Monday, March 5, 2012

I Am Loved, Finally

A bit of intreset.

Lately I've been kissed virtually by this 

Maybe it's no coincidence, David is hebrew as well as the German word leibster means beloved, not to mention I'm German by birth... either way this subterranean blog on underground-sub level art and such similar jazz has been nominated for a Liebster Blog Award by allaboulemon, whose blog is just as groovy as her gravatar pic is gorgeous. This was more then a shock as I thought the only people who read these were the ones I wrote about, at best; the chip tune artist, the mini-comic gurus, the small poet gatherers, the almost-tinsel house illustrators, and the silent cartoonist who after months finally agrees to allow me to put up some of his work.

So what's all this liebster jive about?

"It's given to bloggers who have less than 200 followers, all in the spirit of fostering new connections and to bring attention to blogs with less than 200 followers & pass the award on to 5 or more bloggers."

I'm superbly honored and thanks to allaboulemon!

The Rules, the rules, the rules in which I'm trying to follow are:
  1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them. (done)
  2. Reveal your top 5 picks  (or more)  for the award and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
  3. Post the award on your blog.
  4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the blogsphere – other bloggers.
  5. And, best of all – have fun and spread the karma.
Thus, my top five or more,


And now I bask in Karma!

Sunday, March 4, 2012

How I Want It To Be: The Surprising Adventures of David Scheier at AWP! 2012 (Part 4)

Saturday, March 3rd, oh weekly stained Saturday, best day of AWP.

By Dan Ivec

The book fair, free, one dollar, and half off publications, meeting editors, book bag overflowed with literature: Permafrost, Cave Wall, The Helix, The Little Book of Terror, Jabberwock Review, So To Speak, Poets and Writers, Tin House, Georgia Review, Beloit Fiction Journal, Nano Fiction, Cortoto, Gather Kindling (which I'm in), Wildlife, The Harvard Review, Rio Grande Review (which I am also in), Salamander, Blood Orange, and so many more, I got 'em.

A Reading with Mary Jo Band and Ed Roberson at 1:30-2:45... My notes are missing.

3:00-4:15 I move a deer through the halls of the Hilton, from elevator to ramp, past a piano mover and AWP-gawkers as they laugh. My stomach growling, the deer is of wood, his antler's fall off, my hands to rough on his wooden skull. He splits apart and finally we move him from the Hilton to SAIC were I part for coffee and the tale end of a the Lyric Essay: A Collapse of Forms or a Form of Collapse. My notes are missing.

Beauty Bar Reading.

Academy of American Poets Presents Nikky Finney and Lyn Hejinian at 8--

Story Week and Bath Spa Present Literary Rock and Roll 9-10 but really at 8:30 to 10 and bam!

AWP Public Reception and Dance Party again. And it's all midnight chit chat at Kitty O'sheas in the Hilton lobby with:
Janet Desualinar ....................  writer of  What You've Been Missing
Miranda Steffens ....................
Laurel Foglia .........................
Tona Stanley ......................... who's work was seen in the Exhibit: "And then a pause" at the Sullivan Galleries
                                                  December 10—February 18, 2012
Matt Mongelia ...................... this cats wildly out there, from writing to teaching to chiptunes:     

How I Want It To Be: The Surprising Adventures of David Scheier at AWP! 2012 (Part 3)

Friday March 2,

Woke up late, That Mitchell and Webb Sound in the kitchen, a morning screw driver, rum and coffee, vicodine, foot still hurting in waves, pain crashing against the shore of comfort. I'm missing Quo Anima: Women, Spirit, and Poetic Innovation, Storytelling in poetry, Why Time Matters, Literature and the internet 2012, Graywolf Press Reading, Women's Caucus, Home and Away--I'm home, I'm drinking and foot feeling better, while morning turns to noon, still missing, missing, missing Killer Verse, Jaimy Gordon and Rebecca Skloot, Music Writing, Bei Dao, Between Song and Story, between a conference and a kitchen, a writer and a pen--and empty glass and the end of The Necessity of Duende gets me on my aching feet, Letting the Demon to the Page. I'm so distant now with the morning boozing, my head slumps, chin to chest, eyes closed, that lovely feeling again and a Demon in every chair around me. Dan Ivec is here, a demon too, in disguise as a silent imp, shares a Handle Bar treat: the mighty Buffalo Seitan Wrap.  What is it that sticks to the tip of our tounge and finger, something in the crack of every neuron in our brains? Why does the duende tug at me. It's showing me something, I see him scurrying between the chairs and readers, and sitters, and tote bags, the fucking tote bags. He does back flips and screams out, everyone claps, I eat seitan sausage. Dan's eyes are black, this guy seems shifty and he plays invisible instruments in his head and sends them to me via telekinesis, this shit sounds crazy when you write it, but it's not, it's Duende. Can't recall if I bought him the fried pickles which are making me sick now and the demon show ends.

Dan melts into the whimper of the fading day. Miranda with me now or will be. It finally hits me as I find my self alone running past my lonely peers, how nice it is to have someone, a person who can share this with me, not just AWP, but the growth of a student and writer. My colleagues and their non-artist, non-writer bed mates, sharing only half of each others grapefruit of life. The married fiction writer alone drinking a PBR at the off site readings--wants to know whats next, the poet who's girlfriend does the facebook jive while his book release party kicks off in a ballroom, the floridian proser who's girl gave him more then enough free time, because when he worked on syntactical form on page, she worked tables for tips, and in a relationship free time is shared time, and finally the girl getting married who wants to wake herself up from the dream of marriage with many slop-slowed down to a turn around sort of kiss and accidentle fuck in the stairwell, maybe, or a San Franciscan strangers hotel room. Strange as it seems, I regret the morning boozing, forget the sick slung head to C.K. Williams' words, and the shaking fingers as I swirl lines on pages in evening hopes of finding sentences and meaning in them later. I won't. David, don't be an asshole today, and I have some more vegan sausage. Miranda is sitting away from me near the large windows that look out at sky and street. Williams traverses the maze in his brain for us: corridors, corners, -- My head hung back on the metal head rest, staring up at the whitest of white belly of a balcony. The poet narrows his words to a dead end, and his sense of being comes back to him, unbearable now I rise, bag and leftovers in one hand a journal in the other. Water is in my destiny as I look for Miranda in Williams' well lit cavern of hours, though dissipating and misplaced, but also subtracted by every head in here watching the man and mic on a stage. I find myself next to her, somehow Wait in my hands, sticky note of my name peeking out from the title page. Williams reads his sex poem instead of answers questions, it's something about a thing, that after the thing has happened, it's hard to get nothing when they did that thing and talk about it at the dinner table, things, something, nothings, driving through the night and wanted to get back. I was as confusing as I describe, yet not difficult to hear and so true since the focus on abstraction hits so close to how we talk. Williams gives me his autograph, which is one of many I've somehow aquired today, he flirts with his book signer helper and Miranda and I are off to the gatering of our strongest cohearts at the Denver -Chicago Continuum at the Sharp Building.

Sober now and having a go at all the complimentary fruits and candy I meditate while, reader after reader reads and reads my thoughts I think as my legs fold to the cold floor and eyes close until Ashley Brand reads. Here's the name dropping part: Bin Ramke, Christine Hume, Dan Beachy-Quick, Elizabeth Cross, Ashley Brand, Julie Doxsee, Danielle Dutton, Andrea Rexilius, and Jess Wigent. The hightlights, sound poems by Yogi writers, free blue berries, a sprite, and finally a chance to stretch my legs out on the gray concrete floor of 216 Sharpe Building.

The night ends as it should with a mistaken trip to a closed off reading only to return back to the Hilton in time to catch the end of the AWP Public Reception and Dance Party, were we run into Dan Ivec, Patty C, this new girl Nora who loves Blue Moon ice cream, and later Michael J. Rosenbaum (one of my favorite people and an awesome writer, check him out: just in time for a few drinks and catching up at some loop to loopy bar.

Friday, March 2, 2012

How I Want It To Be: The Surprising Adventures of David Scheier at AWP! 2012 (Part 2)

The reading game:

Ballroom filled with readers, twenty-five and a phantom. The vodka-RC and afternoon java are having at it in my gut, motovcocktail-acid-reflex. And the left foot, oh that stiff toed appendage who was always disagreed with me starts to do the, 'I'm broken and will not let you walk right' routine.' The Bespoke Adventure, readings by a titled picture menu goes without a failing twist, even with the modest phantom number 7, a surprise reader between 34 & 156. The gist was eclectic and all did rather well. My favorites, "A Dragon fly," that distorted voice, bus money, and iridescent residue. And then boom, all readers went away, I thought it would make me feel better, falling into a coffee coma and my girlfriend giving me the cold voice with a hint of nasty. I'm in ass-hole mode again. And I breath, breath, let the coffee win over liquor and I'm in the Hilton next.

The Panels/Reads:

Prose and Cons: Teaching Writing in Prison (3:00-4:15)
Miranda and I are in for 20 minutes. What are the roles in prison writing? was my only question, which I did bother to get answered. Downward eyed panelist discusses used books by Josef Williams on something he call sentence level. Sentences are like the depths of a pool--I'm making this up. Panelists' drink water as they read prison writings, a magician changes from white to pale blue, a boy distrusts his father. My heart is boiling, head set to sweat. Miranda asks if I want to leave. My eyes want to close but my body wants to move. Never mind her thinking, I'm anit-social, a bad boyfriend, a discussion only 20 minutes prior. How can we act so cool now, hearing prison talk? It took twenty minutes to get it, if we want to teach in prison, yeah sure, it's an option.

Page Meets Stage (3:00-4:15)
Another 20 spent not listening to slam poet after page-poet after, I don't know. Miranda likes how there's a woman in a leather jacket eating Pringle's three rows ahead of us, head laid back and bad poster poping chip after chip. Page poet reads or talks about grammar, lipstick--whoever that is--doesn't to you. Mir is hungry, we'll skip this reading too. This amount of java was to much for focus. I hear a guy out of the business of war, he wants a pearl, spoken with a long glide or is it sung into the vein of a love song? Fine, finer, we leave for Dunkin Doughnuts, it's that time in the week were I give into a non local vegan eatery in downtown Chicago. We run into Mary Cross who's going home to her birds. They understand me, all they want is food and water--they don't care about language. I sling my AWP tote bag on my shoulder, why do they chirp so much then, and she slaps my shoulders, smiles. You're so right, gosh darn-it, she walks off finger pointing in the air, you made my day, I'm going home. I'm getting another coffee.

A Reading & Conversation with Alice Notley (4:30-5:45)
We walk pass Hilton's Kitty O'Shea, what is that and why am I interested in it? We meet the Lovely Ashley Brandt, who's brought some chips, olives, and grapes for her AWP lunch. She found us by a walking chance, she reveals. Notley's reading is top shit, and why not run into a familiar face like Miranda and me. Alice, the reader, forgets her water and reads Culture One, her voice carries over from California, past a flood. We meet Marie, a dog named Toni(y), a rock star, and some terrible girls who find it to be not so much terrible as they are just girls, and the author who's voice comes from Paris hits Cali, and tunnels into Alice's body for this conference read. Her words reflect on normal culture, shes gravitating to a black sky above sea. My coffee seems to be in the hierarchy of men, she speaking now under large white chandeliers with beads caging in the lights. I'm thinking: Miranda gets all upset when I don't say hi to her when I see her talking to her friends--why don't I? I want to sit in a corner and draw. There's no culture anymore. Disorientation insists we let death eat us the way we eat rabbits, but I'm vegan. Why not ignore her, the lover, the reader? Marie's stomach, character in a poem, stomach filled with blood. I need a scape goat, we're finishing my coffee. Alice is the speaker of the dead, wants to talk for them. She tells us she's the ghoul poet. If it's okay, I'd like to join you and write for the dead, and I have another drink and the coffee is gone. Her poetic ghouls live off blood sacks, she's powerless, she tells us with her hand in the air, as though she holds a skull and becoming ancient before our very eye's. I am powerless and, yet, I'm here and so are all these people.

The Running and Run-ins:

Running dizzy on empty now, sustenance of words, we move like spirits through the halls and crowd of the Hotel. I want to make love somewhere here, in a stairwell and empty room, anywhere, but I should have some peanuts first or something. We run into my old Mentor Rosa Alcala, a page and voice-poet, standing in the fall of elevators and cradle of AWP-gawkers. We drink in the SAIC reception, private dinning room so small I'm squeezed between a bearded poet, a short haired mid-western damsel, and a few screwdrivers, driving us into a gathering of word mongers who take me by the hand to the next reading I won't be listening to uptown. Instead I'll send mixed messages to my friend Mike, tell him to come, no wait I'll come to him, no wait, my foot hurts, the night is gray with broken ice clouds, the weather is cold but not cold enough to get me walking, I'm not done with the Rolling Rock, I want to get lost again and find my way to a lovers bed and I do and I wake, and here I am about to do it all over again.

This time I have doodles.

Next stop Graywolf Press Reading or Home and Away: The influence of Travel Writing and the Palmer... or maybe the bookfair is in order. Regardless, I'm really looking forward to A Duende lecture at 3 and a convo with C.K. Williams. Bei Dao is here too.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

How I Want It To Be: The Surprising Adventures of David Scheier at AWP! 2012 (Part 1)

“Let’s keep it short, David old boy.”

Here starts yesterday through today until this very moment of fingers click-clacking away at The School of Art Institute at Chicago’s dean’s office, keys on a keyboard—
'cause that’s where I work.

The week and it’s happy end spin as fast as the inside of a Hilton elevator when you've just had a go at more than a few RCs', a Vodka with olive, and snuffs of nail polish, and some warm rum! I was invited to that prestigious Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference (AWP) which is currently going on. Though not an “underground” musing, nor subterranean, nor sexy, but full of money and belonging to those professional writers who drink you under the table when they get the chance, there’s only a handful of people at this hotel ridden event, most of which so spooned by the routine of AWP-gagging they forget to swallow that this is somewhat under the surface, two feet down. Thus starts a catalog of my curious adventures as they happen(ed). I’ll try to do some illustrations, as I like to do but never really do, and upload them.
Beginning a day in advance I tried outfits in anticipation to wear for AWP, the pink paisley button-up with boot cut pants, the black western style shirt with skin tight plaids, the gray sports coat and black v-neck combo, the blue poka-dot wrinkle free shirt, my fedora with the skull, my mock silk Chinese-style coat, the 70’s collar brown pleader jacket, only to realize now, I’ll probably wear the same torn Express jeans and black floral shirt I started with Monday.
Stocked up on Vodka and Rum (a better purchase than grocery money) and enough RC to play it cool while I take for granted my downtown studio for boozing instead of doodling. I missed my “volunteering” act, checking in the guests, passing out their tote bags, name tags, and conference literature for work and hoping I’d not be crossed off the list of no-shows. I met up with an ex professor, Sasha Pimentel, who thought I’d lost lots of weight, said I looked like a vampire when she knew me in El Paso,and met up with an old classmate, Michael. Along with my royal love Miranda, were we set off on yesterdays first event to see my old mentor, Rose Alcala, not read at Columbia College. Trying to get my friend John Wilmes to venture out with us, but rather he wanted to talk about missed connections and hating the AWP-loppers, only to lose him in the confusion of theatrics and poetry readings— 
We sat through an endless timid poet, then after a low voiced line-break junkie, all who have books published, lucky-Lucy's, mono-toning their verse away until we, bored with winter-poems, headed for the old MacLean Ball room where I’d not see my girlfriend read "All Those Violent Sweaters" (Written By Ruth Margraff), nor other friends which are listed respectfully:
John Rich and Cynthia Pelayo
Ben Clark and Colin Winnette
And others I don’t know and will never know, but instead ate star fruit and came down from my mellow buzz of vodka-cola. Still, what I saw, courtesy of Margraff, was spectacular: Red Frogs and Other Plays, "The Burlesque Flogging," where lips touched feather dusters -> touched nubs between legs on down parallel stage to gypsy sounds and Balcony of Two, mad man-fly bothering girl and food, sugar or flour poured form the balcony, star fruit on a plate, actors not on a stage, a man elegantly dressed on a balcony drinking from a ladle and bowl . . . We (Michael, Miranda and I) ended the night eating at pick-me up CafĂ©--vegan pizza, talking about writing-grad-school practice, drinking whiskey cider, Delirium Tremens, Kahlua (which is vegan and thank papa for that) Hot chocolate and crashing out in Lake View until now, 10:50 a.m., where I cover my lady-friend at work waiting for the next event and sipping on more vodka-cola.
I need to practice my piece. I’m reading today. Hope I can swap shirts before then and change the stink form underarm to under breath.

If you are reading this now at 10:55 a.m. and in Chicago you should check it out!
112 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL
In the Ball Room First Floor

My Poems Title:
Carl’s Solo at Quarters, Ruidoso 2009

And the first few lines:

He buys the band a round of Tequila, two for him,
Dances his way to a small stage, and borrows
A guitar. Memories of California taverns, the Viper room—

Other readers (oh, and did I mention art?) include:
Alexis Buryk
Jillian Schiavi
Miranda Steffens
Antona Stanley
Brenna Kishuck
Colin Winnette
Cory O’Brien
Tsehaye M. Hebert
Josh Gaines
Lesley Dixon
Lauren Martin
Noelle Rose
Rebekah Hall
Sarah Meyer
Deepak Unnikrishnan
Ben Clark

Thus concludes up-until-now! Stay tuned or tune out to me later . . . until then space cadets, this is David Scheier at AWP.