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| Selected Scribble, May-June 2005 by mark 08/19/2005, 1:00pm PDT | ||||
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| [29 May 2005|07:03pm]
the last letter ever! & off i go January 10, 2005 Dear Admissions Committee, I write to recommend Russel Swensen for a place in your doctoral program. After a six-year acquaintance, I remain convinced that Russel has the potential to become one of the great writers of his generation—if he doesn’t spontaneously combust first. When Russel first turned up in my poetry workshop at the University of Utah, in the fall of 1998, I learned very quickly that I was dealing with someone uniquely talented and capable. At an age when most aspiring male poets are either penning rancid rock lyrics or beating their chests over Ginsberg, Russel he was immersed in the poetry of Charles Wright and C. D. Wright (her early work, at that). I was drawn, first, to his visceral and spatial conception of poetic form, which he owes no doubt to his training in the visual arts (he’s an amazingly gifted painter). But I found even more to admire in his restless intelligence, his complete trust in the irrational rightness of his own senses, the sheer capacity of his imagination. I have never, for example, heard him repeat the substance of a simile; they drop like coins still warm and bright from the mint, each from a completely different currency, from which one might reconstruct the economy of a lost or undiscovered civilization. I’ve been astonished me, also, by the ease with which he seems to get under the skin of another poet’s style, wear it for a while, and cast it aside, having absorbed those of its lessons that he finds worthwhile. I’ve followed his work through a series of these poetic ‘crushes’—most recently, I’m guessing, with Frank Stanford and Eminem—and the syntactic fluidity of his current work is, believe me, quite deliberate; he’s capable of turning out sentences as exquisite as anyone’s (his prose fiction a model of unpretentious exuberance). But Russel, to his credit, has never been particularly interested in chasing fashions, and what is good about his poetry is what is good about all great poetry: its commitment to pleasure and truth in the face of ugliness and despair. His poems face down all of the greater demons—despair, failure, illness, death—but refuse all of the easier consolations, reeling unpredictably from meditative elegy to the highest pitch of righteous indignation. At their best his poems rage with the ruthless precision of Jeremiah or William Blake—though there’s also more than a hint of Holden Caulfield, and I’d be happy to see him learn to put the brakes on his tendency to self-dramatize. Right now, he simply doesn’t know where or how to stop, or else he is so overcome by the urgency of speaking, that he’s actually afraid to. I wonder whether his stated desire to make ‘noisy’ language doesn’t stem from a sensitivity to beauty so painfully acute that he feels he must drown it out. As a reader of other people’s work, Russel is more incisive than generous, possessed of an unerring instinct, especially, for voice and character, homing in immediately on whatever seems false, forced or off-key. He’s one of the very few poets I trust with my own drafts, and his sense of the importance of the art, his wholly unironic faith in its mission, has been a source of constant inspiration to me. I am no longer his teacher, but I’m happy to have become his friend. Our friendship has not, however, been an easy one, and having spoken to his considerable gifts, I must offer a few reservations. Russel has a particular talent for provoking people; he can be extremely touchy, quick to take offense, and he is always ready to perform a certain amount of fierceness and bravado (one may pick up the flavor of this in his personal statement). I don’t wish to excuse or explain away any of this, beyond saying that growing up Mormon in Salt Lake City doesn’t offer any good model of masculinity for someone with his combination of intelligence, sensitivity and ambition. The substitute mask that Russel has made for himself can be hard to take. It is, however, entirely a performance, a Rimbaud enfant terrible act, though I honestly don’t think he realizes how badly he can behave sometimes (having been guilty of similar spectacles in the past, I have perhaps been more patient, more sympathetic, than others). I suspect he will do better in an environment where he is taken firmly in hand, where his dramatics may be tolerated but not indulged, or taken too seriously. There is, I suspect, much more to Russel’s misbehavior than mere immaturity or acting out; like many great writers, he has swallowed some huge and undigestible mass of anger and sadness, and he is sometimes made sick by that knowledge. It is my fervent hope that his passion for art, his sense of mission and vocation, will make a stronger claim on him than his quarrels with the world, and with himself. And I do believe that he deserves the chance, the space and time, to make that decision. Thank you for considering Russel’s application, and I would be happy to discuss this reference at greater length. Please don’t hesitate to contact me at ______ Sincerely yours, Craig Arnold [31 May 2005|12:35am] [mood | good times ] [music|the wrens- every year you wasted] Rachael emails me to say: "I really hate you. You think you are the only person in the world who?hurts, yelling at everyone to watch you bleed. go to hell. you were the?worst thing that ever happened to me. all my love for you is pure hate?now." [31 May 2005|12:45am] [mood|tired, want cigarette] [music|elliott smith- i better be quiet now] I didn't do anything, is the thing. [31 May 2005|01:06am] [mood|you left me] [music|the wrens- this boy's exhausted] What did you expect. the meaningless results are in [13 Jun 2005|09:29pm] [ mood | i can't write! apparently!] [ music | built to spill- kicked it in the sun ] You know what's sad? Given that I got the exact minimum for a passing score on both essays, it occurs to me that they simply couldn't read my writing (my EKG freehand) (like, AT ALL) but gave me the benefit of the doubt. BECAUSE WHO CAN'T READ A BLOOD SPLATTER PATTERN. Fun fact: you're not allowed to sharpen your pencils (teeth) once you begin the exam & the essays comes last. By which time I had nothing but blackened fingers to work with. The individual pages of my essays, b&w Monets of ships sailing away. But those essays were fucking dynamite! Gave them alphabet with fuses but alas. All they could see was the smoke (the sails). & so so so they ruined my scores!!!!! My near perfect scores! 282 out of 300. What kind of whore does that badly? Aw well. One who hadn't, at the time, slept in 48 hours. Stupid Ukranian bar! At hour five I began seeing spots. By hour ten I was asking if I could you know, join them... Test: LIBERAL ARTS AND SCIENCES TEST Status: Pass Total Score: 282 Minimum Passing Score: 220 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Number of Questions in Multiple-Choice Subareas Subarea Name Subarea Information 11 to 20 Scientific, Math., and Tech. Processes 300 11 to 20 Historical & Social Scientific Awareness 288 11 to 20 Artistic Expression and The Humanities 300 11 to 20 Communication and Research Skills 300 Constructed-Response Assignment Written Analysis and Expression 220 Test: ENGLISH Status: Pass Total Score: 264 Minimum Passing Score: 220 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Number of Questions in Multiple-Choice Subareas Subarea Name Subarea Information 11 to 20 Listening and Speaking 300 11 to 20 Writing 254 11 to 20 Reading 281 11 to 20 Fundamentals of Literature 266 11 to 20 Language and Literature 257 Constructed-Response Assignment Fundamentals of Literature 220 [23 Jun 2005|03:25am] [ mood | ache ] Of course you're worth waiting for. But why would you wait for me? The only good thing about me is that I love you. 2 comments [23 Jun 2005|10:32pm] [ mood | sigh ] Went to bar with Craig. Hated bar!!! Solution? Erase half the numbers in my phone! Then get in fight with Craig! [23 Jun 2005|10:32pm] Crying on Craig's balcony because I miss her so much I just want to throw myself off it. Solution? Threw myself off it!!! 1 comment [23 Jun 2005|10:33pm] I yelled at a lot of Italians this morning but it didn't make me feel any better. [23 Jun 2005|10:33pm] [mood|last 24 hrs, big time suck ] Which is not to mention being in court, running out of gas (then finding the nearest gas station CLOSED like BOARDED THE FUCK UP) & wandering down Redwood Road with nothing but my hangover to ward off the sun & the wicked wicked hobbits. [23 Jun 2005|10:36pm] But no matter how bad things have been (& surely will be) I won't give in to either weakness, despair, or cynicism (not to mention my personal nemesis absolutism. I may be a work in progress, but well then. Progress! I will teach Craig's son how to paint. I will learn how to cook. I will build a life that is worth sharing. I guess what I'm saying is: I miss you. besides [23 Jun 2005|10:44pm] Depression is just selfishness with better hair. I mean, I can cry because she's not here. Or I can try to do something for her. Like Crystal Meth! Errr...no.. wait... what?? To the post office batman! They have our meth!!! [24 Jun 2005|12:29am] [mood|mug the poet! mug him!!!! ] [music|elliott smith- everything means nothing to me ] Writing a long poem about me & Rachael. & a lot of it is sad. But I don't know. I want to put it behind me. Beautifully. A snippet: When I say I love you, my chest heats up Then the back of my legs & I think that something Terrible is happening or is about to only then Nothing just the slept in warmth of a dress You pick up the next day & do not put down For a long time Perhaps never. 11 comments [24 Jun 2005|12:34am] Fear my mad skills!!! Fear them!!!!! london talked me into it [24 Jun 2005|01:35am] [ mood | it's a rachael poem, b.i.o.n.] [ music | garbage- cherry lips] The car just a purple bit of metal violet wet with garbage & now out of gas just outside the hospital perhaps it Will run on saline you say we don’t laugh but our faces Hurt & the bruises on your arms are like amber Rocks that you once collected & then relinquished But the acquisition still here, for all to see, the sheen From adding this to this to this until we fall down Somewhere outside of Malibu, where it’s unclear Only it is not in Malibu there are almost no beer cans Goldening to the consistency of the snail’s shell only The sky & the heat the possibility that are you not here At all no matter how much I need you to be even like This even if only like this as the surf comes & comes As the surf comes & says nothing cruel no matter how Long you listen no matter how open we are to it shells Scattered across the sand that single black bra jeans dark As kelp soft as kelp your body the amber I’m collected in. 3 comments [24 Jun 2005|11:05am] Yesterday I have the usual GENIUS idea of sending Rachael flowers so like any work a day Scribble would, I began calling florists. In Florence. You see, dear reader, I was so hungover that I forgot I DON'T SPEAK ITALIAN. Brassy Italian girls speaking with great rapditity, if not patience, but see, not hanging up (they sounded like they were trying to sell me earrnigs). So I decided to switch to my own broken pidgeon (toed) Spanish. Which then the brass of the Italian girls sounded like it had been struck like a bell but otherwise HAD NO RESULT. At which point I picked up Craig's new book, as the manuscript was lying out, & began reading it aloud. At which point said girl hung up. I had to call Craig & tell him. Don't worry I consoled him. Those fucking wops know nothing about poetry!!! Nothing!!! Plus I did manage to order a dozen roses for the Rachael but since I can't get a hold of her I can only assume the worst. Stupid Italians! They probably ate the roses!!! They will show up with them on their breath & ask her to dance. FUCK YOUR FUCKING COUNTRY 1 comment [24 Jun 2005|12:10pm] I am a moron. I sent the flowers to her school. WHICH DOES NOT START UNTIL MONDAY. Not exactly the best use of a hundred dollars! But at least, the school must feel loved. On the plus side I just got off the phone with Rachael (finally!). & I kept thinking- I keep thinking- isn't it nice when a happy ending is just the beginning. [24 Jun 2005|08:37pm] [mood|helpless] My phonecard cuts out & I'm left there knowing how I've left her... without comfort without help without anything but my mute adoration. Which helps no one. |
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