Spacement in Worcester

Last night I went to the Spacement, ‘s reading in the heart of Worcester, MA. It’s on Harding Street, and it’s kinda crazy to find, because if you get on Harding Street too early, you’re almost doomed not to find it. But I did find it eventually, and it’s a pretty damn cool venue — down in the basement, it’s the performance space of an artist-and-activist collective that runs the local Food Not Bombs program, and runs a series of lectures and performances. They’ve got a little library down there with theater works, political manifestoes, art theory and other stuff, and the space they have is dim without being dark. The people are pretty cool too.

was the feature. He was worried about his set before, during, and after (what poet isn’t?) but he delived a terrific set. Radioactive Artist, which I’d never heard before, left me with goosebumps. He did four by request, and one knowing it would be requested: Radioactive Artist, D.I.Y, Punk, and As Slow as Possible, four of my favorites from the repetoire. He also did the ‘political/truth’ piece about needing to own your shit in order to change it. I think that’s my new favorite TB piece, but I still didn’t catch the title. I want that one, Tony. I wants it, my precious.

Reminded that she’d wanted me to do a feature at the Spacement; so I’ll be there on June 22. I almost have The Heron memorized, and maybe I’ll have a few more done by then. I’m really working on it this next week. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m trying to write three new pieces — one on Helios and Phaethon, and one on sir Percival from Arthurian mythology. The Arthurian bit is a stretch for me, I haven’t written from that cycle at all. The Helios piece is falling flat, too, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s only that I’ve written so many Greek myths at this point that they bore me. The third piece is stil under wraps, because I’m not sure where it’s going yet.

Went to put wash in the dryer yesterday, and discovered a very large amount of ruined, ink-stained paper. I’ve been writing a haiku daily since January, and putting it in one of these little Moleskine notebooks that are so very useful and handy. Gone. The thing went through the wash in one of the pockets of my jeans. I jingled the pants for change, but didn’t think to really check the pockets. Five months of work, ruined. I’m trying to be philosophical about it, but frankly it’s hard. I really would like to perform Book of Days again sometime with Ted and Bob. I should have talked to them about doing it again somewhere, last night.

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2 comments

  1. Thanks for coming out!

    First off, the poem:

    HOW TO GROW UP

    Night
    sometimes leaves
    wounds that never
    heal. Broad daylight can carve you

    too. Dawn and dusk hold their own
    dangers. Face it:
    nothing is safe, nothing is
    comforting. You might as well

    give up on growing old, as it
    happens so rarely. In fact,
    pretend you’re already dead.
    Pretend you’re not American.

    Pretend the clothes on your back
    smell of napalm. Think
    of imperialism as a flavor of the
    month at the local ice cream parlor,

    and scoop yourself out a double dip.
    Buy jewelry from Mexico, henna from
    Egypt, hash from what they tell you is Morocco
    but is more likely Contra Costa, California.

    Give up your television, praise your musicians,
    wave a burning flag at the cameras, run home
    to your parents when the flames get too close.
    This is your world. All that danger you claim

    to despise? It’s your breath. All that money
    you claim to fear? It’s your blood. All that bullshit
    you claim to reject? It’s your bullshit.
    And owning your bullshit is part of growing up.

    Night wounds you, yes; day carves you, yes;
    everything is always fatal in the last reel. But
    you were born here, you were made here, and as
    bad as it is, bite down on it like tinfoil and love it:

    it’s the only way
    you’ll ever find
    the strength
    to change it.

    ++++++++++++++++++++++++

    Second of all: ouch about the haiku! But a question: did Gary record the performance at SPEAK?

  2. Thanks for coming out!

    First off, the poem:

    HOW TO GROW UP

    Night
    sometimes leaves
    wounds that never
    heal. Broad daylight can carve you

    too. Dawn and dusk hold their own
    dangers. Face it:
    nothing is safe, nothing is
    comforting. You might as well

    give up on growing old, as it
    happens so rarely. In fact,
    pretend you’re already dead.
    Pretend you’re not American.

    Pretend the clothes on your back
    smell of napalm. Think
    of imperialism as a flavor of the
    month at the local ice cream parlor,

    and scoop yourself out a double dip.
    Buy jewelry from Mexico, henna from
    Egypt, hash from what they tell you is Morocco
    but is more likely Contra Costa, California.

    Give up your television, praise your musicians,
    wave a burning flag at the cameras, run home
    to your parents when the flames get too close.
    This is your world. All that danger you claim

    to despise? It’s your breath. All that money
    you claim to fear? It’s your blood. All that bullshit
    you claim to reject? It’s your bullshit.
    And owning your bullshit is part of growing up.

    Night wounds you, yes; day carves you, yes;
    everything is always fatal in the last reel. But
    you were born here, you were made here, and as
    bad as it is, bite down on it like tinfoil and love it:

    it’s the only way
    you’ll ever find
    the strength
    to change it.

    ++++++++++++++++++++++++

    Second of all: ouch about the haiku! But a question: did Gary record the performance at SPEAK?

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