1/30/2006
One writer's beginnings: KCBQ AM!
That's right, AM radio. I had a Craig transistor radio with a neat leather covering. Fold-out antenna. Very James Bond. It would be years until I found out that the hippies on FM were dropping LSD and playing hours and hours of bizarre free-form radio. No, KCBQ was the first crack in the impenetrable veneer of the big world, that place I peered at through bad eyes and a bad history. My friends had come from good neighborhoods. Not me. They had been born in the USA. Not me. They had happy families. Not me. They even had money, and many of them lived in two-story houses that scared me to death. Not me, not me.
I was always the last guy picked for basketball. I was picked after they picked Pete, the cadaverous madman with the laser stare who obsessed about Jimi Hendrix--Pete, who would shoot endless hoops and mutter, "Foxey lady!" and "Purple Haze!" in a loud monotone. I did OK with football games--I was probably next to last man picked, but they figured I was built like a tractor and could plow people under. I saved some dignity by gathering the dope fiends and the misfits and naming my football team "The Groundhogs" because there was no mud or filth we weren't afraid to dive through.
One refuge available to a lonesome punk-ass kid like me was radio. I suffered through the pop drivel on AM band. I barely survived "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" or "Up Up and Away!" in my byoodiful my byoodiful balloooooon! No, I waited for the afternoon to come, when the wickedly hip voice of Jimmy Rabbit took over.
The Rabbit! I knew he was my best friend. How could the jocks and the beautiful people get the better of me when The Rabbit was my pal? He of the smoker's voice and the manly laugh! He, who secretly read my mind, and played what we both knew was great music: Jimmy Rabbit loved The Electric Prunes, I was certain! Jimmy Rabbit had too much to dream last night! Forget Bread or whatever wan California girl balladress was warbling for most of the day--The Rabbit was hankering to hear Cream, The Who, Spirit, The Chambers Brothers, or the LONG VERSION of "Ina-Gadda-Da-Vida" just like me.
Back in my ghetto days, when I was the lost boy at 3935 National Avenue, I used to listen to Wolfman Jack. Oh my God in Heaven--the Wolfman scared me to death. I knew he was a skinny black man, blind, locked in a cinderblock radio station in some abandoned midnight desert, and his studio was surrounded by howling wolves and coyotes. And he played James Brown and the Wicked Pickett! He might have been dead, too, and possessed by a juju spirit. And where he was was not in color, but in black and white. Lit by a single harsh bulb. All I could do was hide under my blankets at night and thank the Lord I had survived that.
But Jimmy Rabbit was my pal, and he delivered me unto the shores of cool. I still remember him doing the Magic Bus giveaway--call when you hear the Who and win the magic bus! Something like that. In my innocence, I believed the Rabbit was so powerful, he had stolen or bought the bus from the Who himself.
He was a rebel with hot tunes. He was imparting secrets to me that the girls I was getting to know hadn't heard yet. He was teaching me the lyrics to "Sunshine of Your Love" and "I Can See for Miles." These lyrics were paving stones. The songs and the artists in the songs and The Rabiit's naughty semi-dangerous laugh were some kind of inititation and vindication. Because of Fever Tree, because of Love, because of Bob Dylan, I had these secret thoughts. I had something growing inside myself. Independence.
Thanks, Rabbit.
Wherever you are today, playing country music or soft jazz, sneak in an Electric Prunes song one time. There are other children with notebooks and pens waiting to hear there is hope. You taught me that it takes one simple thing to be cool, and that was to believe you were cool. You played the soundtrack of salvation.
I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles....
L
My New Favorite Town
That's right, AM radio. I had a Craig transistor radio with a neat leather covering. Fold-out antenna. Very James Bond. It would be years until I found out that the hippies on FM were dropping LSD and playing hours and hours of bizarre free-form radio. No, KCBQ was the first crack in the impenetrable veneer of the big world, that place I peered at through bad eyes and a bad history. My friends had come from good neighborhoods. Not me. They had been born in the USA. Not me. They had happy families. Not me. They even had money, and many of them lived in two-story houses that scared me to death. Not me, not me.
I was always the last guy picked for basketball. I was picked after they picked Pete, the cadaverous madman with the laser stare who obsessed about Jimi Hendrix--Pete, who would shoot endless hoops and mutter, "Foxey lady!" and "Purple Haze!" in a loud monotone. I did OK with football games--I was probably next to last man picked, but they figured I was built like a tractor and could plow people under. I saved some dignity by gathering the dope fiends and the misfits and naming my football team "The Groundhogs" because there was no mud or filth we weren't afraid to dive through.
One refuge available to a lonesome punk-ass kid like me was radio. I suffered through the pop drivel on AM band. I barely survived "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" or "Up Up and Away!" in my byoodiful my byoodiful balloooooon! No, I waited for the afternoon to come, when the wickedly hip voice of Jimmy Rabbit took over.
The Rabbit! I knew he was my best friend. How could the jocks and the beautiful people get the better of me when The Rabbit was my pal? He of the smoker's voice and the manly laugh! He, who secretly read my mind, and played what we both knew was great music: Jimmy Rabbit loved The Electric Prunes, I was certain! Jimmy Rabbit had too much to dream last night! Forget Bread or whatever wan California girl balladress was warbling for most of the day--The Rabbit was hankering to hear Cream, The Who, Spirit, The Chambers Brothers, or the LONG VERSION of "Ina-Gadda-Da-Vida" just like me.
Back in my ghetto days, when I was the lost boy at 3935 National Avenue, I used to listen to Wolfman Jack. Oh my God in Heaven--the Wolfman scared me to death. I knew he was a skinny black man, blind, locked in a cinderblock radio station in some abandoned midnight desert, and his studio was surrounded by howling wolves and coyotes. And he played James Brown and the Wicked Pickett! He might have been dead, too, and possessed by a juju spirit. And where he was was not in color, but in black and white. Lit by a single harsh bulb. All I could do was hide under my blankets at night and thank the Lord I had survived that.
But Jimmy Rabbit was my pal, and he delivered me unto the shores of cool. I still remember him doing the Magic Bus giveaway--call when you hear the Who and win the magic bus! Something like that. In my innocence, I believed the Rabbit was so powerful, he had stolen or bought the bus from the Who himself.
He was a rebel with hot tunes. He was imparting secrets to me that the girls I was getting to know hadn't heard yet. He was teaching me the lyrics to "Sunshine of Your Love" and "I Can See for Miles." These lyrics were paving stones. The songs and the artists in the songs and The Rabiit's naughty semi-dangerous laugh were some kind of inititation and vindication. Because of Fever Tree, because of Love, because of Bob Dylan, I had these secret thoughts. I had something growing inside myself. Independence.
Thanks, Rabbit.
Wherever you are today, playing country music or soft jazz, sneak in an Electric Prunes song one time. There are other children with notebooks and pens waiting to hear there is hope. You taught me that it takes one simple thing to be cool, and that was to believe you were cool. You played the soundtrack of salvation.
I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles....
L
1/28/2006
Kankakee rocks! Way down south of Sweet Home Chicago, on the Kankakee River, is a town that has seen hard days. One of those towns they said could never come back from its troubles. Well, this week, I was invited down to the Kankakee library to talk about my books. Cinderella and I drove down there and got off the freeway and went out for endless country miles. They had warned us to watch out for deer and wild turkeys.
We expected the usual 25 nice retired ladies and some cookies in a creaky room with a banging heater.
When we got there, we found over 300 people in the shiny new library. And the mayor came out an gave me the key to the city! Now wait a minute--I have gone home to San Diego about 100 times, and nobody ever gave me the key to a washroom, much less the city! Nobody here in Naperville gave me a key! Nobody ever gave me a key! (The mayor of Austin once declared "Ray Gonzalez and Luis Urrea Day"...though Ray and I lost the certificates they gave us.)
Kankakee--I was overwhelmed by the kindness and the spirit of the town. I have my key right here. My kids think it's either A) like, totally awesome, or B) hilarious. They can't figure out which. I told the audience I was going to put it on a chain and wear it like some bling.
No matter what happens in life, it's nice to know that the good people of Kankakee, with their excellent library, their eternal river, their Frank Lloyd Wright houses, their surprisingly strong Mexican population, will take me in. I can always live in Kankakee!
Next time you're in Chi, go there and spend some money. Help them continue to work civic miracles. Tell 'em I sent you.
L
Everything That Rises
We expected the usual 25 nice retired ladies and some cookies in a creaky room with a banging heater.
When we got there, we found over 300 people in the shiny new library. And the mayor came out an gave me the key to the city! Now wait a minute--I have gone home to San Diego about 100 times, and nobody ever gave me the key to a washroom, much less the city! Nobody here in Naperville gave me a key! Nobody ever gave me a key! (The mayor of Austin once declared "Ray Gonzalez and Luis Urrea Day"...though Ray and I lost the certificates they gave us.)
Kankakee--I was overwhelmed by the kindness and the spirit of the town. I have my key right here. My kids think it's either A) like, totally awesome, or B) hilarious. They can't figure out which. I told the audience I was going to put it on a chain and wear it like some bling.
No matter what happens in life, it's nice to know that the good people of Kankakee, with their excellent library, their eternal river, their Frank Lloyd Wright houses, their surprisingly strong Mexican population, will take me in. I can always live in Kankakee!
Next time you're in Chi, go there and spend some money. Help them continue to work civic miracles. Tell 'em I sent you.
L
1/26/2006
"She said one day soon/ You and I will merge/ Everything that rises/ Must converge."
--Shriekback
I used to spend summers in the overwhelming heat and swoon of southern Sinaloa. I was often sick there. The tropical water got to me, and I ended up very ill during the summer of 1970. I had paratyphoid. Imagine it: 100% humidity, unbelievable heat, and me with high fevers. None of my relatives knew how sick I was. They thought I was a weak gringo. My dad had left for California and allowed me to stay behind, thinking it would make more of a man of me. Perhaps it did. My cousins taught me to drink and smoke and cuss and chase girls. We danced on second story rooftops in downpours. We swam in a river with alligators around us. No challenge was too great. And then I got sicker and sicker.
When I left Mazatlan, I was on a bus. I had an iguana in a shoebox. I was so sick I could not eat, and could barely stay awake. It was a 27 hour bus ride north. I vaguely remember a little boy sitting beside me, trying to get me to eat. I remember smelling the iguana, dead, and dropping the sad shoebox in a metal trash barrel in some desert bus stop. 200 miles outside of Tijuana, our bus broke down, and I caught a ride on another bus. I had to stand the whole way, and I was so far gone in my fever that I went into a trance.
When I got to the bus station in Tijuana, all I could do was crawl in the back seat of a cab and tell the driver where my family's house was. I was lucky he was honest. I was asleep.
He dropped me off. I was hours late. Nobody had any idea what had happened to me. Within a week, I was in the hospital, in sever dehydration and locked away in an infectious wing of the hospital. My mom had to wear a mask to see me.
I celebrated my 15th birthday when I got out. It's no wonder I was a little wild when I started high school shortly thereafter. The doctors had told me I'd missed dying by 36 hours. I had seen everyhting you could see that summer. What did I care about high school?
Back in Culiacan, I was so sick, I had seen all my junior high pals walking across the sky. Prudence came in my window and sat on my bed and talked to me. I still know what pants she was wearing.
My uncle owned the only radio station in Rosario, Sinaloa. He didn't like rock and roll. So he gave me a box full of all the 45's he didn't want to play. I sat in his big rocking chair, in my fever, with the shakes, and I listened to what at the time seemed like the lonesomest songs ever written. I can name them: the Byrds' version of Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tamourine Man." Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times." Simon and Garfunkle's "The Boxer." We had The Sons of Champlin and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
My cousin Irma didn't understad this music, and she didn't understand me, and she didn't understand what was wrong with me. But she knew I wanted to be a writer. And she gave me those days, sitting across from me, watching my face as I found whatever refuge I could in those songs.
I think she knew I was changing before here eyes. I was inside some strange cocoon. And something other was about to come out.
She is gone now, dead for ten years.
But I'm here, thinking about her, thinking about those fevered roots of what I learned to write. Thankful. Watching the words spread into the world.
The Spanish translation by her brother Enrique is done. I am revising it with joy. Writing to people in Rome, in New Delhi, in Israel. Could an angel have spoken to me? Could an angel have walked out of the sky on those fevered days and whispered my destiny to me?
Maybe the angel was Robert Plant. John Fogerty. Dylan. Maybe it was Prudence. Maybe she was Irma.
Everything that rises must converge.
Luigi
Hummingbird News
--Shriekback
I used to spend summers in the overwhelming heat and swoon of southern Sinaloa. I was often sick there. The tropical water got to me, and I ended up very ill during the summer of 1970. I had paratyphoid. Imagine it: 100% humidity, unbelievable heat, and me with high fevers. None of my relatives knew how sick I was. They thought I was a weak gringo. My dad had left for California and allowed me to stay behind, thinking it would make more of a man of me. Perhaps it did. My cousins taught me to drink and smoke and cuss and chase girls. We danced on second story rooftops in downpours. We swam in a river with alligators around us. No challenge was too great. And then I got sicker and sicker.
When I left Mazatlan, I was on a bus. I had an iguana in a shoebox. I was so sick I could not eat, and could barely stay awake. It was a 27 hour bus ride north. I vaguely remember a little boy sitting beside me, trying to get me to eat. I remember smelling the iguana, dead, and dropping the sad shoebox in a metal trash barrel in some desert bus stop. 200 miles outside of Tijuana, our bus broke down, and I caught a ride on another bus. I had to stand the whole way, and I was so far gone in my fever that I went into a trance.
When I got to the bus station in Tijuana, all I could do was crawl in the back seat of a cab and tell the driver where my family's house was. I was lucky he was honest. I was asleep.
He dropped me off. I was hours late. Nobody had any idea what had happened to me. Within a week, I was in the hospital, in sever dehydration and locked away in an infectious wing of the hospital. My mom had to wear a mask to see me.
I celebrated my 15th birthday when I got out. It's no wonder I was a little wild when I started high school shortly thereafter. The doctors had told me I'd missed dying by 36 hours. I had seen everyhting you could see that summer. What did I care about high school?
Back in Culiacan, I was so sick, I had seen all my junior high pals walking across the sky. Prudence came in my window and sat on my bed and talked to me. I still know what pants she was wearing.
My uncle owned the only radio station in Rosario, Sinaloa. He didn't like rock and roll. So he gave me a box full of all the 45's he didn't want to play. I sat in his big rocking chair, in my fever, with the shakes, and I listened to what at the time seemed like the lonesomest songs ever written. I can name them: the Byrds' version of Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tamourine Man." Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times." Simon and Garfunkle's "The Boxer." We had The Sons of Champlin and Creedence Clearwater Revival.
My cousin Irma didn't understad this music, and she didn't understand me, and she didn't understand what was wrong with me. But she knew I wanted to be a writer. And she gave me those days, sitting across from me, watching my face as I found whatever refuge I could in those songs.
I think she knew I was changing before here eyes. I was inside some strange cocoon. And something other was about to come out.
She is gone now, dead for ten years.
But I'm here, thinking about her, thinking about those fevered roots of what I learned to write. Thankful. Watching the words spread into the world.
The Spanish translation by her brother Enrique is done. I am revising it with joy. Writing to people in Rome, in New Delhi, in Israel. Could an angel have spoken to me? Could an angel have walked out of the sky on those fevered days and whispered my destiny to me?
Maybe the angel was Robert Plant. John Fogerty. Dylan. Maybe it was Prudence. Maybe she was Irma.
Everything that rises must converge.
Luigi
1/23/2006
I don't feel free to tell you Hummingbird readers everything yet, but watch this space. As soon as I sign the contracts, I will give you some very good movie news about Teresita.
A reader rcently told me she had Hummingbirditis. This infection causes her to lose sleep from re-reading the book. I was so happy about that. I loved those books that were so good you had to just read them again, right away. Did you have those in your lives? I had a bad case of The Stand-itis. Lonesome Dove-itis. The Monkeywrench Gang-itis. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek-itis. Blood Meridian-itis. On the Road-itis. Trout Fishing in America-itis. The Earthsea Trilogy-itis. Aztec-itis.
When I was a pup, I read Andre Norton books over and over. Her boy heroes were me, I thought. I was the brave young man with the talking wolverines who waged a guerilla war against the space ant-men! Seems silly now, but I wish I could get back to an innocent age of reading when a book honestly changed the world.
It's hard now for a book to make me laugh out loud, or cry. Certainly hard for a book to make me dream. Or to change the way I write or talk. I miss that.
Perhaps this is the job of writers--to make the books that do that for ourselves. And maybe we get lucky and take some of you there with us.
Snow. Cold. The bold little juncos are in my back yard, having a party with the sunflower seeds I put out.
L
My Friend Jack
A reader rcently told me she had Hummingbirditis. This infection causes her to lose sleep from re-reading the book. I was so happy about that. I loved those books that were so good you had to just read them again, right away. Did you have those in your lives? I had a bad case of The Stand-itis. Lonesome Dove-itis. The Monkeywrench Gang-itis. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek-itis. Blood Meridian-itis. On the Road-itis. Trout Fishing in America-itis. The Earthsea Trilogy-itis. Aztec-itis.
When I was a pup, I read Andre Norton books over and over. Her boy heroes were me, I thought. I was the brave young man with the talking wolverines who waged a guerilla war against the space ant-men! Seems silly now, but I wish I could get back to an innocent age of reading when a book honestly changed the world.
It's hard now for a book to make me laugh out loud, or cry. Certainly hard for a book to make me dream. Or to change the way I write or talk. I miss that.
Perhaps this is the job of writers--to make the books that do that for ourselves. And maybe we get lucky and take some of you there with us.
Snow. Cold. The bold little juncos are in my back yard, having a party with the sunflower seeds I put out.
L
1/18/2006
I have been urging you to check out my pal Lowry Pei's website--you writers will find good stuff there. Well, allow me to direct you to another friend's work. It's astounding and rich.
Everyone who has written me about Across the Wire, By the Lake of Sleeping Children, or The Devil's Highway, and all of you many correspondents who write to me about doing work on the border to help the poor, ought to look into this.
Years ago, I became friends with the photographer, John Leuders-Booth. He was teaching photography workshops at Harvard, and though my office was only a hundred yards or so from his studio, I never met him there. We met later, on some wild safaris into the Tijuana garbage dumps. John becamse close to the families living and working there, and he joined Pastor Von and his crew on journeys to the orphanages and prisons. All the time he was there, he was snapping pictures.
You might recognize his name from Across the Wire and By the Lake. Jack took the pictures that grace those books.
Well, now he has his collection together and published. It's called Inherit the Land. It's an astonishing coffee table book of b&w photos of that mysterious and apocalyptic region. You've never seen anything like it. And I was lucky enough to write the introduction.
Jack's book was voted as one of the year's best by American Photo magazine in their best of 2005 issue. If you're at all interested in the hidden life of the Mexican border, in my work, or in amazing documentary photography, you ought to get this book. It's well worth the price.
I have to go speak to teachers today. I'm wearing a black shirt and black tie--I must be channeling Johnny Cash.
XXX, L
International Man of Mystery
Everyone who has written me about Across the Wire, By the Lake of Sleeping Children, or The Devil's Highway, and all of you many correspondents who write to me about doing work on the border to help the poor, ought to look into this.
Years ago, I became friends with the photographer, John Leuders-Booth. He was teaching photography workshops at Harvard, and though my office was only a hundred yards or so from his studio, I never met him there. We met later, on some wild safaris into the Tijuana garbage dumps. John becamse close to the families living and working there, and he joined Pastor Von and his crew on journeys to the orphanages and prisons. All the time he was there, he was snapping pictures.
You might recognize his name from Across the Wire and By the Lake. Jack took the pictures that grace those books.
Well, now he has his collection together and published. It's called Inherit the Land. It's an astonishing coffee table book of b&w photos of that mysterious and apocalyptic region. You've never seen anything like it. And I was lucky enough to write the introduction.
Jack's book was voted as one of the year's best by American Photo magazine in their best of 2005 issue. If you're at all interested in the hidden life of the Mexican border, in my work, or in amazing documentary photography, you ought to get this book. It's well worth the price.
I have to go speak to teachers today. I'm wearing a black shirt and black tie--I must be channeling Johnny Cash.
XXX, L
1/11/2006
Remember to check out my pal Lowry's new website if you like good writing and good thinking about writing: lowrypei.com.
Just a few days ago, I was telling you that Little, Brown was shipping the International Edition of Hummingbird to the world. After I wrote that, I thought, Gee--that's pretentious-sounding. Almost immediately, however, I got a kind e-mail from India. This is like magic, this whole thing. Within a week of my seeing my first lil' "int. ed.", it got to New Delhi, went on sale, was bought and read, and I got a letter back. Doesn't that seem incredible? I can't quite get my head around it--how fast the world is now. And how, if you had found me in San Diego in 1982 and told me this would happen, I would have probably laughed in your face. Or fallen over in shock and jerked like a fish. It feels good to know that my words are traveling farther than I ever will.
Just a note to say...what, exactly? I don't know what I'm saying. Perhaps this: thanks.
L
They Fried Frey, and the beat goes on....
Just a few days ago, I was telling you that Little, Brown was shipping the International Edition of Hummingbird to the world. After I wrote that, I thought, Gee--that's pretentious-sounding. Almost immediately, however, I got a kind e-mail from India. This is like magic, this whole thing. Within a week of my seeing my first lil' "int. ed.", it got to New Delhi, went on sale, was bought and read, and I got a letter back. Doesn't that seem incredible? I can't quite get my head around it--how fast the world is now. And how, if you had found me in San Diego in 1982 and told me this would happen, I would have probably laughed in your face. Or fallen over in shock and jerked like a fish. It feels good to know that my words are traveling farther than I ever will.
Just a note to say...what, exactly? I don't know what I'm saying. Perhaps this: thanks.
L
1/09/2006
So James Frey got outed as a liar by thesmokinggun.com. Oprah is no doubt fuming, readers are pulling his "non-fiction" book off the shelves, addicts and alcoholics are feeling betrayed, guys who didn't get to #1 best-seller status are crowing, and creative writing students are saying Holy crap! You mean there are consequences for lying our asses off to make our stories seem more tragic, dramatic and COMMERCIAL!?!
This is going to be a touchstone of my semester-- here is what's wrong with non-fiction as a genre, kiddies: Bullshit. I say this as a card-carrying practitioner of the genre. Guilty as charged.
Today, Jack Kerouac's On the Road would be marketed as creative non-fiction, except the editors would want sex scenes between Sal and Dean and some semi-tragic pondering of childhood woes and possible sexual abuse. I once sat on a PhD committee where the faculty members suggested to the young memoirist to simply lie in the manuscript at hand to make it more interesting and "cohesive."
When I want to lie, I write fiction, damn it! Fiction is the lie that is more real than truth! Being a human, I can't help but get things wrong, massage reality so I look better, and misremember. I am full of vanity and weakness, just like everybody else. But I also consider it part of my spiritual discipline to tell the truth in words (have we spoken of Wen-Fu yet?) with as much bravery as I can muster. (I am a coward, I'll admit.)
I often have to tell my workshops, There is no extra credit for suffering. In the current confessional (or faux-confessional) mode that dominates our students' writings, appalling scenarios pile up like snow in Cicero. Dude--as soon as the writer finds out that the exquisitely detailed account of grand-dad's incestuous weenie-waggle in the furnace room during Thanksgiving 1989 totally blew the class away, all bets are off! Soon, you are workshopping the sorrow and the pity (the shock and awe) and not the writing. By the following week, grand-dad will not only have abused his kin, but will have been a drunk--and died in a truck wreck with a bus full of poor kids on their way to an amusement park. Followed by the revelation, at the next student's grand-dad's funeral, that the dog has cancer. You can't judge a book by its coverage of pain. How do you judge pain? Is Frey's pain, whatever it is, worse or better than Sylvia Plath's, or that guy who wrote "A Boy Called It" or whatever it's called? How about Gary Gilmore, or his victims? Plug in the Pain-O-Meter!
They fried Frey, that lying bastard. Still, if he wanted to be famous, he got it. Sort of. If he wanted a best-seller, he got it. If he wanted money, he got that, too. In all those ways, he comes out ahead. The future remains to be seen, and the book remains to be remaindered.
I consider it a great blessing to have subject matter outside of ourselves. Look. See. Kim Stafford calls for "eloquent listening."
Maybe if we weren't so busy blabbing ourselves into superstardom, we might hear the small voices of those who don't get heard, those who think they will fade away and never be remembered. The forgotten and ignored are often more interesting than we are. So I'm going to shut up.
PS check out my pal Lowry Pei's new website. If anybody taught me how to write, it must have been Pei. I think he taught me how to think, anyway. lowrypei.com.
Love 2 All--LAU
New Editions
This is going to be a touchstone of my semester-- here is what's wrong with non-fiction as a genre, kiddies: Bullshit. I say this as a card-carrying practitioner of the genre. Guilty as charged.
Today, Jack Kerouac's On the Road would be marketed as creative non-fiction, except the editors would want sex scenes between Sal and Dean and some semi-tragic pondering of childhood woes and possible sexual abuse. I once sat on a PhD committee where the faculty members suggested to the young memoirist to simply lie in the manuscript at hand to make it more interesting and "cohesive."
When I want to lie, I write fiction, damn it! Fiction is the lie that is more real than truth! Being a human, I can't help but get things wrong, massage reality so I look better, and misremember. I am full of vanity and weakness, just like everybody else. But I also consider it part of my spiritual discipline to tell the truth in words (have we spoken of Wen-Fu yet?) with as much bravery as I can muster. (I am a coward, I'll admit.)
I often have to tell my workshops, There is no extra credit for suffering. In the current confessional (or faux-confessional) mode that dominates our students' writings, appalling scenarios pile up like snow in Cicero. Dude--as soon as the writer finds out that the exquisitely detailed account of grand-dad's incestuous weenie-waggle in the furnace room during Thanksgiving 1989 totally blew the class away, all bets are off! Soon, you are workshopping the sorrow and the pity (the shock and awe) and not the writing. By the following week, grand-dad will not only have abused his kin, but will have been a drunk--and died in a truck wreck with a bus full of poor kids on their way to an amusement park. Followed by the revelation, at the next student's grand-dad's funeral, that the dog has cancer. You can't judge a book by its coverage of pain. How do you judge pain? Is Frey's pain, whatever it is, worse or better than Sylvia Plath's, or that guy who wrote "A Boy Called It" or whatever it's called? How about Gary Gilmore, or his victims? Plug in the Pain-O-Meter!
They fried Frey, that lying bastard. Still, if he wanted to be famous, he got it. Sort of. If he wanted a best-seller, he got it. If he wanted money, he got that, too. In all those ways, he comes out ahead. The future remains to be seen, and the book remains to be remaindered.
I consider it a great blessing to have subject matter outside of ourselves. Look. See. Kim Stafford calls for "eloquent listening."
Maybe if we weren't so busy blabbing ourselves into superstardom, we might hear the small voices of those who don't get heard, those who think they will fade away and never be remembered. The forgotten and ignored are often more interesting than we are. So I'm going to shut up.
PS check out my pal Lowry Pei's new website. If anybody taught me how to write, it must have been Pei. I think he taught me how to think, anyway. lowrypei.com.
Love 2 All--LAU
1/06/2006
The Fed Ex man just left. He dropped off a package from NYC--copies of the International Edition of Hummingbird. I've never had an International Edition of anything before. It's a gorgeous cover--if you're in England, Scotland, Canada, Ireland, Down Under or Asia, look for it!
Even handsomer is the trade paperback edition of Hummingbird for the USA. That will be released April 3. Uh, that's the same week as Da Vinci Code. Oh noooooooooooooooo!
We'll be posting the new covers here soon. Keep watching. Editions in French, German, Turkish and Hebrew are moving along, and the two Spanish versions are percolating. The Mexican vesrion (as opposed to the Iberian version) is being done by my (and Teresita's) cousin, the Mexican ambassador, Enrique Hubbard Urrea. When he has his draft done, we will lock ourselves away for a week and wrangle with the manuscript. He says parts of the translation have been "about as easy as giving birth to watermelons." But the book is written with Sinaloan Spanish in mind--he's much more an expert in the "sound" of Sinaloa than I, since he's a native son and I'm a border rat.
Also working on my poems again. (See below.) I hope to put my long-postponed book of poems out to market this year.
What are you reading? I tend to tackle a couple of books at a time. This month:
Greg Iles, THE FOOTPRINTS OF GOD;
Marshall Terrill, STEVE McQUEEN: PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN REBEL;
Ted Kooser, WINTER MORNING WALKS (for about the fourth time);
Rilke, THE BOOK OF HOURS;
Anthony de Mello, THE WAY TO LOVE;
Michael Poage, GOD WON'T OVERLOOK US.
Stoking the furnace--trying to build up to literary cruising speed for Hummingbird II.
Love,L
PS--still sending out Teresita cards; four went out this week.
Today's Trivia
Even handsomer is the trade paperback edition of Hummingbird for the USA. That will be released April 3. Uh, that's the same week as Da Vinci Code. Oh noooooooooooooooo!
We'll be posting the new covers here soon. Keep watching. Editions in French, German, Turkish and Hebrew are moving along, and the two Spanish versions are percolating. The Mexican vesrion (as opposed to the Iberian version) is being done by my (and Teresita's) cousin, the Mexican ambassador, Enrique Hubbard Urrea. When he has his draft done, we will lock ourselves away for a week and wrangle with the manuscript. He says parts of the translation have been "about as easy as giving birth to watermelons." But the book is written with Sinaloan Spanish in mind--he's much more an expert in the "sound" of Sinaloa than I, since he's a native son and I'm a border rat.
Also working on my poems again. (See below.) I hope to put my long-postponed book of poems out to market this year.
What are you reading? I tend to tackle a couple of books at a time. This month:
Greg Iles, THE FOOTPRINTS OF GOD;
Marshall Terrill, STEVE McQUEEN: PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN REBEL;
Ted Kooser, WINTER MORNING WALKS (for about the fourth time);
Rilke, THE BOOK OF HOURS;
Anthony de Mello, THE WAY TO LOVE;
Michael Poage, GOD WON'T OVERLOOK US.
Stoking the furnace--trying to build up to literary cruising speed for Hummingbird II.
Love,L
PS--still sending out Teresita cards; four went out this week.
1/05/2006
OK, as promised, here goes some iPod trivia. I have been asked by a couple of readers what I listen to on my iPod. My poor iPod has a serious personality disorder. And I love reading those magazines you keep beside the toilet, with all those useless lists in them like The 10 Sexiest Norwegian Death Metal Drummers or The 50 Most Humiliating Public Intoxication Stories of 1977! So, for y'all pop culture victims like me, I'll give you a peek at my playlist.
The 50 Most Humiliating Public Confessions of What's on Luis Urrea's iPod!
A Limited Selection, but you'll get the idea:
Aerosmith, AFI, Akufen, Alice in Chains, All-American Rejects, Amboy Dukes, Amon Duul II, Laurie Anderson, Aphex Twin, Aterciopelados, The Atomic Bitchwax, Atomic Rooster, Audioslave, Basement Jaxx, The Beatles (duh), Beau Jocque and the Zydeco High Rollers, Beausoleil, Berlin, B-52's, Big Audio Dynamite, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Black Sabbath, Bloque, Blue Cheer, Bonzo Dog Band, David Bowie, Marc Broussard, James Brown, Dave Brubeck, Jack Bruce, Buckwheat Zydeco, Enrique Bunbury, Burning Water, Kate Bush, Butthole Surfers, Cafe Tacuba, Caifanes, John Campbell, Captain Beefheart, Calexico, The Call, Can, Jim Carroll, Johnny Cash, Catherine Wheel, Manu Chau, Cheap Trick, Chemical Brothers, The Clash, Patsy Cline, George Clinton, Leonard Cohen, The Commodors, Concrete Blonde, Alice Cooper, Elvis Costello, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Cream, Cuca, Deep Purple, Deaf Scool, Depeche Mode, Devo, Dire Straights, Donovan, The Doors, Lila Downs, Bob Dylan, Earth Wind and Fire, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Electric Prunes, Eminem, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Enanitos Verdes, The Exies, Fabulosos Cadillacs, Marianne Faithful, Fatboy Slim, Fever Tree, Fields of the Nephilim, Foo Fighters, The Four Tops, Aretha Franklin, Franz Ferdinand, Front 242, Funkadelic, Marvin Gaye, El Gran Silencio, Golden Earring, Gorillaz, Green Day, The Groundhogs, Guns'n'Roses, Hawkwind, Heart, Jimi Hendrix, Heroes del Silencio, Into Paradise, INXS, Iron Butterfly, Jade Warrior, The James Gang, Elton John, Joy Division, Juluka, Kid 606, The Killers, Killing Joke, King Crimson, King's X, Kings of Leon, Kinky, Kraftwerk, Lacuna Coil, Daniel Lanois, Latin Playboys, Le Orme, Led Zeppelin, Lving Colour, Los Lobos, Love, Love and Rockets, HP Lovecraft, Lena Lovitch, Lycia, Maldita Vecindad, Joni MItchell, Molotov, Moody Blues, Patrick Moraz, Motley Crue, Muse, Nazareth, The Nazz, Negativland, New Order, Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Nortec Collective, OD, Ohio Players, Oingo Boingo, Outkast, Ozric Tentacles, Parliament, A Perfect Circle, Tom Petty, Shawn Phillips, Robert Plant, Police, Porcupine Tree, Pretenders, Prick, Andy Prieboy, Primus, Prince, Propellerheads, Quatermass, Queen, Robert Randolph, Paul Revere and the Raiders, The Rolling Stones, Romeo Void, Roxy Music, Tom Russell, Santana, Joe Satriani, The Screaming Blue Messiahs, The Secret Machines, The Seeds, Joan Manuel Serrat, Shakira, Sidewinders, The Sisters of Mercy, Sly and the Family Stone, Soda Stereo, Sparks, Split Enz, Springsteen, Squirtgun, Steppenwolf, Talking Heads, The Temptations, 13th Floor Elevators, Tijuana No, Amon Tobin, T. Rex, Tribe, Type O Negative, U2, UFO, Steve Vai, Van Halen, The Verve, Junior Walker and the All-Stars, Wall of Voodoo, War, Kanye West, Chris Whitley, the Who, Stevie Wonder, The Yardbirds, Yello, Yes, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, Zydeco Force.
Oops. That's more than 50. But it's a selection of what's on there--got more to go! More more more! Got to get Amigos Invisibles and Babasonicos on there! Got to get Pink Floyd and Howlin Wolf and Sleepy LaBeef and The Iron City Houserockers and Gershwin and Respighi and Tangerine Dream and Professor Longhair on there! Got to get Dando Shaft and Roger Ruskin Spear and Gary Numan, and Spirit and El Tri and Touch and High Tide and Gravy Train and Grobschnitt and Neu and Muddy Waters and White Noise on there! WHAT ABOUT IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY??? Why am I wasting time making lists? I have work to do!
(I am sure you can recognize a stalling tactic when you see one...Hummingbird II? I don't have to get to work on Hummingbird II!)
Later, L
New Poem
The 50 Most Humiliating Public Confessions of What's on Luis Urrea's iPod!
A Limited Selection, but you'll get the idea:
Aerosmith, AFI, Akufen, Alice in Chains, All-American Rejects, Amboy Dukes, Amon Duul II, Laurie Anderson, Aphex Twin, Aterciopelados, The Atomic Bitchwax, Atomic Rooster, Audioslave, Basement Jaxx, The Beatles (duh), Beau Jocque and the Zydeco High Rollers, Beausoleil, Berlin, B-52's, Big Audio Dynamite, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Black Sabbath, Bloque, Blue Cheer, Bonzo Dog Band, David Bowie, Marc Broussard, James Brown, Dave Brubeck, Jack Bruce, Buckwheat Zydeco, Enrique Bunbury, Burning Water, Kate Bush, Butthole Surfers, Cafe Tacuba, Caifanes, John Campbell, Captain Beefheart, Calexico, The Call, Can, Jim Carroll, Johnny Cash, Catherine Wheel, Manu Chau, Cheap Trick, Chemical Brothers, The Clash, Patsy Cline, George Clinton, Leonard Cohen, The Commodors, Concrete Blonde, Alice Cooper, Elvis Costello, The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Cream, Cuca, Deep Purple, Deaf Scool, Depeche Mode, Devo, Dire Straights, Donovan, The Doors, Lila Downs, Bob Dylan, Earth Wind and Fire, Echo and the Bunnymen, The Electric Prunes, Eminem, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Enanitos Verdes, The Exies, Fabulosos Cadillacs, Marianne Faithful, Fatboy Slim, Fever Tree, Fields of the Nephilim, Foo Fighters, The Four Tops, Aretha Franklin, Franz Ferdinand, Front 242, Funkadelic, Marvin Gaye, El Gran Silencio, Golden Earring, Gorillaz, Green Day, The Groundhogs, Guns'n'Roses, Hawkwind, Heart, Jimi Hendrix, Heroes del Silencio, Into Paradise, INXS, Iron Butterfly, Jade Warrior, The James Gang, Elton John, Joy Division, Juluka, Kid 606, The Killers, Killing Joke, King Crimson, King's X, Kings of Leon, Kinky, Kraftwerk, Lacuna Coil, Daniel Lanois, Latin Playboys, Le Orme, Led Zeppelin, Lving Colour, Los Lobos, Love, Love and Rockets, HP Lovecraft, Lena Lovitch, Lycia, Maldita Vecindad, Joni MItchell, Molotov, Moody Blues, Patrick Moraz, Motley Crue, Muse, Nazareth, The Nazz, Negativland, New Order, Nine Inch Nails, Nirvana, Nortec Collective, OD, Ohio Players, Oingo Boingo, Outkast, Ozric Tentacles, Parliament, A Perfect Circle, Tom Petty, Shawn Phillips, Robert Plant, Police, Porcupine Tree, Pretenders, Prick, Andy Prieboy, Primus, Prince, Propellerheads, Quatermass, Queen, Robert Randolph, Paul Revere and the Raiders, The Rolling Stones, Romeo Void, Roxy Music, Tom Russell, Santana, Joe Satriani, The Screaming Blue Messiahs, The Secret Machines, The Seeds, Joan Manuel Serrat, Shakira, Sidewinders, The Sisters of Mercy, Sly and the Family Stone, Soda Stereo, Sparks, Split Enz, Springsteen, Squirtgun, Steppenwolf, Talking Heads, The Temptations, 13th Floor Elevators, Tijuana No, Amon Tobin, T. Rex, Tribe, Type O Negative, U2, UFO, Steve Vai, Van Halen, The Verve, Junior Walker and the All-Stars, Wall of Voodoo, War, Kanye West, Chris Whitley, the Who, Stevie Wonder, The Yardbirds, Yello, Yes, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, Zydeco Force.
Oops. That's more than 50. But it's a selection of what's on there--got more to go! More more more! Got to get Amigos Invisibles and Babasonicos on there! Got to get Pink Floyd and Howlin Wolf and Sleepy LaBeef and The Iron City Houserockers and Gershwin and Respighi and Tangerine Dream and Professor Longhair on there! Got to get Dando Shaft and Roger Ruskin Spear and Gary Numan, and Spirit and El Tri and Touch and High Tide and Gravy Train and Grobschnitt and Neu and Muddy Waters and White Noise on there! WHAT ABOUT IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY??? Why am I wasting time making lists? I have work to do!
(I am sure you can recognize a stalling tactic when you see one...Hummingbird II? I don't have to get to work on Hummingbird II!)
Later, L
1/04/2006
October River
In my 50th year, migrating north
I come to the bank of October River.
I don't want to cross, but
like a shorebird I am pulled
by the fatal magnet in my skull.
The other side looks bright:
ice mountains fade to white.
Too harsh, too vast, so chill. But
behind me all the prairie burns--
the path back south is walls of flame:
my childhood home is smoke, now falls
my church: explodes in embers. My books of poems,
my records, all those boxes. All my high school
loves--your letters, your apple-scent shampoos,
your underwear and lipstick kisses
your midnight secrets burned.
October's waters already cold. But
emerald light bends birch trees over
in swoon. Crows in willows nod in dusk's first glow.
Like every pilgrim gone before
who carved his name into this wood, I must drop my coat,
step into the tide. I swim.
My Life in Words, January 3, 2006
In my 50th year, migrating north
I come to the bank of October River.
I don't want to cross, but
like a shorebird I am pulled
by the fatal magnet in my skull.
The other side looks bright:
ice mountains fade to white.
Too harsh, too vast, so chill. But
behind me all the prairie burns--
the path back south is walls of flame:
my childhood home is smoke, now falls
my church: explodes in embers. My books of poems,
my records, all those boxes. All my high school
loves--your letters, your apple-scent shampoos,
your underwear and lipstick kisses
your midnight secrets burned.
October's waters already cold. But
emerald light bends birch trees over
in swoon. Crows in willows nod in dusk's first glow.
Like every pilgrim gone before
who carved his name into this wood, I must drop my coat,
step into the tide. I swim.
1/03/2006
Last night, the Giorgini brothers, Mass and Flav, drove up here from Indiana. Those punk rockers among you might recognize them as the core of the famous band, Squirtgun. They brought their guitars and went into the basement with Eric. It was one of the most gracious things I ever saw--these grizzled rock and roll vets jamming with our boy and teaching him, on the spot, how to write and arrange a pop-rock song. They extended their gentlemanly gesture by taking the basic track home to their recording studio so they can send Eric a cd with the music. This, to me, is what art is all about. It's brotherhood, not competition.
All right! It's the new year. I know I have been lax about keeping the blog up-to-date. Don't expect a resolution, or anything. But I do enjoy keeping in touch with all of you via e-mail: perhaps the blog will speak to shyer readers, or serve to open a window on the porcess here at The UrreaCorp World Headquarters. It occurs to me that if I had been availed access to an internet when I was an unknown dreamer, I would have given anything to have seen notes and comments by my favorite writers/artists. (Can you imagine a blog by Richard Brautigan or Neruda or Jimi Hendrix or....) So, honestly, I will try to remind myself to toss paper airplanes into the blogosphere more often.
Believe it or not, I have been asked a few times what's on my iPod. Oh Lord. I have an iPod with some kind of personality disorder. I will put up my artist-list later for you trivia buffs.
But since I like lists, I'll offer this first of my New Year Lists: some of the poets who influenced and continue to influence me. Read 'em all!
Anna Akhmatova; Yosano Akiko; Sherman Alexie; Alurista; A.R. Ammons; Antler; Rane Arroyo; Basho; Robert Bly; Darrell Bourque; Richard Brautigan; Pete Brown; Charles Bukowski; Buson; Raymond Carver; Lorna dee Cervantes; Lisa Chavez; Ali Chumacero; Leonard Cohen; William Corbett; Stephen Crane; Dugan; Bob Dylan; TS Eliot; Martin Espada; BH Fairchild; Lawrende Ferlinghetti; Carolyn Forche; Allen Ginsburg; Jay Griswold; Donald Hall; Han-shan; Jim Harrison; Robert Hass; Linda Hasselstrom; Linda Hogan; Gary Holthaus; Richard Hugo; Ikkyu; Issa; Robinson Jeffers; Juan Ramon Jimenez; Jane Kenyon; Etheridge Knight; Ted Kooser; Yusef Komunyakaa; David Lee; Philip Levine; Li Po; Lorca; Antonio Machado; Gabriela Mistral; Jim Morrison; Pablo Neruda; Sharon Olds; Mary Oliver; Onitsura; Simon Ortiz; Octavio Paz; Jose Emilio Pacheco; Kenneth Patchen; Sylvia Plath; Chip Rawlins; Rilke, Saigyo; James Schuyler; Sappho; Richard Shelton; Gary Snyder; Gary Soto; Kim Stafford; William Stafford; Alfonsina Storni; Tu Fu; Tino Villanueva; Diane Wakoski; Frank X Walker; Wang Wei; Walt Whitman; William Carlos Williams; Keith Wilson; Charles Wright; Franz Wright; Robert Wrigley; Yevtushenko; Neil Young; Atahualpa Yupanqui.
(This does not seem to include Agha Shahid Ali, Adrienne Rich, Homero Aridjis, Jack Kerouac, Wordsworth, James Dickey, James Wright, John Asberry, Jon Anderson, Patti Smith, Denise Levertov, Roque Dalton, Joy Harjo, Bill Pitt Root, Johnny Cash, Homer, Sor Juana, Facundo Cabral, Bruce Weigl, Sheryl St. Germain, Naomi Shihab Nye, Jon Brandi, Yehuda Amichai, Rumi, Clem Stark, or Kenneth Rexroth, Robert Creeley, or WS Merwin...though it could!)
That's a start. (What's your list?) See you with the iPod trivia in a few.
XXX, LAU
All right! It's the new year. I know I have been lax about keeping the blog up-to-date. Don't expect a resolution, or anything. But I do enjoy keeping in touch with all of you via e-mail: perhaps the blog will speak to shyer readers, or serve to open a window on the porcess here at The UrreaCorp World Headquarters. It occurs to me that if I had been availed access to an internet when I was an unknown dreamer, I would have given anything to have seen notes and comments by my favorite writers/artists. (Can you imagine a blog by Richard Brautigan or Neruda or Jimi Hendrix or....) So, honestly, I will try to remind myself to toss paper airplanes into the blogosphere more often.
Believe it or not, I have been asked a few times what's on my iPod. Oh Lord. I have an iPod with some kind of personality disorder. I will put up my artist-list later for you trivia buffs.
But since I like lists, I'll offer this first of my New Year Lists: some of the poets who influenced and continue to influence me. Read 'em all!
Anna Akhmatova; Yosano Akiko; Sherman Alexie; Alurista; A.R. Ammons; Antler; Rane Arroyo; Basho; Robert Bly; Darrell Bourque; Richard Brautigan; Pete Brown; Charles Bukowski; Buson; Raymond Carver; Lorna dee Cervantes; Lisa Chavez; Ali Chumacero; Leonard Cohen; William Corbett; Stephen Crane; Dugan; Bob Dylan; TS Eliot; Martin Espada; BH Fairchild; Lawrende Ferlinghetti; Carolyn Forche; Allen Ginsburg; Jay Griswold; Donald Hall; Han-shan; Jim Harrison; Robert Hass; Linda Hasselstrom; Linda Hogan; Gary Holthaus; Richard Hugo; Ikkyu; Issa; Robinson Jeffers; Juan Ramon Jimenez; Jane Kenyon; Etheridge Knight; Ted Kooser; Yusef Komunyakaa; David Lee; Philip Levine; Li Po; Lorca; Antonio Machado; Gabriela Mistral; Jim Morrison; Pablo Neruda; Sharon Olds; Mary Oliver; Onitsura; Simon Ortiz; Octavio Paz; Jose Emilio Pacheco; Kenneth Patchen; Sylvia Plath; Chip Rawlins; Rilke, Saigyo; James Schuyler; Sappho; Richard Shelton; Gary Snyder; Gary Soto; Kim Stafford; William Stafford; Alfonsina Storni; Tu Fu; Tino Villanueva; Diane Wakoski; Frank X Walker; Wang Wei; Walt Whitman; William Carlos Williams; Keith Wilson; Charles Wright; Franz Wright; Robert Wrigley; Yevtushenko; Neil Young; Atahualpa Yupanqui.
(This does not seem to include Agha Shahid Ali, Adrienne Rich, Homero Aridjis, Jack Kerouac, Wordsworth, James Dickey, James Wright, John Asberry, Jon Anderson, Patti Smith, Denise Levertov, Roque Dalton, Joy Harjo, Bill Pitt Root, Johnny Cash, Homer, Sor Juana, Facundo Cabral, Bruce Weigl, Sheryl St. Germain, Naomi Shihab Nye, Jon Brandi, Yehuda Amichai, Rumi, Clem Stark, or Kenneth Rexroth, Robert Creeley, or WS Merwin...though it could!)
That's a start. (What's your list?) See you with the iPod trivia in a few.
XXX, LAU
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