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A Tribute to: “Neil Hamburger Presents: A Tribute to Dora Hall”

When in the course of human events it becomes incumbent upon the people to recognize and, furthermore, to honor, deceased genius in whatsoever capacity and in whomsoever it had chosen to manifest itself, we should be extremely ignorant (and we shouldn’t be) not to call upon the services of another similarly gifted individual to preside over whatever bittersweet rites for that we can be assured their moldering object is the peacefuller (if hereafter forever unwitting).  This being the case, you can easily imagine how blithe I was when I heard that someone in the Cinefamily had the delicacy of taste and enough horse sense to get Neil Hamburger on the blower and beg him to rush to their home on Fairfax Avenue this past July 3 to host a belated tribute to one of the 20th century’s most beloved stars of the silver screen.

Tell me something.  Are you a drinker?  That is, do you like to drink?  Don’t be a fool, we all do.  And when you drink, you’re not just cupping at it with your hands like one of the lower animals that’s lucky enough to have hands.  No, of course you’re not.  You’re using a simple machine and I’ve already given you a hint as to what it’s called.  Give up?  Why, it’s a cup you wastrel.  Unless you like the taste of sweat and bodily oils, you probably use a cup every day and chances are, if you work or study in one of this proud nation’s many institutions, you’re using a Solo Cup, whose many lines of hardy, single use cups are depended upon by thirsty, hardworking men and women the world over.  Slurping down your sugared syrups and gas-inducing carbonics, you probably never even pause to think about the flesh and blood people and two people especially who sweated and strained and broke their backs just for the paltry cause of your refreshment as you belch away endlessly. Well, let me introduce them to you.  One of those people was Leo Hulseman, former Dixie Cup cup-wright turned genius designer of the revolutionary Solo Cup and founder of the multi-billion dollar enterprise of the same name.  The other was Dora Hall.

For every genius, there is a genius behind the genius.  That genius was Dora Hall.

“Gorgeous” Dolores Hall came of age in our nation’s finest hour, in the heart of the first great war and the “cando-ism” of that stalwart time left an indelible stamp upon her charming person.  This rosy-cheeked, corn-haired young dove from somewhere in the American midwest sang the kind of old-timey sentimental songs that could make you want to cry into your beer or raise up your voice and join in the general fun.  It wasn’t long before enterprising producers at the USO were whisking her away to exotic locales in Europe to entertain homesick troops with hot-to-trot song and dance numbers served up family style.  It also wasn’t long before she trotted into the heart of enterprising young cup-man Leo Hulseman, whereupon love put a lid on showbiz.  Soon they were married and before you could say “Minneola” her womb was rich with the first of what would be many young squires and squirettes.  With Leo busy with the nascent Solo empire, the task of remaining impregnated and raising children fell squarely on the shoulders of young Dora.  She accepted the grave and sacred responsibility with stoicism typical of her modest prairie upbringing, but under one condition.  Dora made her husband promise that once the fledglings had flown the coop, he would help her back to the stage where she might again share the brilliant lightness of her musical and dance routines with the entertainment hungry hoi polloi she had come to love so well.  Naturally, Leo consented like the gentleman he was and neither partner ever forgot the promise.

When at last the kids were packed away and the Solo Cup dream had become a reality, Dora drew against the check she and Leo had signed so long ago.  With more than “sufficient” funds, Dora was back in business.  Show business.

With the full faith and confidence of the Solo Cup company behind her, Dora got her groove back with a series of Solo financed LPs throughout the 1960s featuring a mixture of classic songs and mirth-inducing original sketch routines.  In a legendary bout of largesse these were provided to consumers at no additional cost along with purchases of Solo Cups products.  Having broken the sound barrier, Dora set her sights on celluloid and Leo was only too willing to oblige.  Throughout the next two decades, Dora scintillated viewers with a rich patina of entertainments from children’s programming, to gripping psychological drama to star-studded variety spectaculars—all offered free to the consumer either packaged with Solo products or delivered through the mail in exchange for proof of purchase. With a fan club numbering nearly 50,000, a full production studio in Solo subsidiary Premore inc. at her disposal, and no less than two awards of excellence from the film advisory board, this grandmother of 16 seemed poised to break into the big time even as she neared her 90th birthday.  Unfortunately, as the case so often is, fate had other plans and gentle Dora struck out solo before she truly struck out solo.

Thanks to the efforts of her legions of fans, the Cinefamily and world renowned entertainers such as Neil Hamburger, however, Dora’s name has not been lost to the ages.  At the very special July 3rd retrospective, on what would have been her one hundred and eleventh year on this Earth, the side-splitting class act Hamburger, waxed nostalgic as the curator of a heartfelt tribute to one of his heroes and a primary inspiration for his own brilliant brand of family-friendly, Borscht-belt broadsides. Like his tinsel-town godmother, Hall, Hamburger knows how to beat the blues without resorting to blue material, which made him the perfect pick to guide us through the sparkling legacy of the late comedienne, which he did with squeaky-clean humor and aplomb (along with his signature hacking cough and ever present old-fashioned), peppering the evening’s three heartwarming video presentations with personal anecdotes about growing up in the shadow of Dora along with a few trademark drolleries about the latest “stars” such as pop-idol Britney Spears and one particularly memorable dressing down of contemporary rock musician, Mick Jagger.

When the evening ended, there was nary a dry eye in the auditorium (this reviewer included), although that may have been the result of the hellacious issue that some disgusting nearby person was apparently incapable of suppressing until he or she exited the theater.  Therefore, I was not alone in my rage when, as the presentation concluded and Mr. Hamburger asked if anyone had any questions or comments regarding the material or Dora’s legacy, one drunken miscreant had the mendacity to suggest that the Solo Cup company had engineered the infamous “Two girls, One Cup” debacle of 2008 as some sort of sick publicity stunt, nor was I alone in raising my voice to chorus Hamburger’s emphatic recommendation to that same person to please, “CRAWL BACK INTO THE SEWER WHERE YOU LIVE!”

by Seth Blake
an Associate Editor for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts

Heidi Julavits and Vendela Vida Read at The Hammer

It’s an odd room, part press-conference, part funeral parlor; black cloth and bunting, concrete floors and folding chairs, entirely scentless.  The stage is set with a lectern and next to that, inexplicably stands a small end table, hosting a vase of what look to be artificial flowers. The word “HAMMER” is projected in flickering electric purple letters at the center of a spotlight along the left-hand wall. I like the effect.  If the Oxy had displayed this on a marquee outside the building, the place might have been full; full of pleasantly surprised people who had come in cruising for burgers and gotten soul food instead, by which I mean a quality reading.  As it were though, the turnout’s not bad—maybe two-and-a-half dozen.  Not wrestling numbers, but the show still kicks ass.

First up is a man, balding, bearded, hip.  He seems to be a museum guy.  He introduces the reading, haltingly.  He introduces the first reader, Vendela Vida.  He does it poorly, but with an endearing warmth and humor—stumbling through his copy as though he is astonished at what it says.  He seems to know Vida; his tone says “I’m sorry, Vida, I have to read this.” She forgives him.  She begins. An excerpt from her latest novel, her third, The Lovers.

Critics call her “a careful, clever, stylist of literary dread” and it’s true, too.  The excerpt is mannerly memoir. Mid-century American blue-bloods Yvonne and Peter, graduate from Stanford and escape to Paris, where, everyone is certain, their nuptials will begin to impend.  Yvonne is polite, discrete, maybe even a bit of prude, so when nothing happens, nothing happens.  Even for his day and social bearing, Peter seems cut from a nobler cloth; a chaste one.  As nothing continues to happen, Yvonne gets fed up. At last, one night she presents herself boldly before Peter’s hotel-room door wearing only her bathrobe and a determination to be interpolated as woman and wife.  What follows is a revelation that recalls Haynes’ Far From Heaven.  It isn’t that Peter isn’t interested in a woman like Yvonne—it’s that he’s not interested in a woman.  It’s a great moment, and a showcase for Vida’s talents as a storyteller—one who is capable of wringing sensuous detail out of a brisk pace, and a complex blend of humor and heartbreak from understatement and elision, the stock and trade of her prim heroine.  While Vida’s own subdued reading style took a while for me to warm up to, I was thoroughly converted by the time the excerpt ended with what seemed like another nod to the Hollywood of Douglas Sirk, with Yvonne meeting and falling in love with another man named Peter, her polite, proper tone complicated by newfound notes of burgeoning wisdom born of loss and trial, which upon reflection, Vida had subtly invited the listener to discover from the start.

From then on it’s singlets, singlets, singlets.

Again, the guy gets up and just bombs.  I’m starting to think it’s part of the show.  Again, the reader takes it remarkably well.  I’m going to say that Heidi Julavits kissed the guy, but I don’t know, maybe that didn’t happen—it would have been the right thing to do though, he looked like he needed a hug, at least.

Everybody loves Heidi right off the bat because of a thing she says about her name.  Actually, this is funny, the guy who introduces her sort of makes this half joke (like I’m doing now) about Julavits rhyming with a part of the human body and everyone sort of titters. Then Heidi gets up and says kids used to call her Heidi “Juicy-Tits” and this was doubly silly because they were calling her this when she was about nine and this was obviously not the case.  She completely over-explains the joke (like I’m doing now) which of course is a lot funnier than the joke itself or the suggestion of it and everybody dies and is with her instantly and immediately forgets the one thing that the poor MC thought he got right.  Now I’m certain they must have planned this. Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, she begins to read.

Track down “Multiples of Cohen.” If possible, track down Heidi Julavits and have her read “Multiples of Cohen.”  This is not to say that the piece doesn’t work as well on the page (I haven’t confirmed this, but I can’t imagine this is the case) only that it begs to be read aloud and with great aplomb.  The birth of a failed collaboration between the author and an unnamed visual artist who solicited Julavits to write a companion piece to an installation Julavits describes as “pretty, corpse-like visions of masculinity,” apparently featuring mens’ wrestling singlets in a prominent capacity, “Multiples of Cohen” is an absurd bildungsroman-in-brief about a cardiologist in aubergine pants who learns to overcome his effete, bourgeoise sensibilities with the help of a sweaty, overweight, singlet-wearing beefcake named Cohen.  Wielding cliché with as much self-conscious glee as the axiom-dispensing eponymous hero, Julavits inscribes a redemptively genuine appreciation over a familiar world in which all knowledge seems to teeter precipitously at the edge of irony and farce.  Though Cohen is in many ways a repulsive, cartoonish figure, described variously as “a mothball with legs full of overfed sperm,” smelling of “roast beef” or “off-gassed meat,” he is also the most charming, compelling and complex character in the lot.  It is Cohen who sweats, who jokes, makes inappropriate sexual overtures, cries unapologetically, and ultimately dies. Although a short story with a clear trajectory and tight-ending, “Multiples of Cohen” has that rare quality that is simultaneously able to move an audience and take pleasure in the often silly moves required to get us there. Julavits obviously delights in exhuming the “corpselike visions of masculinity” that star in “Multiples of Cohen,” and making them perform, but their dance is much more than a snarky invitation to laugh at their expense.  As another character, the nanny / narrative medicine acolyte, points out in one of the story’s more absurdly-poignant / poignantly-absurd moments “you are the curator of the suffering of others.” Which, I think suggests something to the effect of we can chose to gloat over the ruins of even something which has been demolished deservedly, or we can build something new out of it.

Vida and Julavits have clearly imbibed of their own medicine. Carving from the rump of nostalgias with pretty, glittering knives, they served up something hot, delicious and very nutritious under those burger-stand HAMMER lights.  Believe it.

by Seth Blake
Associate Editor for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts
who attended Heidi Julavits and Vendela Vida’s June 9th reading at The Hammer

SEE + HEAR + DO (5/3-5/10)

STEVE ERICKSON AT THE JAPAN SOCIETY IN NYC: SEEING STORIES: FICTION, MANGA & GRAPHIC NOVELS (5/03@76:30PM, NY)
East 47th St, New York, NY 10017
American and Japanese artists have been inspiring each other for decades. Tonight, authors Hideo Furukawa and Steve Erickson share their strong apocalyptic imaginations, and Roland Kelts, half-Japanese author of Japanamerica, will discuss the mutual influences in narrative visual art. Followed by a reception. Buy tickets online or call the Japan Society Box Office at (212) 715-1258, Mon– Fri 11AM–6PM, weekends 11AM–5PM. $12/$8 Japan Society members, seniors & students.

LARRY FLYNT + DAVID EISENBACH (5/04@ 7PM, LA)
Book Soup, 8818 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA 90069
The authors will discuss and sign their book One Nation Under Sex. Free.

CHICAGO DURUTTI SKOOL: WORKSHOP WITH THE NEXT OBJECTIVISTS (5/05@7PM, CHICAGO)
The Mess Hall, 6932 North Glenwood Ave, Chicago, IL 60626
A free, open-to-the-public poetry workshop dedicated to the study & reproduction of the outsidereal. Free.

THE POETRY OF GLOBAL CITIZENS (5/06@7:30PM)
Beyond Baroque, 681 Venice Blvd, Venice, CA 90291
Celebrate the launch of new works by Iranian-American poet and artist KATAYOON ZANDVAKILI in our upstairs Project Room. Readings to follow. Admission $7, students/ seniors/children $5, Free for members.

FREE COMIC BOOK DAY (5/07@ALL DAY)
Various Locations
Free Comic Book Day is a single day–the first Saturday in May each year–when participating comic book shops across North America and around the world give away comic books absolutely Free to anyone who comes into their stores.

MOTHER’S DAY FESTIVAL ON OLVERA STREET (5/8@ 10AM, LA)
Olvera Street, El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historic Site, Main St & Cesar E Chavez Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90012
Food, fun and celebration of moms. Free.

AN EVENING WITH LEONARD NIMOY (5/09@6PM, BOSTON)
Metcalf Hall, Boston University,  775 Commonwealth Ave, Boston, MA 02116
The pop-icon and Boston native discusses his life and multi-faceted career. $25 admission, Free to members of the Friends of the Libraries and the BU Community.

See + Hear + Do (4/27-5/02)

BEYOND MUSIC: VOICING THROUGH SAUSSURE – JACQUES DEMIERRE & VINCENT BARRAS (4/28@7:30PM, LA)
Beyond Baroque, 681 Venice Bl. Venice, CA 90291

Barras and Demierre present their intense and eccentric performance deconstructing Saussure’s linguistic structures in a mad tour de force of synchronic poésie sonore. $10/ $5 for seniors, students and UCLA faculty, Free for BB members.

BRENT CUNNINGHAM, BRANDY NALANI MCDOUGALL & CRAIG SANTOS PEREZ (4/30 Doors@7PM, LA)
The PRB @ The Public School, 951 Chung King Rd, Los Angeles, CA, 90012
Brent Cunningham is a writer, publisher and visual artist, Brandy Nālani McDougall and Craig Santos Perez: authors and scholars. Free with $5 suggested donation.

LOS ANGELES TIMES FESTIVAL OF BOOKS (4/30-5/1@10AM-6PM and 5PM on Sunday, LA)
University of Southern California, Exposition Blvd and S Figueroa St, Los Angeles, CA 90089.
Panel Discussions, Booksellers, All Things Literary, Food, and of Course, Black Clock! Free. Parking at the USC campus will be $10.

THE DEAD MILKMEN (4/30@7:30PM, CHICAGO)
Congress Theater, 2135 N Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL, 60647
“What Spinal Tap is to hair metal, Philly’s The Dead Milkmen was to punk music.” Their latest album, The King In Yellow, was released in March. $18-70.

Fast Music and a Bulbous Book

I don’t have any charts or figures, but I suspect that many Black Clock readers have at least some (if not fairly intimate) knowledge of the music of the late, great Frank Zappa and his occasional collaborator / rival / co-conspirator in eccentricity, the (very recently) late, also great, Don Van Vliet, aka “Captaison Beefheart.” For those of you who may not already be eating dough in a polyethylene bag, the Zappa / Beefheart body can be somewhat challenging. Hermeneutic, absurd, confrontational, scatological, highly technical and radically experimental—few composers, popular or otherwise, have measured so much of the sonic unknown, or so thrillingly enervated familiar musical forms from blues and bebop to punk and modern classical (to name only a few) with the kind of diabolical cunning that requires both natural talent and years of practice. Their music suggests (to the suggestible listener) a radical poetics of transgression–an insistent critique of the assumptions that attend formal categories of music in particular, but also art-making in general, as well as the values which structure its production and consumption.

So just what am I saying? I’m saying there’s a lot to these guys, and whether you’re a hungry freak just poised to dive into their old black water, or are even now– as your eyes scan the page—making tender love to a vampire with a monkey on your knee, you ought to read Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart and the Secret History of Maximalism by Michel Delville and Andrew Norris.

One of the most remarkable things about Delville and Norris’ book (expert exegeses of their challenging subjects aside) is the critical apparatus they assemble to contextualize the work of Zappa and Beefheart. Comprised of five chapters, each devoted to a salient motif in the iconoclasts’ considerable oeuvre, Delville and Norris’ readings exemplify immanent critique, illustrating the same playful abandon and intellectual elasticity in their analyses as was demonstrated by the musicians themselves. A chapter on commodity fetishism situates particularly Zappa in terms of Freud, Debord and Bataille and in the midst of a complex musico-literary conversation between (among many others) Gertrude Stein, Haryette Mullen, Erik Satie, and Arnold Schoenberg. Another explores the concept of the abject with Beefheart’s avant-blues as meditation on birth-trauma, situated at the crossroads of Julia Kristeva, Peggy Phelan, Samuel Beckett, Rousseau, and naturally, Robert Johnson. While at times, the net cast by the authors seems more like a few dozen homing missiles on wild trajectories according to their targets’ whimsy, the launch-pad is never quite out of sight. The picture may be teeming, but Delville and Norris’ framing of Zappa and Beefheart as contemporary progenitors of a kind of a “maximalism” in the tradition of Rabelais, Joyce and Pasolini, usefully focuses the discussion as well as presenting a compelling case for the authors’ own overflowing analyses. The maximalist work seems always as if it can only barely contain the ribald, primal exigencies of the body generating it, indeed, it is this primacy of the living body (both the flesh of producers / consumers and the “stuffs” of production, consumption, digestion, their urgency and constant interpenetration) which, according to Delville and Norris, defines maximalism.

Admittedly, this all probably sounds a bit nebulous, and while I doubt Zappa and Beefheart would begrudge me this, they would also undoubtedly demand the kind of rigor that Delville and Norris deliver. I highly recommend their work to any fans or curious readers interested in an excellent academic analysis of two giants of 20th century avant-garde music. In the meantime, listen up.

by Seth Blake
an Editorial Assistant for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts

Now That’s Good Copy

Probably, you don’t need me to tell you this but people are trying to sell you things. Take this morning, for example. As usual, I awoke to find myself at the kitchen table cradling a pot of coffee to my bosom, a burning sensation in my nose, throat and bosom. On the plate in front of me sat a naked banana. So far, this was acceptable. Suddenly, however, I happened to blink and whammo—there was the ad for Zoo Balls™ flickering away on the inside of my eyelids, the sound and the fury of its manic battle hymn ringing in my ears.

You remember Zoo Balls™—“What looks like an animal and bounces like a ball? Here come Zoo Balls™!” As advertisement copy, this simple call and response jingle is highly effective though it is neither rhymed nor particularly sexy. First, it gets your gears cranking with a playful interrogative. Indeed, what is it  (for an it it seems to be) that recalls an “animal” in its physical aspect (the mind is a ferment of swirling taxonomies: Bird? Beast? Reptile? Damn—it could be most anything!) and yet also may be said to “bounce(s) like a ball” (blood and steam pour from your ears)? Clearly, there is no sane answer but before you can realize this and forgive yourself for failing to reply immediately, you’re savaged by the seeming non-sequitur, “Here come Zoo Balls™!” The message is suddenly clear. Not only is there, in fact, a product that “looks like an animal and bounces like a ball” but it is not content waiting around for you, or anyone else. A chorus of hyper-caffeinated adults sing the jingle, children dance, whip Zoo Balls™ at one another, cuddle them, juggle them and shove them dangerously close to the camera lens. “Something is happening here and you don’t know what it is, do you?” Young and old alike; Zoo Balls™; no time; immediately!

Of course, the Zoo Balls™ commercial was hardly remarkable for its time. Anyone who cares to look back will remember the mid / late 1990s adscape as having a particularly feverish hyperrealist bent, with speed and hyperbole (visual and otherwise) being the stylistic elements most highly prized and frequently employed—saturated colors, truly unhinged voiceovers, manic montage, teeming frames, criminally catchy jingles. I remember Zoo Balls ™mostly because my father, who occasionally has trouble hearing, was once walking down the hall past the living room while the advertisement was blaring, when he paused, poked his head in and asked, “Did they just say, ‘what looks like an enema and bounces like a ball’?” Perhaps this was mere coincidence, but I often wonder just how much guile goes into ad production, especially in these times of comparative sublimity and subtlety. Could whoever designed the Zoo Balls™ ad have intended to make “animal” sound like “enema” as a secret seed of transcendent strangeness that would enable it to flower into a maddening, permanent distraction; endlessly recursive, fecund, fetid, unforgettable (unless perhaps you cough up and buy one)? What other agents are covertly traversing my brains even now, installing wires, practicing handshakes, learning my schedule, studying my habits, talking to my friends, sipping coffee, waiting? Yes, I fear they have long understood that even seeming disruptions in communicative efficacy can often be the most efficacious communicators.

But, I have an idea. I think we can disrupt their stratagems. They want us to never forget and in service to that cause they have erected seemingly absurd matrices of word, image, and sound whose elements have been specially calibrated to communicate only this; “pay attention.” In order to break their code, we need to study it, co-opt it, employ it against them to our own enlargement and their travail. We can re-enchant their language. We can make it ours again by doing what they have done better than they have done themselves. We can make it self-consciously, transcendentally, gloriously silly. We can rob their seemingly absurd matrices of their efficacy to promote purchasing by examining each element in isolation. In so doing, we can reveal the true absurdity of their cohabitation. We can turn their nonsense into non-sense. It’ll be a game. Like many of us, perhaps, I am not much of a poet but I know how to use scissors.

The field of play: This blog.
Materials: Remixed ad copy. For now, I shall work only with print copy. Babysteps. If the experiment is successful, I may move on to radio and television ad scripts.
Objectives: Identify what kind of product to which the remixed copy is referring.
Conditions for Victory: Correctly identify the type of product to which the remixed copy is referring / Incorrectly identify the type of product to which the remixed copy is referring / Amusement.
Conditions for Defeat: Surrender / Madness.
Proscriptions: N/A
Spoils: Satisfaction, baby!
Begin: Now.

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by Seth Blake
an Editorial Assistant for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts

Regrets, He Has a Few: Bruce Bauman on Anxiety, History + Fiction

Often funny, occasionally heartbreaking and always revelatory, Bruce Bauman puts deep character-driven narratives through their proverbial paces, playing with conventions of form, genre and conceptions of history. His writing, which runs the literary and journalistic gamut, has appeared in the L.A. Times, Salon, BOMB, Bookforum, numerous anthologies, and literary magazines, and has garnered Bauman the City of Los Angeles Award in Literature, the UNESCO/Aschberg Bursary in Literature, and grants from the Durfee Foundation and the Jewish Communal Fund, among others. The author of the novel And The Word Was–the story of physician Neil Downs, an expatriate New Yorker who travels to India following the dramatic death of his only son–is currently at work on his new book Broken Sleep, which will be published by Other Press. Bauman is also an adjunct professor in the CalArts MFA Writing Program and the Senior Editor of our very own Black Clock.

BLACK CLOCK: Much of your work seems to comment on history and time; individuals’ dynamic relationships with both their own pasts, others’ perceptions and the official record. I’m curious about what draws you to and informs your treatment of these complex subjects.

BRUCE BAUMAN: First, thanks for your compliments and your very thoughtful questions. They made me aware again why interviews are good for my ego but hard on my brain, which leads me to your question. My sentiment is the inverse of Piaf’s “I regret nothing”–I regret everything. I don’t think I’ve gone one day in my life without regretting something I’ve said or done. (I’m already wondering if I will regret this answer.) So, for that reason, and by extension, my characters are always haunted by their actions and their pasts.

I started writing a diary as a teenager. Aside from tedious whining about my failures with girls and in sports, I chronicled my nightmares/dreams. It was also a rant of teenaged angst and anger. Lennon’s song, “Gimme Some Truth”–pretty ironic coming from such a notorious myth-maker–that primal scream against all the bullshit really resonated with me and millions of others. I thought I could find truth. Now, I’m not even sure how to define truth. I don’t believe in any objective truth. There is always more mystery. Questions left unanswered.

Still, fiction became my road to truth. How to wade through our perceptions or deceptions is my challenge. All successful relationships are complicated in their own way. Often, they are based on unstated negotiations, compromises and social contracts. When these negotiations break down or our mythological selves are exposed, the relationships become uniquely unsuccessful and crisis hits. That’s a starting point for much if not all of my fiction. There’s a line in my novel-in-progress, Broken Sleep, that might be relevant here: One person’s version of history is another person’s version of an incomplete truth.

In Word, Sarah and Neil each tell the other a “lie” that they think will protect the other from major pain–which turns out to be a horrible course to take. Yet there are also secrets that each still holds that work to salvage their relationship and sanity. Castor’s death forces Neil to deal with his fractured relationship to god. The resolution he comes to surprised me and was not what I had in mind when I started the book. The characters took over. When the characters take over, in my experience that makes for the best fiction.

I’m obsessed with American History. Each country has its own version of history. I tried to address selective and reshaped historical memory in my character Levi Furstenblum’s Chambers of Commerce where the Holocaust is not a myth as much as reinterpreted such that Hitler wins the Nobel Peace Prize.

In Broken Sleep, each of the four narrators is living under at least one major false assumption about their past. All revelations are intertwined and their lives metamorphose as the story is propelled forward. There’s a line in the book which sums this up: “The past, present and future are fixed and ever recurring, inseparable and singular, ever-changing and never-changing, and always, always at once, dead and alive.”

And The Word Was is quite diverse stylistically. You have Neil’s first person narrative, which perhaps resembles a diary/travelogue, Levi’s writings, which range from the sci-fi/historiography of Chambers of Commerce, to Mystical Mistakes and his Unpublished Works which take the form of philosophical essays, plus a number of Biblical and Vedic stories and personal anecdotes related by various other characters. The pieces fit together beautifully, but at the same time they all have a great deal of vitality of their own. How did the novel develop as such and why this way?

Word developed over many years of false starts and trials and many, many errors. I had the idea of using multiple child sacrifice myths as the philosophical underpinning for the novel. Chambers of Commerce was originally a short story. When it hit me to combine the two–and Wham!–everything coalesced and the character of Levi Furstenblum came alive and his presence in the Neil story and as narrator in his own right and the book finally worked. The Mystical Mistakes and Unpublished Works sections were based on notes I’d been keeping for years. There is much in my work that is thought out and premeditated and there is a great deal more that comes from the well of my unconscious and I am thankful for that.

I’ve often said that Levi is much smarter than me; and I mean it.

I started writing Broken Sleep in the ’90s. It wasn’t right. I stopped until I felt ready to try again. Now I feel good about it. I have super-supportive editors at Other Press. Again, there’s a mix of genres: realism, speculative fiction, diary and for lack of a better phrase, traditional third-person.

There are many theories behind the book, but the bottom line is that the characters have to be compelling. Hate them or love them, I want the reader to be driven to turn the page. The phrase “page turner” has an unfairly pejorative connotation. I try to incorporate linguistic experiments, symbolism, subplots and challenges to the reader but it all has to be building to a climax/revelation. The term “literary fiction” doesn’t have to imply boring or “too difficult.” That’s anti-intelligence and anti-intellectual bullshit.

Who and what inspires you? Do you see yourself as responding to, modifying, or working within or against certain literary, social, or philosophical traditions in particular?

My influences cover a vast spectrum–from The Bible and Jack Kirby to the Marx Brothers and Fitzgerald to all sorts of music and art and that is featured prominently in Broken Sleep.

But if there’s one book that changed my life, it’s Kafka’s The Trial. I was 14 when I first read it. Not that I was that precocious–mostly I was reading sports books or trying to get my hands on a Playboy. I grew up in a working class part of Flushing, Queens. At that age I imagined myself one of the tough guys in The Wild One or like The Who because they were so violent and seemed so cool with the chaos. It was one highly delusional self-image. Riding a motorcycle has always scared the shit out of me.

I was kind of having a nervous breakdown. I’d gotten accepted to Stuyvesant and in an act of teenaged obstinacy, refused to go. The first semester of tenth grade, I mostly just sat in my room like a zombie. My parents made, what in retrospect I see was a major sacrifice, and took out loans for me to go to a private school in Manhattan. I’m not sure why I agreed. Some sense of self-preservation. It meant hours every fucking day on the subway so I read or fantasized– my great escape. I was reading about the Stones and Altamont and Alan Passaro, the Hell’s Angel who stabbed the guy who was going to shoot Jagger, and he mentioned his life was like The Trial. So, I bought it. I was 100% clueless as to who is this guy Kafka. The book was so bleak, so dark and so funny– that in some upside down way it gave me hope. I don’t claim I understood it then as I do now after so many readings (and with the insight of Maurice Blanchot and Erich Heller). Later I read Kakfa’s diaries, which I still carry around like my bible, and the last line he wrote is my mantra– “More than consolation is: You too have weapons.”

And The Word Was is a conscious homage/finger flip to the generation of Jewish writers like Roth, Bellow, Malamud, Potok. You can see that in the opening lines.

Primo Levi was also an influence.

Finally, my wife, Suzan Woodruff, a brilliant painter, inspires me. She really does become one with her paintings—and watching her work just knocks me out.

This concept of all successful relationships being based on often unspoken negotiations and social contract strikes me as being part of the essence of fiction. For example, writers and readers communicate closely, and even though their dialogue is silent and amorphous, they and the text change since a reader’s articulation of his response is a transformative act in itself. It seems to me that as creative non-fiction becomes increasingly popular (and it is, right?) and readers learn (or have the ability to learn, or think they are learning) more about the personal lives of the authors they read, that the relationship between authors, their work and readers is changing profoundly. I’m curious about how you feel about this, especially given the nightmarish tabloid saga in And The Word Was.

The reader and characters have to form a symbiotic relationship. If they don’t, the relationship is over by page 50, if not sooner.

I hope my feelings about the intrusiveness are clear from Word. The rise of creative nonfiction and “new media” encourages the idea that fiction is just disguised autobiography (my life is not that interesting), and has introduced a complicated writer-reader relationship with few boundaries. Even doing interviews gives me pause–not enough that I won’t do them. There’s a reason I’m not on Facebook–yet.

Your short piece, “Day Break – City Lights” seems to exemplify your interest in intertextuality and form–specifically film, whereas “The Necklace” integrates music and Kandinsky. Do you typically approach your stories from these more abstract, evocative sources, or begin with more concrete ideas and adorn them this way later?

I have no consistent plan. I started “Day Break” in ’98 when we were moving to L.A., a town where Peter Pan-like attitudes on time and youth are prevalent, and as a reaction to the blather about the fractured structure of Pulp Fiction. I wanted to write a story out of chronological order in the way films are shot out of chronological order and was also about movies. It also had roots in Heinrich Boll’s story “Murke’s Collected Silences.”

“The Necklace,” which is also a nod to de Maupassant, was inspired by an interview I saw with a Viet Nam vet about wearing “necklaces.” I’m a huge fan of Kandinsky and the way he created personal myths and symbolism, so the imagery from his apocalyptic paintings seeped into me.

You mention allowing the characters in And The Word Was to take over; I’m curious how you approach facilitating this. Do you feel that successful relationships between you and your characters require this kind of ambiguity?

I don’t have a systematic approach. I write and write and write. If the characters take over the story starts to tell itself and I keep going. If not, it gets tossed into the “I wish I were a tennis pro” bin with scores of others. And then, onto the next story.

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by Seth Blake
an Editorial Assistant for Black Clock and an MFA Writing candidate at CalArts

photography by Justin Kalman