Stacked

Language. I am using it right now. And now. And even now. In The Flame Alphabet the words used to communicate become painful, become lethal. Children become weapons, their burbles make adults sick, their teenage tongues cause more anguish than their angst normally allows. Parents hide from their beloved offspring, people struggle to understand each other, and mostly they strive to survive against their instincts - to connect with others, to speak. Communication is a difficult thing. Most of us aren’t very good at it, as hard as we try. There are always things left unsaid, things we say that hurt, that are wrong. But in the world of Ben Marcus he is the commander of language, he controls the words on the page. This book is at least half great, half frustrating. He writes to confuse and illuminate, to address a myriad of ideas (family, language, illness, cure, genius, survival) that somehow come together, but also leave the reader uncertain and even unsatisfied. Marcus, has not created a perfect book, but it’s compelling and strange and unsettling. He’s a wily devil.

There is certainly something impressive about the tome, the multi-volume sprawl of a long intricate narrative that spans thousands of pages. And yet, my favourite indulgence is literary satisfaction that comes from something that captivates me with far fewer words. A book that can be consumed in a single sitting, that requires nothing but an afternoon in a chair, a morning curled in bed. The Guardians: An Elegy  is Sarah Manguso’s second memoir. The first detailed a rare autoimmune condition that ravaged her body for years. This new and heartbreaking work is about two kinds of love, friendship and romantic, and one kind of death, suicide. It spans only 104 pages. It had me rapt with every word, every sorrowful ache of memory, every slip her mind takes as she deals with loss and new love in slim, poetic paragraphs. 

Oh.

Sarah Manguso, the things you do to me. 

This is the kind of book that makes me want to slap people upside the face with it when they say they don’t get poetry. This is the kind of book you read and love and mull over and then you read it again and think, “oh shizz, did he just do that?”, and “oh shizz, he totes did,” and then you carry it around with you, in a nice bag along with your lip gloss and moisturizer, to have near you, and also maybe sometimes to just pull out and show people how amazing, and heartsad and hilarious and perceptive and compelling and innovative and just plain wonderfully adept at understanding how we all function in this strange place we call society poets can be. I hope you got all of that? Because otherwise, I’ve got a little something in my purse for you. It’s a bitch slap, courtesy of Daniel Zomparelli and Davie Street Translations. I didn’t get Maltesers at first, but sometimes an acquired taste is the most delicious.

I don’t know if it’s somehow my fault for reading so many of them or the damn writers for writing about it, but here are just so many books about death and dying and the various ways it can go down and bring people down. Stephen Gauer’s debut novel Hold Me Now  is one of those books. A hate crime, a killing gets people down in this book. It’s tough. There are complicated emotions, and strained relationships, and loneliness and sex to pacify emotions and drink to further pacify emotions and desire for revenge, for peace, for something to hold onto, but there are no heroes here. Because that just makes sense in hard times. That we can have people that are important in our lives, but no one can save us from our hard feelings. That we have to muddle along. That we have to take responsibility for our feelings, for our actions. So fine, I’ll take partial blame on this whole death book situation, because sometimes the eyes and mind want to read what they want. Sometimes, it’s on me.

Time has gone by but I have not been lax in my reading. Just getting down in front of the Tumblr to write. And here is a book I read two months ago. And yet, I can’t forget. I can’t forget the poetry of weather, of paper shapes adorned with boy’s printing, fraternal connections, wonder twin power and the quiet grief of a woman with intimate knowledge of what it feels like to be alone when everyone else seems paired up. In these pages I saw a dark house full of family unable to make connections as they struggle with loss, and rain and snow, and a whole world in a single town. In Algoma Dani Couture caused my little heart to skip through dark and light and my little brain to see the bigger picture in the smallest gestures. 

This book and I are acquaintances. We probably go to the same parties, we might throw down a, “hey,” or “how you doing?” but really we don’t have a lot in common. The poems in here are made of cleverness. There are word games. There are allusions. They’re not easy. I’m a bit intimidated by them, like if I’m at the party I think I’m not cool or smart enough to get into a conversation with them. But then when I get home, a little tipsy, kick off my tottering heals, just enough energy left to throw off my clothes and crawl into bed, smear mascara on the pillow, because I’m not quite awake enough to take that off, I’ll think about our relationship before falling asleep. And I’ll realize that I can’t get into every book of poems that comes my way, that I can’t be friend to all, that sometimes the emotional connection isn’t there. But I can give kudos and hang out with the shit I love, and pass on an occasional, “hey” on my way to the bar.

This book here really gets me. Like, I think we should go for beers together. Friends. I might consider us friends. These poems and I had some insightful conversation. They were charming and funny and smart as a whip snap and made me feel okay about my life choices, and further question others and wonder about what they hell people are thinking. They were supportive without being fake, called me out on my crap and weren’t afraid to give me a little shove when I needed one. Sometimes talk is cheap and we need something solid, not empty words and stanzas. None of that here. Just solid poetic realness that surprised and inspired. Like a good beer it had fizz and a lovely flavour. And I felt real good about taking the time to digest these irrational, philosophical, intellectual and emotionally relevant poems. I think I’m going to be happy in this new friendship. Real happy.

I’m going through that thing where I realize that I have all these loaner books on the bedside table and for some reason reading the loaner books is way more difficult than reading the books I have gone out and purchased. I’m not good at being that person who accepts a loaner book from a friend who tells me it is great, or when someone tells me I have to read a book and forces it on me. I just want to be all like, don’t tell me what I’ll like, if I want a book I will ask, dammit. But honestly, the books I have here are mostly things I’ve wanted to read and my friends have very good taste and I shouldn’t be an ass about it, but I am and that is just a quirk that I have to deal with. It’s like clothes. I have my own taste and don’t try to change me with your suggestions or free jeans, man! 

Surprise, surprise, I finally settle in to read Ali Smith for the first time and she blows me away with amazingness. Why did I resist her particular brand of storytelling? Probably because of my assiness, that’s why. Moderate strangeness mixed with believable feelings and comic sensibilities and also she can write in the second person without me wanting to lose my shit. The Whole Story and Other Storiesand I had a lovely morning together and I could not be happier that I experienced her view of the world, her stories about people who fall in love with trees, and mixed up sisters. She is doing something special. Her style is so refreshing that I would even read some half stories. Get it? I know. Terrible.

It can be hard to separate an author from his well documented persona (cantankerous and controversial) and it’s even more difficult when he includes himself as a character in his own novel. While he appears in The Map and the Territory Houellebecq is certainly not playing any gimmicky games. Here he manages to engage the reader with his usual biting commentary on humanity and the world we live in; a skewering of the art world, his continued exploration of the highs and lows and strains and strands of relationships, both romantic, familial and professional and all with merely a smattering of misogyny and barely a sex scene to show for it. Art and artists (and writers too) are not perfect, but they can show us the depths of reality with their work. And Houellebecq, as misanthropic as he is, can do that and even create some hard feelings and quality entertainment along the way. I found the book delightful.

I know, right? 

So, this is weird shit. A screenwriter interviewing strangers from the Pennysaver to combat her inability to complete a screenplay, but I think it’s charming. And sure it’s real pretty because it’s published by McSweeney’s and sure it’s real quirky because it’s written by Miranda July. But there’s something special about the interviews, the way she finds her way into these people that creates a way for a reader to understand both the writer (and interviewer) and the subjects and why they hell we look for any kind of human connection in the first place. Yeah, I went there. Maybe a $10 leather jacket is a gateway drug to a person, a story, an encounter that will make you feel a little bit high. Or queasy. Or discombobulated. Or sleepy. Or happy.

At the end of July’s obsessive project in human interest and procrastination something horribly amazing and touching and sad happens that smacks a reader in the face with how important and affecting strange moments can be. Procrastination might not help an artist finish a project, but it might do some other things that might be good for you. 

But also, finish your writing stuff! For real.