17 poems by James Tate

 

‘I have a lot of feelings about Jim Tate, first and foremost having to do with my gratitude for him as a teacher, and poet. Like so many others, I revered and loved him for being a sweet and gentle and stern and brilliant and complicated poetry father. I also have many private feelings, ones intimately bound up with the experiences I had when I was first starting to really write poetry, during those pre-internet years in the mid-1990s when I was studying with him and Dara Wier and Agha Shahid Ali in Amherst, Massachusetts. I’m not sure I can put these feelings into words: they seem to be located in Jim’s poems. I find them there and the poems seem not to express those feelings, but to conjure and enact them, inside and outside of time, in me.

‘No one had a greater influence on me poetically than Tate, though that influence has as much to do with how he worked and thought about poetry as the style itself, which was inimitable. I learned how to be a poet from Jim: how to sit down and work every day and be serious and patient and follow the totally free movement of the imagination as manifest in the material of language. Not because he taught me, but because he showed me. All of us who were near Jim and Dara in those years knew how they were working, and we saw the brilliant results.*

‘I would like to say this: don’t let anyone tell you Jim Tate was a certain “kind” of poet. Especially not a surrealist, which is how he is often described. To call the poems “surrealist” is incorrect, because the surrealists were really interested in something else, language as a kind of mind and soul changing substance. Jim wasn’t doing automatic writing or creating collages or merely juxtaposing images. In Jim’s poems, there is almost always some kind of situation, or organizing principle, along with a total freedom of language and the imagination. In other words, they are poems. If he is a surrealist, then we all are, or should be.

‘Jim could do anything in his poems, and did. Throughout his whole life as a poet, he was just as comfortable with narrative as with a lyric that is more experiential, present in and exploring a particular state of mind or orientation toward the word that is full of contradiction and humor and darkness. You will see what I mean if you read his first Selected Poems, as well as the newer one, The Eternal Ones of the Dream, which together will give you a sense of his entire body of work. Jim Tate was a great American poet, maybe even the greatest of the past 50 years. His influence is everywhere in American poetry, on those who don’t realize it as much as those who do.’ — Matthew Zapruder

 

Teaching the Ape to Write Poems

They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him to the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?”

 

I Am a Finn

I am standing in the post office, about
to mail a package back to Minnesota, to my family.
I am a Finn. My name is Kasteheimi (Dewdrop).

Mikael Agricola (1510-1557) created the Finnish language.
He knew Luther and translated the New Testament.
When I stop by the Classé Café for a cheeseburger

no one suspects that I am a Finn.
I gaze at the dimestore reproductions of Lautrec
on the greasy walls, at the punk lovers afraid

to show their quivery emotions, secure
in the knowledge that my grandparents really did
emigrate from Finland in 1910 – why

is everybody leaving Finland, hundreds of
thousands to Michigan and Minnesota, and now Australia?
Eighty-six percent of Finnish men have blue

or grey eyes. Today is Charlie Chaplin’s
one hundredth birthday, though he is not
Finnish or alive: ‘Thy blossom, in the bud

laid low.’ The commonest fur-bearing animals
are the red squirrel, musk-rat, pine-marten
and fox. There are about 35,000 elk.

But I should be studying for my exam.
I wonder if Dean will celebrate with me tonight,
assuming I pass. Finnish Literature

really came alive in the 1860s.
Here, in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
no one cares that I am a Finn.

They’ve never even heard of Frans Eemil Sillanpää,
winner of the 1939 Nobel Prize in Literature.
As a Finn, this infuriates me.

 

Goodtime Jesus

Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn’t afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How ’bout some coffee? Don’t mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey, I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.

 

Interruptions

I long for some, even
one would be a beginning,
not this long flat stretch
of just me and my improvising
of waste, of a kind of heroic
negligence that life does not
appreciate. My loved one
is wobbling—O creme de menthe!
See, I am making my own
interference, jerked stratagem—
her overcoat, my cottage.
Why are we so bad? I hear them
faintly knocking, neutral ducks,
and I am reprimanded.
I am thinking “scalloped potatoes”
are of absolutely no use.
I’m thumping my canteen
and pointing at my nose.
Yes, I lied about “her,”
there wasn’t one, but for
that moment a gourd drifted
down the chimney on the pretext
of weeding a peninsula
and nourishing the articulation
of a single bud. Am I forgiven?
Forgotten? This is the constellation
of my own bewilderment. Please,
someone interrupt me.
Hence, whatever, reverts.

 

The List Of Famous Hats

Napoleon’s hat is an obvious choice I guess to list as a famous
hat, but that’s not the hat I have in mind. That was his hat for
show. I am thinking of his private bathing cap, which in all hon-
esty wasn’t much different than the one any jerk might buy at a
corner drugstore now, except for two minor eccentricities. The
first one isn’t even funny: Simply it was a white rubber bathing
cap, but too small. Napoleon led such a hectic life ever since his
childhood, even farther back than that, that he never had a
chance to buy a new bathing cap and still as a grown-up–well,
he didn’t really grow that much, but his head did: He was a pin-
head at birth, and he used, until his death really, the same little
tiny bathing cap that he was born in, and this meant that later it
was very painful to him and gave him many headaches, as if he
needed more. So, he had to vaseline his skull like crazy to even
get the thing on. The second eccentricity was that it was a tricorn
bathing cap. Scholars like to make a lot out of this, and it would
be easy to do. My theory is simple-minded to be sure: that be-
neath his public head there was another head and it was a pyra-
mid or something.

 

Man with Wooden Leg Escapes Prison

Man with wooden leg escapes prison. He’s caught.
They take his wooden leg away from him. Each day
he must cross a large hill and swim a wide river
to get to the field where he must work all day on
one leg. This goes on for a year. At the Christmas
Party they give him back his leg. Now he doesn’t
want it. His escape is all planned. It requires
only one leg.

 

The Workforce

Do you have adequate oxen for the job?
No, my oxen are inadequate.
Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job?
I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately.
I’ll see if I can get them for you.
I’d be obliged if you could do that for me.
Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men?
We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient.
I’ll have them delivered on the morrow.
Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld?
We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld.
Of course you lack maps of the underworld,
there are no maps of the underworld.
And, besides, you don’t want to go there, it’s stuffy.
I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter.
It’s just that you asked me if I needed maps. . . .
Yes, yes, it’s my fault, I got carried away.
What do you need, then, you tell me?
We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens,
pigs, cows, buckets and women.
Women?
We have no women.
You’re a sorry lot, then.
We are a sorry lot, sir.
Well, I can’t get you women.
I assumed as much, sir.
What are you going to do without women, then?
We will suffer, sir. And then we’ll die out one by one.
Can any of you sing?
Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us.
Order them to begin singing immediately.
Either women will find you this way or you will die
comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves
with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves.
Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.

 

The Cowboy

Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was
in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who
it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the
worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so
I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my
house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds
and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of
questions. “What does he look like?” “What do you feed him?” “How
did you capture him?” And I simply denied the presence of an
extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them
all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around
my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and
parked up and down the street. Roger was really working overtime
on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement.
I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02
last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up
in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them
said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it
myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove
off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now.
I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an
hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen
I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent
fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why
did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You
speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very
hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels.
I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,”
he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me
to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I
don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But
people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following
us everywhere. It would be the story of the century,” I said.
“I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said.
“I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but
they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause
you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said.
I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried
not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I
treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?”
he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,”
I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps
out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came
back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but
very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just
received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous
occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The
Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my
hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must
you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably
my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But
I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s
pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.

 

Where Babies Come From

Many are from the Maldives,
southwest of India, and must begin
collecting shells almost immediately.
The larger ones may prefer coconuts.
Survivors move from island to island
hopping over one another and never
looking back. After the typhoons
have had their pick, and the birds of prey
have finished with theirs, the remaining few
must build boats, and in this, of course,
they can have no experience, they build
their boats of palm leaves and vines.
Once the work is completed, they lie down,
thoroughly exhausted and confused,
and a huge wave washes them out to sea.
And that is the last they see of one another.
In their dreams Mama and Papa
are standing on the shore
for what seems like an eternity,
and it is almost always the wrong shore.

 

Never Again The Same

Speaking of sunsets,
last night’s was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren’t supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn’t natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn’t breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another’s eyes–
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.

 

The Loon

A loon woke me this morning. It was like waking up
in another world. I had no idea what was expected of me.
I waited for instructions. Someone called and asked me
if I wanted a free trip to Florida. I said, “Sure. Can
I go today?” A man in a uniform picked me up in a limousine,
and the next thing I know I’m being chased by an alligator
across a parking lot. A crowd gathers and cheers me on.
Of course, none of this really happened. I’m still sleeping.
I don’t want to go to work. I want to know what the loon is
saying. It sounds like ecstasy tinged with unfathomable
terror. One thing is certain: at least they are not speaking
of tax shelters. The phone rings. It’s my boss. She says,
“Where are you?” I say, “I don’t know. I don’t recognize
my surroundings. I think I’ve been kidnapped. If they make
demands of you, don’t give in. That’s my professional advice.”
Just then, the loon let out a tremendous looping, soaring,
swirling, quadruple whoop. “My god, are you alright?” my
boss said. “In case we do not meet again, I want you to know
that I’ve always loved you, Agnes,” I said. “What?” she said.
“What are you saying?” “Good-bye, my darling. Try to remember me
as your ever loyal servant,” I said. “Did you say you loved
me?” she said. I said, “Yes,” and hung up. I tried
to go back to sleep, but the idea of being kidnapped had me
quite worked up. I looked in the mirror for signs of torture.
Every time the loon cried, I screamed and contorted my face
in agony. They were going to cut off my head and place it on
a stake. I overheard them talking. They seemed like very
reasonable men, even, one might say, likeable.

 

The New Ergonomics

The new ergonomics were delivered
just before lunchtime
so we ignored them.
Without revealing the particulars
let me just say that
lunch was most satisfying.
Jack and Roberta went with
the corned beef for a change.
Jack believes in alien abduction
and Roberta does not,
although she has had
several lost weekends lately
and one or two unexplained scars
on her buttocks. I thought
I recognized someone
from my childhood
at a table across the room,
the same teeth, the same hair,
but when he stood-up,
I wasn’t sure, Squid with a red tie?
Impossible. I finished
my quiche lorraine
and returned my thoughts
to Jack’s new jag:
“Well, I guess anything’s
possible. People disappear
all the time, and most of them
have no explanation
when and if they return.
Look at Tony’s daughter
and she’s never been the same.”
Jack was looking as if
he’d bet on the right horse now.
“And these new ergonomics,
who really designed them?
Does anybody know?
Do they tell us anything?
A name, an address? Hell no.”
Squid was paying his bill
in a standard-issue blue blazer.
He looked across the room at me
several times. He looked tired,
like he wanted to sleep for a long time
in a barn somewhere, in Kansas.
I wanted to sleep there, too.

 

The White Thing

I went to my boss’s office and told him I had better go home because
I felt sick. He said, “You don’t look sick.” Then I threw up in his waste-
basket. He said, “I’m sorry I said that. You had better go home.” I said,
“Thank you. I think I will.” I grabbed my hat from the hat rack and headed
for the door. I took the elevator down to the first floor and headed for
the parking lot. I found my car and got in and started driving home. There
was something strange going on. There were palm trees all along the avenues, and
I live in the north. There were parrots flying all over the place and birds I’d never
seen before. I felt hot and it was winter. People were walking in shorts.
I liked it here, better than I’d ever liked it before. Convertibles drove by.
I waved at them, but I also felt lost. I wasn’t getting any closer to my home,
I felt sure of that. All the usual landmarks were gone, nothing seemed familiar.
But I was enjoying my ride, of that I was sure. Women in bathing suits, many
of them bikinis. There must be a beach nearby. Yes, there it was. A beautiful
white-sand beach. I drove alongside it for miles. Then I turned off onto
a side street. It got darker and darker the further I drove. It was a shanty
town with poor dilapidated houses and people dressed in winter coats. I found
my house among these, needing a roof and broken-down fence. I parked my car
and went inside. The furniture was pathetic. I was afraid to sit in the
chairs. The food in the refrigerator looked ancient and wild. Just minutes ago
I had been on a beautiful beach and now this. I didn’t understand it. How
could life turn you upside down so quickly? I went and found the bed and lay down
in it. Rats scurried out of it and down to the floor. I closed my eyes and
tried to dream of the beach, but sharks kept nipping at my fingers and toes.
I swam faster and I started to sink. I was caught in a fisherman’s net. I
woke up thrashing and screaming. It was my old home, with lovely furniture
and rugs. I went to the fridge and it was full of delicious food, like baked
chicken and fresh fruit. I looked out the window. Beautiful houses and lawns
surrounded me. I felt so happy. Then I remembered I was sick. I threw up
in the wastebasket and collapsed on the floor. I tried to reach for the
phone, but I couldn’t make it. I crawled toward it, but then I passed out.
When I woke up I was in the hospital, but I didn’t know who I was or what that
white thing was leaning over me.

 

Loyalty

This is the hardest part:
When I came back to life
I was a good family dog
and not too friendly to strangers.
I got a thirty-five dollar raise
in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs
I drove the General, and introduced him
at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach
and was a massive boost to his popularity.
I did my best to reduce the number of people.
The local bourgeoisie did not exist.
One of them was a mystic
and walked right over me
as if I were a bed of hot coals.
This is par for the course-
I will be employing sundry golf metaphors
henceforth, because a dog, best friend
and chief advisor to the General, should.
While dining with the General I said,
“Let’s play the back nine in a sacred rage.
Let’s tee-off over the foredoomed community
and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom.”
He drank it all in, rugged and dusky.
I think I know what he was thinking.
He held his automatic to my little head
and recited a poem about my many weaknesses,
for which I loved him so.

 

The Motorcyclists

My cuticles are a mess. Oh honey, by the way,
did you like my new negligee? It’s a replica
of one Kim Novak wore in some movie or other.
I wish I had a foot-long chili dog right now.
Do you like fireworks, I mean not just on the 4th of July,
but fireworks any time? There are people
like that, you know. They’re like people who like
orchestra music, listen to it any time of day.
Lopsided people, that’s what my father calls them.
Me, I’m easy to please. I like ping-gong and bobcats,
shatterproof drinking glasses, the smell of kerosene,
the crunch of carrots. I like caterpillars and
whirlpools, too. What I hate most is being the first
one at the scene of a bad accident.

Do I smell like garlic? Are we still in Kansas?
I once had a chiropractor make a pass at me,
did I ever tell you that? He said that your spine
is happiest when you’re snuggling. Sounds kind
of sweet now when I tell you, but he was a creep.
Do you know that I have never understood what they meant
by «grassy knoll.» It sounds so idyllic, a place to go
to dream your life away, not kill somebody. They
should have called it something like «the grudging notch.»
But I guess that’s life. What is it they always say?
«It’s always the sweetest ones that break your heart.»
You getting hungry yet, hon? I am. When I was seven
I sat in our field and ate an entire eggplant
right off the vine. Dad loves to tell that story,

but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first
woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.
Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom
at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me
if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?
I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.

 

What the City Was Like

The city was full of blue devils,
and, once, during an eclipse, the river
began to glow, and a small body walked out of it
carrying a wooden ship full of vegetables,
which we mistook for pearls.
We made necklaces of them, and tiaras and bracelets,
and the small body laughed until
its head fell ott, and soon enouh we realized
our mistake, and grew weak with our knowledge.
Across town, a man lived his entire life
without ever going out on the street.
He destroyed his part of the city many times
without getting off his sofa.
But that neighborhood has always blossomed afresh.
Pixies germinated in the still pools under streetlights.
Cattle grazed in back of the bakery
and helped deliver baked goods to the needy.
A mouse issued commands in a benevolent, judicious and
cheerful manner.
A small, headless body lay in the road,
and passersby clicked their heels.
Across the street the Military Academy
had many historic spots on its windows,
thanks, in part, to the rivers and canals
which carried large quantities of freight
into the treasure-house of maps
and music scores necessary for each war.
The spots were all given names by the janitors-
River of Unwavering Desire, River of Untruth,
Spring of Spies, Rill of Good Enough Hotelkeepers,
and then, of course, there was the Spot of Spots.
Nobody paid any attention to the wars,
though there must have been a few or more.
The citizens of the city were wanderers
who did not live in any one place
but roamed the boulevards and alleyways
picking up gumwrappers and setting them down again.
We were relieved when Modern ice skating
was finally invented: the nuns glided in circles
for days on end, and this was the greatest blessing.
Behind City Hall salt was mined
under a powerful magnifying glass,
and each grain was tasted by someone
named Mildred until she became a stenographer
and moved away, and no one could read
her diacritical remarks, except the little devils.
For years Mildred sent cards at Christmas,
and then nothing, and no one said a thing.
The city was covered with mountains
which ran straight down the center,
and on the southern tip there were several
volcanoes which could erupt on demand.
Or so it was said, though no one demanded proof.
It was a sketchy little volcano of normal girth
where Dolly Madison hosted her parties
more often than I care to remember.
She served ice cream when she was coming.
She came early and stayed late, as they say,
until all the lights were off and the guests
had lost all hope of regaining their senses.
It is not certain if she possessed a cupcake at that time.
She might have had one in her cellar
as no one was allowed to penetrate her there.
And then the prairie dogs arrived
and caused incorrect pips to appear
on the radar screen, for which they became famous,
and which precipitated the rapid decline
of the Know Nothings-not a minute too soon.
In the days that followed children were always screaming.
You could set their hair on fire and, sure enough,
they’d start screaming.

 

James Tate’s last poem

‘Late last year, I saw John Ashbery give a reading at Pioneer House, in Brooklyn. At one point, he read a prose poem by James Tate, who died last summer. It was, Ashbery said, Tate’s final poem—so incontrovertibly final, in fact, that it had been discovered in the poet’s typewriter soon after his death. What Ashbery went on to read was terrific: as I recalled, it opened in a comic mode, riffing on all these bogus feats Tate claimed to have accomplished that year (hot-dog-eating contest winner, arm-wrestling contest winner, et cetera) and building to a quiet, rueful meditation on aging.

‘It seemed almost too perfect to have been plucked unedited from a typewriter, so much so that I wondered, in passing, if maybe it were a sly, prankish tribute. I knew, or I thought I remembered, that Ashbery and Tate had been close. “He has developed a homegrown variety of surrealism almost in his own backyard,” Ashbery had written of his friend in 1995—a variety in which we find “something very like the air we breathe, the unconscious mind erupting in one-on-one engagements with the life we all live, every day.” The poem Ashbery had read was so rich with those “eruptions” that I knew it had to be Tate’s.’ — Dan Piepenbring

 

 

James Tate @ The Academy of American Poets
James Tate @ Wikipedia
After Death, James Tate’s Poetry Continues To Delight
One of the True Geniuses of American Poetry, James Tate, Died Yesterday
Remembering James Tate
Remembering James Tate (1943-2015)
An Interview With Poet James Tate
James Tate: Finding the Ultimate in the Ordinary
A Hypertext Tribute to James Tate (1943–2015)

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** Jack Skelley, Gack. It’s quite possible. Oh, dude, I hope you artificially righted yourself enough to shine like the boss you are. How was it, if you can remember? An excess of peeps, okay, or, wait, not an excess, a deserving throng. Feel infinitely better. Love, me. ** Charalampos Tzanakis, Hi. Oh, gosh, I know nothing about jobs for English speakers here, sadly. It’s probably not so easy without connections? I’ve had a couple of English speaker friends here who taught English, but I think it was online with people in China or something. I strangely feel okay with a library discarding my book, although I shouldn’t be. Blue notebooks are nice. ** Dominik, Hi!! I have to be careful because distraction is my enemy. That’s why I’m so far behind on video games these days too. I get why people like ‘Succession’ via the few episodes I watched, but I was a little tired of it by the third one. Okay, no clock or watch, thanks. Me neither. I would like a clock though. Hence the post. There is a digital clock in my stove, but I have literally never looked to it for the time. Well, if I owned the Neverland clock that would mean I owned Neverland too, which I could sell and make a lot of money, so either it or maybe that bacon cooking clock, I don’t know why. Love making every school child in America memorise James Tate’s poem ‘Teaching the Ape to Write Poems’, G. ** A, Hello, A. Top of the alphabet to you. I’m good, super busy. Like I always seem to say, I’ll do my best re: the poster deadline. And I will (do my best). It’ll be a little easier for me to think and calculate after Monday because Zac and I are madly scrambling right now to get the film watchable enough to submit to a post-production grant deadline that day. You should contact Zac and/or me about the photographer. Stefan would be utterly useless in that circumstance. We currently have no post-production funds, so that’s where that’s at. Thanks! ** David Ehrenstein, Yes, RIP Julian Sands at long last. ** Kettering, Hi. I’m one of those lucky people who pop awake and plant my feet on the floor the very second my phone’s alarms starts its little cycle. But I know people for whom that head slapper clock would be a boon. Lovely ‘Skinamarink’-inspired riff. Thank you and kudos. I like the things you like about it. I pretty much liked everything about it. But it’s hard to separate my response from my general response caused by watching it in a multiplex in LA and being mind boggled that a film so thoroughly experimental got a big theater release. I was overwhelmed by that unexpectedness during my whole viewing and the hope it inspired in me. I’m good with sleep, maybe strangely, but yeah. The window over the power bar is practically barred shut now, no worries. And thank you for letting your imagination look out for me. ** _Black_Acrylic, Well, me too, of course. Everyone, Speaking of yesterday, maestro _Black_Acrylic was an editor of the great and much missed zine Yuck ‘n Yum, and they did a 24-hour sponsored viewing-inspired piece about Christian Marclay’s monumental video work ‘The Clock’, and here it is. ** Nasir, Hi. It’s a pretty liveable place. I’m in love with it. Thanks about the covers. I’ll pass your good words onto Joel who I’m still very in touch with. Ha ha, nice, the fucking with your watch. Have an even more lovely day than I will, which won’t be too hard, btw. ** Steve Erickson, Virtually every time I try watching one of these TV series people are so wild about, I think ‘What’s the big deal’. I heard you guys are smoked out again. Those are some fires up there. ** Bill, Thanks, Bill. I liked that one especially too. You know, I almost put that silly watch in the post, but I have a probably strange ennui about Monty Python that’s hard to get around. My fault entirely. ** Cody Goodnight, Hi, Cody. I’m alright. I like grandfather clocks too, actually. I should price them. I’ll look for ‘Whisper of the Heart’, thank you. Frank Perry is interesting in general. I did a post about him here ages ago. I should go restore it. I’m a giant Wes Anderson fan, and I’m desperate to have a few free hours to see it. Grr. Loverly next 24, man. ** Mark, Hi again. I think you’re very right about clocks. Oh, Lewis Mumford, I should do a him-related post. Wow, thank you and José about the zine. That’s crazy. Thank you! I’m in the middle of a massive crunch editing Zac Farley’s and my new film right now, and my brain is overfull with that, so I think I’ll have to choose a ChatGPT blurb as much as I’d prefer to get original for you. Uh, you prefer C? Okay, why not? That’s probably better than a ‘real’ blurb from me which would probably be effusive. So, yes, C, if you like. How can I see this zine? Wow, that’s so cool. Thanks! What’s happening in San Jose? How many times have you been to the Winchester Mystery House? ** Okay. Back when I was an aspiring writer and poet, James Tate was the first living poet whose work I fell totally in love with. He was a big influence on my stuff. Once in a while, I go back and indulge in his work, and I did recently, and you are now the beneficiaries (I hope) of that. See you tomorrow.