News from the Village
Yesterday I bought Dave Mason’s autobiographical “News from the Village.” I’ve read about 2/3rds of it. Its ok. Mostly it makes me hungry because its set in Greece. Two years ago by chance I visited the EXACT village he lived in for a year. This village was some 50 kilometres away from Kalamata. where THE OLIVES are from. so my sense memories make me want olives and candied octopus. sense memories of Greece aside, some sentences are really great, like these ones
“His biggest fault, from my point of view, was that he didn’t like living things, especially plants. On his return to Greece he built himself a cement pile over a sandy lot in Kalamata, and much of his waking energy was devoted to seeing that no living organism survived but himself. He wanted barrenness. He liked the clean lines of concrete, considering them more efficient, less troublesome than the clutter of life. He even kept his silver hair as short as possible without actually shaving his head.”
but, I have to admit, other sentences are just ridiculous. LIKE, HEY GIRLFRIEN, you’re not dead yet! and you’re not from the 18th century.
I love You David Mason, but perhaps you should stick to your iambic pentameter. because then your tonal elevation and awkwardly archaic sentence structuring does not seem elevated or awkward, just rhythmic and sonally perfect. THe best part of this is getting to peek into your life and fill in the gaps of my knowledge of you. because I am a nosey little fucker after all.
p.s. speaking of food,
Today I dug clams and then cooked them in white wine and their own juice and then ate them on rice crackers with goat cheese and wasabi sea weed.
Im in Bellingham right now. on the ocean. I bought Dave’s book because he is from Washington and a bookstore in Bellingham had a big old book display honoring him. I sucked it up and spent 20$ on a book I could get for free. but its the gesture that counts, right?
and I am reading Mason in his homeland whilst eating the foods of his people.
these people are not greek. these people are not bookish monks from the 18th century. these people are wasp-ass washintonians.
now that I have a job that pays me real $$$$ (17$/hour) I AM ALLOWING MYSELF TO SPEND TIME WRITING POETRY AGAIN.
(I stopped writing for a month because I decided I couldn’t justify the time spent on something so leisurely and indulgent until I found a way to support my habit. SO instead of writing I made a brain stew in my brain. TOmorrow I get to write all day!!! and my brain is so jammed up full of thoughts and reading material influences….I am hoping for greatness. or genius. or an ode to 22 year old idiocy and IN THIS ECONOMY.)