Posts tagged: poetry

Desolo Luna Vox Theatrum, fifth Mondays on KBOO

Richard A. Francis

Richard A. Francis

(I was devastated to learn of Richard Francis’ passing today.  Richard was one of the most generous, honest and caring people I have ever had the pleasure of working with, someone who cherished fun and was serious about love and harmony – although his taste in music strayed towards the dis-harmonic and his devotion to the avant-garde often seemed incongruous with his discipline and his attention to planning and detail.

Richard Francis had been a consummate champion of the KBOO community and his passing is a huge loss.

Back in the mid-Eighties, Richard and I at his invitation, and after he had allowed me to substitute for him on one occasion – collaborated on a pair of installments of his long-running program A Different Nature.  The first of these programs was devoted entirely to the music of John Cale, whom we both worshiped; Richard graciously arranged that we meet at his apartment – the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with books – where he prepared a pasta dinner, we discussed European literature and planned the show down to the second; he then loaned me the first three Cale-produced Nico albums which I had yet to hear.

The other program, Sleaze,” kidnapped a 5- or 6-hour late-night block of the program schedule in the service of  Richard’s idea – to make use of the hours that allowed for more racy material than he was usually allowed to play during his usual mid-evening slot.  I recall thinking that Richard’s idea of “blue” material was just as opaque as the balance of his obsessions – much of the “earotica” he saved for this program would have confused any would-be censors. At the two-thirds mark of the program we were getting pretty loopy and it was Richard who strove to keep us on track and focus on the programming rather than our inside jokes.

Ultimately I would settle in to my own program and we would each uphold our individual ends of the air.  At the time I chose to leave my gig behind, Richard was working harder than ever to guide station policy and unite its disparate factions.  I am humbled that after 15 years away I was welcomed back into Richard’s utopian vision of radioland, and I am grateful that we were able to collaborate a final time.

I am somewhat sad and quite disappointed that he was unable to hear this, but I am blessed to offer it as a memento.  This is one of three pieces that I promised Richard for what was to be the last show that he missed.  Throughout the production of these pieces during August 29-30, 2009 – and particularly of “Shaman,” with Richard’s almost unrecognizable voice affecting that of a tired, old man in my headphones – I hoped to make him proud of our collaboration.  It seems that its funereal mood was more than coincidence.  Love and farewell, Richard.  We will do our best to carry on without your warmth and enthusiasm. – Luke Lefler, September 6, 2009)

For ten leguminous years 90.7 FM KBOO Portland was the non-commercial, community radio home of Baron Landscape’s Broken Hours.  Every Sunday at midnight the Baron, bugler at the unprotected gates of dawn and raven-soft underjelly upon the fibrous circuitry, imprimpted his dubious brand of comedy and erstwhile music predications to-upon the greater metro polita, and it was a good run toward a seemingly predestined burn-out in the watershed year 1993.

It wasn’t until July of 2008 that Baron Landscape would endeavor to helm such radio as befit his high standards and return to KBOO with The Wreck of The Broken Landscape (see BLBH #12).  Around this same time we made the acquaintance of Rich Lindsay who informed us that long-time difficult-listening guru Richard Francis was mounting a 101-hour continuous celebration of Surrealism and Dada to overtake KBOO’s airwaves later that summer.

The shimmerling prospect of bloofing eepy radio m’bobs with other types enchanted us ferocious.  Therefore to those 101 diabolic hours, Broken Wounders houred up contributing over two-thirds of one hour – 23:23 of which was the monumental yet rarely-heard feral Boboist putrefaction The Herbed Brie Period By B. Blatherscape, Even (annoyingly unavailable for distribution due to licensing issues) (this situ hath been remedied – LL, 10/2016).

Creating the work for this festival was liberating, and the controversial (to some, anyway) celebration invigorated its many producers, Splice Finders included. Certain key individuals hoped subscreantly to re-air much of the material what had previomously come, and they additiomally desired a permanent place for us Surrealadadactyls to roam.

Thus clungterfly to the spatula joculaire and pursuant to radical reorganization of the KBOO evening program schedule, a place was farted unblong to traverse four hours from 8:00 pm to Midnight on every Monday that is the fifth Monday of a month.  It was crispened Desolo Luna Vox Theatrum, a name Richard explains he came up with “playing around with an English-Latin dictionary website.”  He says it means “Abandoned Moon Cry Theater.”

Presuming that which is abandoned to be either the Moon or its cry, we have Deicided to regularly contribute to the theater, taking our cues from Richard and his co-producer Sean Ongley.  The Anfangsgobs dieser Opfer d’oddio were broken spectales on a pair of Kurt Scwhitters pieces that met (we’re assured) with delight on the part of translator/interpreter Jack Zipes when they aired in June, 2009.

Material by Argentinian poet Oliverio Girondo was feted on the August 31, 2009 Theatrum, and – always down with a theme – Horas Quebradas spritely emboldened Richard’s performances of two pieces from Girondo’s Scarecrow with our prosaic “original music and additional production.”  Affixed hereto via the PowerPress is the elegiac “Shaman (version)” (Scarecrow #15), the choirs of bees and VSTs of which we’ve meddled with even a littly bit further since its air date, for the posterity “version” if one may – enjoy these minutos rotos lánguidos.

St. Johns Booksellers’ Market Day Poetry Series #5 with Tommy Gaffney, Ric Vrana and Astrid the Asteroid

Tommy Gaffney

Tommy Gaffney

“Such a sad day for all of us,” opined Tommy Gaffney, regarding the imminent departure of Astrid from Portland, in anticipation of which Splice Finders trundled down to his local St. Johns Booksellers to capture the August 15 installment of this weekly Market Day Poetry Series curated by Dan Raphael.  The series is running in conjunction with the recently-inaugurated St. Johns Farmers’ Market.

Despite this impending mutual loss, it was another good day for local poetry in North Portland, with Ric Vrana leading off this enjoyable noon event, and Tommy, holder of head thusly (as Ric lovingly points out), carrier of The Reading at Tony’s business cards, and with book for sale at the counter, working the middle innings.

Ric Vrana

Ric Vrana

A planner by trade, Ric comes prepared with “reserve” into which he must dip – in fact they’re all reading too fast, no doubt because this caffeine hour flies by in a room already full of words, augmented by supporters Patrick Bocarde, Mike G and David Matthews who’ve made the journey North from their close-to-the-city climes for this modest gathering – “No Subway in My City,” “Queens Return,” all of Ric’s pieces now graciously cyanotyped upon the blueprint of our market day commute. Tommy generously previews the blurry lucidity of his forthcoming Whiskey Days (Daze? – again, the surfeit of words) but it’s his “Larry The Cantankerous” and its iconic, yellow-tinged “abandoned glass of milk” that truly disturbs our diurnal Prussian blue reverie.

However it was the ephemeral Astrid, brandishing electronic keyboard – and the prospect of her mid-day performance under the fluorescence amidst cookbooks and pulp mysteries within distance magnifique de vibration – whose promised presence piqued les intrigues de ces heures cassées. Words, though, are only words, so to these words we’ve appended a recording of this happening.

Astrid the Asteroid

Astrid the Asteroid

While it is possible to fill any geographic realm with a plethora of words, it falls to the truly gifted to achieve a potent concentration of imagery, and in discussing same it is often best to enter the imagery itself into evidence: “Where has your electric eel gone?/ Grant me the right-of-way to private pockets/ Read me those crusty old stories with wide eyes/Opalescent women raise from the dead their intuition/With the desire to rupture the salad sea/Prance along as tiny mice living in the air.”  (Close enough for mass transit, anyway.) In a candid moment after the event Astrid enthused that this was a particularly good performance and that she was grateful that it had been recorded.  Would have been a shame to miss out; enjoy the podcast.

Nena

Nena

And here’s to more such events in the months to follow long after the farmers have brought the last of their bounty to the Plaza (N. Philadelphia at N. Lombard in St. Johns, Portland, Oregon).  Thanks to the performers, to Dan Raphael, and to Nena, the proprietor of St. Johns Booksellers.   The Market Day Poetry Series continues through September 26.

(This podcast is no longer available)

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #43

 

The Three Scrapettes

David Abel, Marko Whens, Tony Christy and Leo Daedalus

We love what we do at Show and Tell Gallery, and we ask for no more than a bit of attention paid to those whom we bring to the stage.  Melissa Sillitoe signs them up, Nikia Cummings spreads the word and I gruffly co-produce and capture things for posterity as best I can.

On May 4, 2009, The Three Scrapettes sont descendus parmi les vibreurs et le papier et les un bon nombre de mutant de cri avec des mots to bring us “2+2=3” – Sound Poetry and Paraperformance with a variety of “non-acts, sound poems, peripheral pieces, audience impersonations and wrong solutions” that paid back in full the efforts we expend to make Portland a more caffeinated and arty placebo.  They offermade up some biographicallistic fallacies: Marko Whens falsely proclaims to be the first poet to misspell (in? -ed.) every language.  Tony Christy‘s father was a scrap surgeon his mother a mitt mender.  Leo Daedalus imagines that the ideal expression of any particular art form would have to be realized in a different form.  David Abel studied with Massenet and Fauré at the Paris Conservatoire (1890-97), then lived uneventfully as a teacher and theorist.

Let loose in Three Friends Coffee House, the four of them made incomprehensible, joyous mayhem on indirect trajectories from Dada, Fluxus, Surrealism and Situationism. The Broken Hours Remix is all spoiled up by Splice Finders with his little with ACID Pro 7.0c thingly in his basement area with his stuff in there and everything, he likes to say.  Roughed out and rhyming, the RSS feed leads the sojourning data file hefty onto your portable sound charmer off the media Montserrat Internet Archives grabbing burny onto the twine shall occasionally meet:

Play

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #37

Josh Killiingsworth and K.C. Killingsworth

Josh Killiingsworth and K.C. Killingsworth

Here’s to the ongoing recherche pour le luxe des divertissements et des réalisations, Three Friends Mondays invited performance in the caffeinated confines loops its engorged growl of destiny, the Show and Tell Open Mic following in self-reference like a massage after a hot bath.  Came March 23 all chilly and wet Napolitan at the gates, the “Blind Dates” edition heralding a harmonious trio afterward espied engaged in small talk, so magical was the chemistry.  Phase One already brimming with a misty essence, a prompt on the command line, the reassuring Americana of KC Craine gathering our focus and we were in for an evening.  Second Phase volatility underway, perhaps some of the pieces shared by Josh Killingsworth lyrically dark, but his voice oh so sweet, the subtle fingerstyle of his dad (another K.C.) accompanying on guitar gorgeous.

Ashia

Ashia

Safety glasses on, proceed to Phase Three, phenomena surge, careful, careful, the amazing cello and voice and brave musical endeavor of Ashia, molecules colliding, periodic table in question, theorem k.o.’ed by post-science, we’re learning again, observations reign.

Goodness gracious for spacious skies does The Show and Tell Open Mic strain at its leash on occasion, begun so on-time that even Splice Finders was caught in a half-assed leap for for the record button by the time Christine Honitsu White had begun in another language reciting.  Welcomed we the comedy stylings of Mike G reading Starlite Motel, then could Steve Williams and Constance Hall stake the pre-warmed own turf.  Patrick Bocarde brought us our monstre poétique knees with material by Rick J and Melissa Sillitoe.  ‘Twas Wendra who told us that all her songs are long, and it was Myrrh Larsen whose songs, including the aching “Homesick” which ends Part 1 of the Open Mic, are all about our longing.

Starlite Motel

Starlite Motel

Starlite Motel dove into Mike G’s “Deep End (for Dennis McBride)” and tagged relay Rick J baton sideways poem “When Nothing Gets Bored,” a restless play of words also by Mike G, scatters Melissa Sillitoe’s “Ashes.”  After Chad MD shares a little poem, Judith Fay Pulman springs into a poem by Rick J.  Then it’s bonus panels, accommodating Wayne FlowerMichael lifting a Luke Lefler lyric, Wolfgang Reinhard, The Ambassador of Truth, Christian Kenseth and the new Three Friends Caffeinated Librarian, Mikey Golightly.

We’ll meet you at the “page” where we host the Three Friends Mondays: Caffienated Art podcast with good intention in our hearts, Wonderful, but you feeling the molten golden goose-flesh raised virtuoso upon hearing this fulsome audio feature you may wish then future clicks to save away, angled sense and hanging out iTunes in the dry of the tiger, though it collates unwell wethinks, and scruffy unrepentant links, this formula denotes:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435468

The Show and Tell Gallery Podcast #9

For the second of three Show and Tell Gallery Productions events in one week the featured art was feeling multi-sourced and the touchable performers were  familiar and reliable.  Not so mit podcrash inducer Splice Finders feeling a patch of blackness, perhaps due to driving around Show and Tell Gallery Towers for half-an-hour looking for a parking place to touch, or perhaps due to the touched feelings of the besotted gentleman whom Richard Schemmerer astutely escorted “to another gallery.”  More likely it was Splicey’s maniacal desire to employ both mono- and tri-podal digital capturing thingies that distracted him just long enough that he did not notice the flashing standby light feeling like being touched on the stoic Olympus LS-10 until the middle of Eric McEuen‘s set. 
touching1
We’re afraid that you’ll need to go back to the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #30 podcast to hear the one about the fish – that toe-tapping one about, ironically, disappointment – because the only part of his set that was captured consisted of Eric’s touching interpretations of, among others, Neil Diamond and The Beatles, and the Splicemeitser cannot afford even the few cents in heartfelt royalties that would be due those deserving songcrafters.

Feeling: A Touching Show was itself missing the work of Gary Aker, who was feeling a touch of the crud on March 5, 2009.   That left Patrick Bocarde, Brittany Baldwin and Rick J to flesh out the touching performance portion of the feeling presentation with spoken words, whilst the visual art by Rage Anders, Melissa Armstrong, Dave Benz, Brittle Star, Nicolas Hall, James Honzik, Chris Ives, Elizabeth Kuzmovich, Richard Schemmerer, Anna Todaro, Robin Urton and Cathie Joy Young remains tactilely available at the gallery through March, 2009 or monetarily yours at the sensualist shrine of your choosing indefinitely.  Attendees Wayne Flower, Michael Berton, Tom Mattox, Christian Kenseth, Benjamin Fisher, and Dan Tree and Emma (and Celestial Concubine, who touched down at the after chow) have all long since felt the sheets and touched the pillow.   The Show and Tell Gallery Podcast caress thine soft ears just there, no, there, yes, that’s the spot, and on the spong-iTunes-a-dermis subscribus so if you want to, and you feel like it, then it’s okay, you can touch its link:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435468

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #34

Christine Honitsu White

Christine Homitsu White

The premise is that we never know exactly what’s going to happen.  Safe enough.  However, Christine Homitsu White, host of the Blue Streak open mic poetry series, warned us that her stuff would go from “angry-sad to happier to neither/or,” so thus could we emit a littly sigh and ourselves prepare.  She proceeded to deliver a scathing indictment of February (“no guarantees”), and told us she was glad that it’s over.  And too soon she herself had progressed to the end of her sheaf of border-crossing billetes poetas.  Then Christine introduced her friend and local poetry legend, Doug Spangle, who said he had always wanted to read from the Three Friends Coffee House stage and proceeded to do so, emerging from the mythology lab, rinsing any trace of predictability off the green apples of  “Pers.doc” and “Perseus Pursuing,” two sections from his titanic series of poems about the Portland bridges.  Finally, music duo The Blair-Rich Project played a quartet of songs, de-sugared verses arranged for vocals, guitar and a drum, their power surprising us in our caffeinated harness.

brp

The Blair-Rich Project

So it came to pass, churned flagrant and displacing reason’s flies and the butter fat of the mansion that is the Show and Tell Open Mic, it all-too welcoming the curiously strong new month and surprises it may bring, eh what? (yeah, man!)  Briefly filling-in for Melissa Sillitoe, the mortal caffeinaut Luke Lefler (how he mumbles! did he say she was having her ants photographed?) would kick-stab the engraving which began with poco diablo Dennis McBride who in the coarse dew of time ushered Pat Vivian to the landing to relive “Friday Night at the Maytown Tavern.”  Warn’t takin’ out the trash no more Mike (not a miso) G (ynist) – Saint Dick – alone, stalked by more poems of love and doom and death from Ric Vrana.  The male chorus line continued with J. D. Deverest and Christian Kenseth (kept us in the dark) unto another end which also had not as yet been determined: part one of the Open Mic podcast.

lauren

Lauren

Part two of the posted parade heard all attent to toasting birthday boy Wayne Flower ghosting, and continued with the finery of connoisseur of melancholy Rick J, songwriter Lauren who’d never really read his poetry, Tobiah, “better known as the Ambassador of Truth,” that being the truth that’s “out there,” and Michael gifted his militantly rhythmic poetry its open mic debut.  Hung at the extremity Patrick Bocarde with more strange creatures and Chad MD not displaying his queue card.

michael

Michael

If you go away on a winter’s day then you might as well go to the “page” where we host the Three Friends Mondays: Caffienated Art podcast but, Fortunato, laying, please leave the Sun, because in the end, the pods you cast are equal to the pods to which you passed another brick in the wall of wonder that is whozits’ monstrous aggregation-purveyor known as iTunes, now with more tar and caffeine than the other pod pers.capita, as sure as links is links:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #33

Eileen Elliott, Toni Partington and Constance Hall

Eileen Elliott, Toni Partington and Constance Hall

In changing, difficult times we lode our mothers and cling to our static, and these broken weeks are nothing if not changing, and cultish if not diffident.  You are reading this attentively, and we are grateful and starved for commitment.  While nicht nähernd the steady and inexorable keel of a cult, the ongoing series Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art once again extended its thermal-fleeced fingerlimbs northward to the region known as Vancouver, U.S.A. – the ‘Couve,  the “Ghost Town” implicit in Christopher Luna‘s observant munchings.  And veri-fiberly the invitation was extended pro looma towards Toni Partington, published in VoiceCatcher 3, Cascade Journal, NW Women’s Journal and others (her work, that is – not the humble invite from Show and Tell Gallery Productions).  Toni coaxed poet and award-winning artist Eileen Elliott and published writer/editor Constance Hall to turn a dreary late Winter evening into something of warm flickering ink and essence. Dalla memoria, nel carattere, Constance Hall shared from a prose poem drawn on her Sicilian family roots.  Eileen Elliott presented several elaborate pieces of visual art each varied in tone and texture and words to elaborate further the tale.  Then Toni Partington approached the accumulating ears with offerings from her upcoming poetry book, For the Love of Agnes, and other of her material that concluded with a poem for three voices, performed for the first time, all three writers onstage, Constance’s husband Steve Williams on bell; it was swell.

crashandbettycrop

The Crash and Betty Show

Another two-parter, a garter-grabbing, rabble-arousing combination free speech festival and Spring training wake, the Show and Tell Open Mic always follows 3FM:CA and the mixed metaphors long afterwards.  After a brazen plug for Oregon Society of Artists we were treated to three poems (including the poignant and aptly-titled “In My Dreams”) from Mike G (fresh off his first sick day in six years).  Darest the parenthetical wouldst overtake, we enjoyed a coupla musical ditties from The Crash and Betty Show, followed by more spoken sword face-offs, the first part/round the Dan (Raphael) and Walt (Curtis, also number five-and-a-half) show.

Walt Curtis

Walt Curtis

Steve Williams rejoined the party with a Christmas poem and spotted the Stick Man.  Despite the bench-clearing brawl outside his flat Wayne Flower had just written “He Is Cruel,” whereas Chad MD had come to a realization and stepped up to the plate with “Honey,” and Christian Kenseth had dug out three poems and chose to share them after all.  End of Part One.  Simon Diamond shared a poem (“Return to Exile”) and an anti-poem (“Poets of a Technocratic Dreamcoat”) (in two parts) (yes, it’s often necessary).  Nathan Reynolds also delighted wtih a couple of new and adorable toss-offs.  Reinhard Wilhelm (Benjamin Fisher) imparted a dialectic dilemna “for everyone who calls themself a poet.”  Rick J commanded a uneasy quietude in the course of indeed being a poet, delivering three difficult pieces in the stillness.  Dwight Peters championed “A Merry Cause” and disturbing “Expressions of Joy (Paintings of 1,000 Different (Moans?),” and  purported rain boots stepped through the sharp distance tracing tears through “Sun, Salt, Sand and Time” with some guy’s rib (indeed there must be purpose in pain).  In extra innings, Garret Potter and “The Ambassador of Truth” (just a rectum his anger), off respective stints in the Texas farm system swing at the vacant space bubbles.  “There’s No Difference,” we’re told.  Viva le manque de différence!  Why did we stick around this late, then?

Oh, yeah, in order to record every at-bat for the podcast, naturally.  Watch out for the roadkill when you pass through here at the podcast home field advantage.  And peering over the DRM fence, waiting for one to fly out of the park, part and parcel of our spoken World Series, one of our biggest fans, iTunes chomps on a link, bun and relish the feed:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #32

silly rob childish

Rob Gray

Intensity, brilliance, contrast… yes, those are nouns, exceedingly important to this nounery that bloguets forth of the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art and other art purveyed by Show and Tell Gallery Productions.  How easy it should be then to employ such parties du discours superlatives in the service of these lines regarding the February 16, 2009 event.  But ease be forewarned that this reckless hope may choke reconcile upsetting and broken ever-be, which is fine with us – we’re up to the challenge.  And so forth were welcomed the multidisciplinary Rob Gray and the multi-discipled Jack Klatt and there was intensity, brilliance and contrast and so forth.  Glorious, riveting and superb are words that also flow from the recollections of their performances, captured for part one of the audio podcast by the drooling and productive Splice Finders.

National Poetry Slam legend has it that Rob was a member of the first ever Ventura Poetry Slam team to compete at the National Poetry Slam competition in Austin, Texas in 2006.  Taking chances and not holding back are noun-like phrases that might suffice as euphemisms for his singular and industrious trail, as he has been making music under the pseudonym silly rob childish for four years, so far releasing sixteen solo albums and EPs.  Start looking for them; maybe start with Artshole of which he is founder.  On a whim, in the pursuit of adventure, he’s in Portland now, and we’re thankful for his new coordinates.

Jack Klatt

Jack Klatt

Also just moved to Portland (from somewhere near the Elektra label circa 1969) Jack Klatt arrives  “steeped in a long tradition of Minneapolis folk music” – thank you for the head start, Twin Cities.  His delicate odes and haunting ballads stick to the walls like smoke and shadows, which are nouns, but they are no substitute for these songs, and these similies are really no match for sitting quietly and listening to Jack sing and play.  Or should we call him “howlin’ bobbi lee” to maintain editorial consistency?  We just want to hear another one.  We strongly encourage you to catch either Rob or Jack, preferably both, to consume what they’ve made and enjoy what they do.

Comes a time to change the agenda to the Show and Tell Open Mic and employ nouns of shorter and more varied character.  Melissa Sillitoe (who may have the pseudonym “silly toe curatish,” what if everyone had one? send us yours today!) and Joel Wegman performed Melissa’s drama-in-progress-within-a-drama-in-progress.  Mike G (“gimme da Mike nowish”) shared an early indicator of his talents, and more-than-proper-nouns Christian, Judith Fay Pulman, Michael Berton, Wayne Flower, Paul Evans, Dennis McBride and Benjamin Fisher joined the chorus line with indicators extemporadish julienned, and… and even yours unruly among other wordy speakers mic-ish, as well as guitary music makish Colin and Dylan.  We made so much noise that silly splice fiendish was obliged to split the pod atom in two, always something, often glorious, riveting and superb.

Thus the resulting three-part, two-hours-and-change (sorry, but it’s worthish every moment) is to be found here, alongside others that came before and those yet to come, to Portland, to the inviting and Three Friends Coffee House, the “arty three friendish” of the coffee houses where this stuff happens and sticks to the walls like shadows, like art, even like… intensity, brilliance, and contrast.  Checked it out now?  Still have Jack Klatt’s closing song in your head?  Us, too.

Similarly, there’s silli iTunes appish, where your i.d. sticks to the silicon like the proverbial binary in the gold mine just a-picking at this link, take a byte:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #27

Doug Marx

Doug Marx

Sometimes it takes just a little more time, no matter how determined to be on time one is.  When the time comes, I’ll spend more time discussing time but, for now, I haven’t got the time.  Here are the quick details, for the purpose at hand, regarding time:

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art happens every Monday from 7-8 p.m. at Three Friends Coffee House.  Immediately afterward there is an Open Mic that occurs for as long as it tends to occur – so far, it’s been about an hour, give or take.   The resulting performance quotient of the event generally occupies more than two hours of linear time, and thus we post the podcast in two parts, even though our tireless and timeless producer Splice Finders snips and frets over these hours upon the stage, removing as much deaf space as possible, making it more full of sound and fury, blessing it with every hope of signifying something.

This is not a simple, arty bypass, gotten dirt cheap, baby.  It’s because time requires space – file space, baby.  The average size of one hour of these 16-bit, 256 kbps, joint stereo, real-time (mostly) mp3 recordings is roughly 115MB.   That may mean a lot to you (or zero to your power of ten may equal nothing all), but when one accesses an 100+ meg file on the internet, one consumes a great deal of that which is called “bandwidth,” and depending on your connection-speed-thingy with the big web-deelie, it may not be worth your time to try to listen.  That contingency does not discourage us from giving you the best times of our time, graced freely and willingly by the artists who take the time out of their times to entertain and enlighten us.

“My brutal, weary-of-me-methinks Broken Ears, suffering,” our namescape Baron Landsake might say, “this is another one for the ages, the times are yearning, and just in time, timelessly, unto time eternal” came poets Sean Patrick Hill, Doug Marx, and Andy Budor at nearly the appointed hour on Monday, January 12, 2009.

“Andy is a transplant from Michigan and he,” says Andy, “is fascinated by Oregon’s landscape, flora and fauna.  Ancient philosophical Taoism and the expression of its principles by contemporary teachers currently influence his thinking and poetry.  He cooks and cleans for his wife who (sic) he chased across the country.  They are both owned and are being trained by two kittens.  He pays his taxes and mortgage so he can hide under the wisteria tree in his backyard and write poems.”

Doug’s poems have, once upon a time, Doug recalls, “been published in a variety of literary journals and magazines such as Willow Springs and Harper’s.  A chapbook, Sufficiency, was an Oregon Book Award finalist in Poetry. ”   Without question a master of timing, Doug regularly makes time with The Reverb Brothers, the “Eagle Time” band for Fridays from 5:30pm-7:30pm at the legendary White Eagle Saloon (836 N Russell St in Portland, OR).

Sean, meanwhile, all the while, admits to being “a travel writer, husband, soon-to-be-father and sometime-teacher in Portland, Oregon.  His poems are currently in Exquisite Corpse, elimae, Alba, diode, In Posse Review, Juked, Ditch and The Corduroy Mtn, and are forthcoming in Willow Springs, New York Quarterly, Copper Nickel, Apocryphal Text and Quarter After Eight.”  Whew!  We guess Sean’s gotta write, and it also seems he’s gotta right to waltz into the Three Friends Coffee House, that paramonger of perk on Portland’s East side and the epicenter of Show and Tell ProductionsCaffienated Art series every Monday, and rip coffee a new asshole.  Cancer?  Hmm.  Please forgive us for not caring so much between refills.  All was made better by Sean and his well-chosen friends, and by the end of the transcendent “White River Junction” our lives had been spared, for an hour at least.  By then we were even re-thinking our penchant for the bitter brew.

But there is more time, and lots more coffee, and this time it’s the audience – our turners-out for the now-officially-monikered Show and Tell Open Mic.   Our “more time” is shared by, among others, Christine White, who turns off the phone at night, Joel, who was outside when Melissa was saying her stuff, and a Black-Sabbath-quoting Patrick Bocarde.  “I haven’t read in a long time or very many times,” insisted Dwight Peters but we suspect otherwise.  We know that  Mike G has read recently and very many times although he cautions that his writing “is about to move into a very dark and painful place.”  How will we be able to tell?  We’ve also listened to Rick J recently and frequently, yet he’s seldom seemed as rambunctiously surreal as he did that time.  Melissa Sillitoe wasn’t timing anybody but she chose to time herself, followed by Ara without an “S” or Sara without an “h” (we thought it was the latter) suffering from “about a six-month identity crisis.”  Troy left us with something thrown together “really quick,” and, now, finally Nathan, now, again.

Since you’re spending time here, you can the visit the podcast, which lives nearby on the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series page at brokenhours.net.  And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches toward your headphone jack waiting to be imported? Why, it’s only iTunes, which allows you to access the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series podcast!  Take these chains, please, starting with this link:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Art #26

It could’ve been the Craigslist promotion for the Open Mic on January 5, 2009, or maybe it was the ineluctable attraction of publisher-musician-poet Paul Evans, he of Redbird Studio and Alberta St. Small Press, but the dingly bell on the front door was a-dinglin’.  Those who came to see and hear Paul were treated to not one but two gorgeous and talented friends of Paul: 1) the warbling banshee Dina Rae, she of sunshine, of obviously superb mid-western stock, and of a vocal range that must be measured using the same unit used to measure the distance from here to her voice’s planet of origin, and, 2) advancing unmasked from under a pink and orange Texas sky, the mega-romantic Dominique Garcia, she with guitar shielding heart, it of passion overflowing.

Cattle call or no, the ensuing Open Mic served up a dozen open-mikers, including the now comfortingly regular participants Rick J, Melissa Sillitoe, and a delightfully more-humbled-than-usual Mike G (for “girl crazy”).  To the stage ascended deep thinkers, wise believers, grieving MCs, a digeridoo and dinglies to match the door-dinglies anon; among other poets, Christian, he of sometimes feeling like a fucking chameleon,  Christine, she of Sinophilia and Mount Hood climbing, Wayne Flower, he of Boise originally, and of many a band (as I suspected), and the briefly but deeply missed Celestial Concubine, she of paying back the sacrificed hours of sleeptime, thank you, we trusted you all along.  Admittedly, the writing in this so-called “blog entry” doesn’t really cover it all, so (as soon as I find where I put it) I will include the visual aid that accompanies Nathan‘s poem about the cats that go ’round (and ’round).

Show and Tell Gallery Productions is so damn glad that the Open Mic event will continue on a weekly basis following the invited performance.   Be sdvised, all you shoe-top dinglers, bridge-builders, denizens of different-tempo chaos  – prestazione dall’invito every giant, steaming Monday under the taupe and tender rafters of Three Friends Coffee House from 7:00 to 8:00, followed by the Open Mic sign-up from 8:00 to 8:15.  At 8:15 the Open Mic (limited to sixteen slots – sixteen milk necks ripe for licking) will unfurl its pink-crested, cartoid heart.

If you ever miss that ringing in your ears, you will find the podcast on the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series page at brokenhours.net until it, too, is washed away by the ocean.  And, simply because it is the largest distributor of organized sound in the world, iTunes unwittingly allows you to access the Three Friends Mondays: Caffeinated Series podcast via sheer grace by using this link:

http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=295435461

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