts which meant something to us, which were also conduits to our personal (and collective) revolutions. The poem from Something Solid, Season in Hell: White Candle takes, and places this set of circumstances on the table for all to see. Rimbaud, in his masterwork, enacts an interior process in text of complete personal revision and revolution of self. This poem takes what was already transformative and makes it do double-time, enumerating not only a personal revolution but a revolution pertaining to the rigors of early marriage. Marriage and Rimbaud are not naturally simpatico; but the Nineties sense of unlikely juxtapositions (including State College's game of class-confounding) take, and make the contingencies which serve the poem resonate to a Symbolistic frequency. Such is one pertinent manifestation of Nineties-ism. 

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On a more practical note: State College in the 90s was very strange. It should've been that, being an artist and coming from a background steeped in the arts, I would feel uncomfortable and disoriented there. After all, people associate State College and Penn State with football, Joe Paterno, and little else. Granted, PSU State College is a high-ranking school with several outstanding departments (including continental philosophy, which was my major), but its image or "face to the world" is all about athletics. It's just that I didn't find State College that limiting. There was an active underground scene in the arts in the 90s which gave the place some real vitality.

I moved to State College in '94 without formalizing any plans to do theater or anything theater related. I had spent the summer of '92 at Carnegie Mellon doing pre-college for acting, but it hadn't led anywhere. What theater at PSU had going that I was intrigued with was a weekly series of plays, written by students and graduate students and produced by them too. Outlaw Playwrights. By the spring of '95, I was actively writing plays, because the outlet to have them produced was there. By the the spring of '99 (I had left a script in late '98 once I'd moved to NYC), I'd had four one-acts produced.

State College had an active indie rock scene, too. Summer in State College in the 90s can't have been that much different than Athens, Georgia in the early 80s. The whole town was slowed down. Everyone involved in State College indie lived in a room in a house and there were house parties all the time. What State College needed, but never got, was an R.E.M., to be a flagship bearer from State College to the world. There were candidates; the best and most popular candidate was a band of which every member was a local icon. They were musically great and very muscular (and as classicist about musical quality as early R.E.M.) but no one in the band could sing. If this band had had a Michael Stipe, the whole movement in State College would've come to the surface much faster.

People were fucking. To the extent that some arts scenes in America (particularly ones started and maintained by rich kids and trust funders, who tend towards frigidity and impotence) have problems with this, State College didn't. The sexual mores were pretty blase about faithfulness and seriousness too. This extended even to life on campus; North Halls was considered the "artsy" set of dorms, and I lived there for a long time. The idea of doing pick-up routines, hanging around playing music and smoking pot, and grooving on what you were going to do in the arts when you grew up was de rigueur. What was important was that you could live on campus if you were an artist and still not starve to death spiritually. We all absorbed the 90s ethos, which amounted to a more tortured and world-weary version of the 60s. And most of us listened to the same music. Nirvana weren't too big in State College: Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Sonic Youth, Guided by Voices, the Flaming Lips were all massive. I got into Nick Drake and Big Star on the side. Brit-Pop, particularly Blur, was around.

How did we relate to the football shenanigans? We didn't. We simply acted as if they weren't happening. In North Halls, on South Atherton Street, on West College, you could get away from that crap, and really do it, and mean it. Although visiting East Halls was always a fun education on what it meant to live on the dark side of things.

I liked my philosophy classes, and did well in them. They were a handful of other courses I liked. If I flaked out on Gen Ed requirements, it's because I was a flake in many ways in those days. Philosophy engaged me; other than that, my mind was possessed by the arts. Or  intoxicants. By 1997, they were coffeeshops in State College where, if you knew the right people, you could buy gooballs over the counter. Or smoke a joint openly sitting out in the cafe. Bohemia, and the scandals in it.

Of all the places I've spent a big chunk of time, Cheltenham High is the only place I have no fond memories of. The last six months I spent in State College in '98 were the happiest. It was a bacchanal to match anything in Philly, Chicago, NYC or DC. And if no one in the wider world knew or cared that it was happening, we were too young to notice or fret that this was the case.