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The sun may be setting on this site. I’m not sure yet. I’m still writing, still busy, still enjoying life. But I don’t want to spend much more time in the shifting sands of WordPress, which in addition to adding video ads seems to have stripped the formatting and sidebars in the most recent update. You get what you pay for, I guess. In the meantime, feel free to get in touch by email, or phone, or by saying hello.

praise and prose for ‘Until It’s All You See’

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A few months ago, my good friend Robert Bingaman asked if I would be interested in writing something for his upcoming painting show at Studios Inc. He told me to just come by the studio once in a while to observe and chat, and we’d take it from there. We spent the following weeks talking about art, watching the World Series, playing ping pong and working on our respective projects. On the day of the parade, I sent Rob a text expressing my uncertainty about how to approach the project. He replied:

Don’t beat yourself up. This is all about doing something good and worth doing and beyond our grasp and beyond our ability to always succeed or find it. Trust the process.

I wound up writing an essay about the exhibit, and also made 100 prints of the prose poem above. I’m not sure I pulled it off, but I learned a lot in the process, and I’m happy Robert took me along for the ride. If you get the chance to visit the exhibit or check it out online, I encourage you to do so.

“Until It’s All You See” is on display at the Studios Inc exhibit space at 1708 Campbell through Dec. 18. Gallery hours are Tuesday through Friday,  10 a.m. to 4 p.m. (closed from noon to 1 p.m.) and Saturday from. noon to 4 p.m.

The Subways of Kansas City

It was a stormy Sunday night and I was out too late, hours later than I meant to be. Nothing had been open for hours, but I’d managed to drink and drug my way into the early morning. I didn’t want to call a taxi and there was no one I could ask for a ride, at least not without angering or embarrassing my family. I’d fallen asleep on a bus or something and didn’t know where I was in the city except that it was far from home. The late hour and the impending storm had all but cleared the streets, so I decided to look underground. Surely there was a subway line that could get me close to where I needed to go. I found a cellar door with a stairwell that led into a station, which was almost pitch black. It looked like a service depot, with hardly any signage except for a dusty electronic ticket booth which I swiped my debit card on and which spit out a ticket from a dot-matrix printer with perforated margins. The ticket cost me $16.17, but the route numbers listed on the ticket were unfamiliar. I looked at a map on the wall, but it appeared to be of an island, and everything was in German. The stops along the route were neighborhoods or municipalities I had never heard of before, including one — possibly the station I was at — called Abaddon. I saw no other passengers, and on the tracks different trains went by without stopping. Box cars, wooden crates, steel rail cars with no engines attached. I walked to the far end of the platform where a man behind a murky bulletproof glass window offered to help. I showed him my ticket, which he collected under the counter and looked at with confusion, shaking his head. He sold me a new ticket for $7 and asked where I needed to go. I felt foolish asking for help since I had never seen a subway station anywhere near my house before, or anywhere in the city for that matter (except of course the Amtrak station downtown, and this was clearly something much older, more surreal and subterranean than our nation’s official subsidized rail service). But when I told him I needed to get to Westwood, he nodded and pointed to a stop on the line that would let me out at Southwest Boulevard, a low-lying urban thoroughfare near the railroad tracks. The train should be down there in just a few minutes, he said, nodding toward the dark end of the platform. Would there be a sign? I asked. No, but you will see the other passengers. A minute later, an engine with a single cattle car attached pulled up, but no one else was on the train or waiting to board. It slowed down long enough for me to jump on, but sped up again before I could make my move. It must have been almost light outside by now, but it was hard to tell since the station did not have any clocks. I began to doubt whether I would ever get home. The other trains and train fragments continued to race past at increasingly faster speeds. A few moments later I was woken up by a particularly loud peal of thunder. The faint smell of soot and axle grease lingered in the morning darkness.

Spring time

Hi friends. I have not posted much in 2015 so I wanted to share a few links to recent projects. My piece, “15 Reasons We Didn’t Respond To Your Email” was included in the summer edition of The Artist Catalogue, based in NYC. Not sure if/when a print version is available, but you can read it in PDF form here. My selection is all the way toward the end but there is a lot of great stuff to look at before you get there.

As part of my inclusion in the Charlotte Street Studio Residency Program, I started an interview series with other artists and writers in the program, called “Pavilionaires” (since most of our studios are in the Town Pavilion building). You can read those here.

And consider coming out on Thursday, May 21 to “Displacement/Thisplacemeant,” a group show curated by Israel Alejandro Garcia Garcia, which opens at Paragraph Gallery (12th st. between Walnut and Main). The opening runs that evening from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. and will be open into early July. I’ll be featuring an installation of typewriters pedestals featuring writing composed on site.

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Thanks for following along the daily posts these pasts 7 weeks or so. I’m still writing each day and wrapping up a few personal projects, but I want to start out 2015 by following up on some interviews and write-ups of other people’s work. Feel free to send me a message in the meantime. Or just check back in later this month. Happy New Year.

Kawsmouth

In April 2012, Jennifer and I started a literary & arts website called Kawsmouth, which highlights writing, artwork and photography from writers and artists primarily in the Kansas City region. We currently publish new issues. on a quarterly schedule. The following are my own written contributions.

Coney Island Wintertide (Issue 1, April 2012)

Palace of the Apes (Issue 3, June 2012)

 Crumblecake Metropolis (Issue 7, October 2012)

 A salute to the Rockhill Theater ruins (Issue 8, December 2012)

Waiting For Devin: A pre-mortem for a retrofitted airport (Issue 13, Fall 2013)

12 on 12th (Issue 16, Summer 2014)

Little Red Flags

Right now Google Fiber contractors are digging a hole in the front yard. Little red, yellow and blue flags dot the neighborhood, marking gas lines and dig sites. Tree limbs are truncated to make way for new telephone polls installed by convoys of trucks with generic sounding company names on the side. My midnight bike rides are interrupted by men standing around drilling holes in the sidewalk, surrounded by flood lights and orange traffic barriers. The irony of Google Fiber’s rainbow bunny mascot is the installation work has scared all the neighborhood’s actual rabbits into flight. During my evening stroll I see entire warrens on the move. It is what it is, even if we mostly use that expression to mean I’d rather it were something else. I hope it’s not being too dramatic to say the whole Snowden thing threw a little cold water on the Fiber project for me. By tracking your digital breadcrumbs and analyzing your text messages and email drafts as you write them, Snowden alleges, the NSA can see into your thought process and analyze your “pattern of life.” This all sounds paranoid, the kind of thinking most often associated with drugs, secrecy or treason. But as these guys point out, “These days you don’t need drugs to be paranoid. You can just be paranoid and be totally correct.” So the Web and telecom networks secretly turn over data to the government — not a big surprise. But do we really want them burrowing directly into our homes? I guess it depends on what you’re willing to give up to be able to digitally record eight TV shows at once.

A Valediction Forbidding E-Cigs

aka “Red Says We’re Too Old For This Shit”

punk rock kids still smoke real cigs they flick the light they breathe the smoke and tilt their heads back when they blow big clouds and jets and streams and plumes and tap their feet to three chord songs they smoke their cigs and bob their heads and shake their hair from side to side their clothes are black and old but fine to look at in the light of amps and bulbs in rooms with floors of wood and crowds of kids and chairs where you can sit and smoke some more if you run out just ask a friend if you can bum one more the kids all shout play one more song and turn it up my cig’s still lit and I’m still young

Mississippi Blockbuster Blues

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Chris was one of the most interesting people I met during my month in Mississippi. He showed up the day before our fireworks stand opened, asking about work. He helped out at the carnival that set up in town every summer, he said, but they usually stiffed him, paying him only $20 for two full days of hauling stuff around. Sears and I told him we weren’t taking on any extra employees, but that didn’t stop him from coming by and talking with us almost every day. Being in Mississippi and all, it would be tempting to refer to Chris in Faulknerian terms, but a more polite description would be to say he was simpleminded.

Chris wore the same over-sized orange t-shirt every time I saw him, and had a bowl cut with long bangs he would constantly shake out of his face. He could have been 27 or 41 — it was impossible to tell. His mom was a morbidly obese lady who sat in a window booth at the Subway for hours on end, smiling at everyone who passed by. I think she appreciated that we were kind to her son, even playing frisbee with him one windy afternoon in the parking lot of the strip mall where our tent was set up. Chris had never played frisbee before, but he had a pretty good arm, even though the wind gave him trouble. We went from being initially wary to looking forward to his visits, and if they occurred late enough that we already had a good beer buzz going, we’d yell his name in unison as he approached. When we did that he’d just scrunch up his face and look at us like we were crazy.

The one thing we could count on each time we saw Chris was that he would tell us about his “plan.” The “plan” involved emptying out the large cake fireworks we had for sale and using them to blow up a port-a-potty. There were little variations in the logistics each time he told us about it, but every single one resulted in an exploding toilet. Eventually I used my primitive Nokia phone to record our conversation, for posterity’s sake (and, I suppose, as potential criminal evidence should anyone in Wayne County meet an untimely end that brutally hot summer).

When I recorded Chris’s story, however, something unexpected happened. After discussing the details of the toilet-bomb (along with a curious, rather alarming warning to “never smoke”), he launched into an impromptu and surprisingly serious elegy for the nearby Movie Gallery, which the Blockbuster Video corporation was “fixin’ to get.” Naturally, I found it amazing that there were still places in America in mid-2010 where Blockbuster was still opening new stores.

Of course, that was three and a half years ago, and by now even the Waynesboro Blockbuster appears to have closed, as has the one in Westport, Missouri, that I grew up going to (brilliantly photographed above by Robert Josiah).

I haven’t gone back to Waynesboro since 2011, and I don’t know that I ever will. If you do happen to visit, be sure to try both kinds of potato salad at the Huff-N-Puff Smokehouse. And if you need a WiFi hookup or clean bathroom, the Waynesboro McDonalds is one of the nicest I’ve ever seen (the previous McDonalds having burned down several years earlier). But for Chrissakes, whatever you do, don’t go anywhere near them pretty potties.

24 Things I Did Today

Today, at the Kansas City Library, I met a man who tried to sell me a piece of meteorite. At least that’s what he said it was. It was small and black; obsidian-like with fragments of what looked like petrified bubble bath. Do you collect meteorites? I asked him. He said yeah, I’m kind of a stargazer. He said he didn’t know if you could like sell them or not. I don’t know, I said, though I wished I had a few dollars to give him for it just so I could say I bought a meteorite from a soft-spoken dude at the library wearing earbuds and a basketball jersey. Instead I just said “keep stargazing” as he walked away, waved and smiled.

Today I read comic strips and horoscopes.

Today I ran until I was tired.

Today I drove home through the mists of Lee Blvd. listening to the prelude to Tristan and Isolde.

Today I called my wife on her parent’s landline and asked her what the homework assignment was. Her dad answered and it took a minute for her to come to the phone. When we started talking I remembered how less clear landlines are. How you have to really listen.

Today I tried to help a friend decide whether or not he and his family should buy a new home.

Today I emailed a stranger and wound up having coffee with an old friend. We talked ever so briefly about the last days of Schumann in beautiful Bonn-Endenich, which we’d both visited, though in different eras.

Today I ate some food, namely a ham and pepper jack sandwich on french bread with a side of red hot blues. I still have a bag of Haribo Smurfs open, but they gum up my insides.

Today, while marveling at the weight of a friend’s accidentally disembodied Aurelien Collin bobblehead, I remembered one of the most impressive and (perhaps understandably) overlooked moments in the career of the White Puma — being struck by an Omar Bravo bobblehead head thrown by a miscreant in the home stands. The projectile cut a gash above the KC keeper’s eye, but he patched things up and finished out the game, a 3-1 win over the Portland Timbers.

Today I found out someone had been talking shit. For a few moments, I thought about getting angry. This is the kind of thing people get angry over. Confront people about. But what good is it to read Marcus Aurelius paperbacks if you can’t take a few knocks, especially from folks who actually know you, folks who might even be right. Though maybe they only have part of the story, or aren’t entirely sympatico. How many times have you thought you had someone figured out only to realize, you don’t know their story. You don’t know their story at all.

Today, 16 years ago, it was my high school girlfriend’s and my first date. OK Computer had just come out a few months before and we listened to it a lot that winter, driving long distances across the metro to find cool places to drink coffee.

Today I looked at a half-collapsed stack of old notebooks and asked myself how much I really need my old words. Won’t the ones still living rise up unbidden at the needed moment, just as soon as the daydream wears on?

Today I resolved to tell my friend not to be so hard on himself. I’m only one grade older and because of that always think I should be able to give advice. But I can’t, really. All I can truthfully say is I’m confident you’ll figure it out. I’ll help however I can.

Today I got a save-the-date postcard from my brother and his fiancée. Over pizza, my grandfather explained the difference between a fiancé and a fiancée, though I think he might be wrong about pronouncing them differently.

Today I jumped over piles of snow on the curbside while crossing the downtown bus depot hobocluster. The fountain isn’t running but the buses are all more or less on time, which is to say, not really.

Today I can still think of half a dozen emails I need to write, not that I’m super important or anything like that, just always a tiny bit behind the beat when it comes to being in touch with friends, family and colleagues. I try to keep this in mind when waiting for my own unrequited emails to be returned, but the more time passes, the more I begin seeing them as badminton birdies that have flown far out of bounds and are now lapping in the surf at the nearest beach.

Today I need to go to bed because it isn’t today anymore, but my wife and child are away and I want to listen to music and type until I pass out on the couch. I put hot water on for tea half an hour ago and my friend’s soundcoud has long since passed aurally overhead, but I’m still locked to the keyboard.

Today I’m writing to tell you I might not see you for a while, or at least I won’t be making any appearances here anytime soon, and why should I? There are so many lists to look at; so many books to read. I’ve got projects to work on and people to see.

Today I drove down a street that said No Outlet but actually there was one.

Today I plugged in the Christmas Lights a final time.

Today I contemplated staying up all night, then quickly decided against it.

Today I tried hard to find the post-it note I mentally wrote to myself before I last fell asleep. They can’t always be recovered, but sometimes I get them to stick.

Today I wrote a poem by convincing myself I was just writing a list of what happened today. Though whether it’s actually a poem probably depends more on the reader.

Tonight I’m writing to let you know I’ll keep trying as long as you keep reading. It’s foggy out there, but that won’t stop me from signaling.

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Rather than post one of those confessional essays about why I’m quitting Facebook (which would probably only last a short while), I chopped up my notes and turned them into the poem above. I don’t have any grand points to make about society or modern communication, but I wanted to somehow give voice to the general social media anxiety I’ve been feeling lately.

somnambulance dispatch, vol. two-hundred twenty-two

Last night I slept for almost 11 hours, albeit with frequent interruption. At one point, I’m not sure when, the baby fussed. At 5 in the morning, we woke up to a rattling at the bathroom window. Jenny got up to check it out and saw a cardinal had become trapped in the bamboo. Eventually it flapped its way free, but by that point we were both awake. Jenny told me a new baby name idea. I told her the exact coordinates of my dream at the moment I’d been woken up by the bird. We were all sitting around a table, I think at Harry’s in Westport, and I was beatboxing the 8-bit underworld theme music from Super Mario Bros 3. In my dream I was impressed with my abilities, and I’m pretty sure those around me were, too. But in the non-light of day it all seemed a little ridiculous. We went back to bed for a bit, and before it was light I heard the three owls. They’ve been hanging around our backyards for weeks now. When one hoots, the others follow, and a circular dialogue ensues that’s soothing to lie and listen to. Still only half-awake this morning, I imagined they were the Strigiformation of past, future and present. Wise, but not judgmental. Only attentive, soft, poetic.

MCI > ???

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“What does interest me about Kansas City International Airport is its atmosphere — or lack thereof. With some level of renovation almost a certainty, I resolved to explore the airport’s vibe and personality before any big changes took place. The best way to do this, I decided, would be to try something few sane individuals have ever attempted. I wanted to go to the airport — not to catch a flight or pick someone up — but simply to hang out.”

Read all about my adventures at KCI over at Kawsmouth.

Writing exercises

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When it comes to sheer originality of correspondence, I have to hand it to my daughter, Ruby, who composed this letter the week she turned one year old. The marker was added by her mother, but the message itself is all hers. How she managed to summon those characters on my typewriter, I have no idea, but I’m impressed at the sophistication of the typography, the economy of language, the poetic repetition of the “c” key, the little star toward the end. Normally I would consider posting my child’s work slightly exploitative, but it was written on my machine, after all, and in lieu of a post of my own, I thought this might be more fun to read instead.

A short, silly segway soliloquy

I have a real problem with segways. On the downtown sidewalks outside my office, public safety officers and security personnel are always zipping around on them like a paramilitary force, doing ridiculous figure eights in the park as they rendezvous with each other and talk into their walkie-talkies. The other day one of them almost ran into me as I turned to step into my building. I shot him a look that said, “why don’t you go ride that thing off a bridge?” and I think he got the message even if he didn’t heed it. I can’t blame him for that, though — those things cost more than a used car. Several times in the parking garage I’ve seen a segway plugged into the wall and have had to talk myself out of stealing it. I’d probably get fired over it, but sometimes you have to make a statement. I made a joke about segways on twitter which said the proper spelling of the device is to transpose the “w” and the “g.”  That prompted dozens of response tweets from LGBT groups, most of which said that, although they usually don’t condone that kind of humor, in this case it was totally worth it. I made another joke comparing segways to fat girls, but that did not go over so well. I blame my lack of sensitivity on a bad case of PTSD (post-traumatic segway disorder) brought on by all those close brushes with calamity caused by wreckless segway pilots. Then again, who knows what the future holds. Perhaps in my old age I will form a gang of Hell’s Angels rejects called the Segway Saints, which will tool around picking up litter and robbing ATMs. Maybe I’ll get a segway for Christmas and/or my birthday and will be delighted. But that’s unlikely. In the meantime, I’m hoping the Kansas City Segway corps gets redeployed elsewhere. I can just imagine President Obama or Secretary Kerry’s next speech on Syria announcing that “there won’t be any boots on the ground, but there will be segways.”

Seven o’clock at Pickwick Plaza

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On Wednesday over lunch I decided to walk east, a direction I almost never go, and for good reason — there’s pretty much nothing there. Once you get past city hall, the federal courthouse, and all the government buildings, you’ve got little else besides a highway, a few old churches, the Greyhound Station, and a bunch of industrial lots and increasingly bedraggled pedestrians. On the eastern edge of downtown, though, at 9th and McGee, is one of the city’s most interesting buildings, the former Pickwick Hotel and Union Bus Depot. The building is in pretty decent shape, except the clock has been stuck at 4:25 for as long as I can remember, reminiscent of Walter Benjamin’s descriptions of time coming to a stop, a critical moment for the historical materialist “in which he himself is writing history.” My friend Nathan does a great job of describing Benjamin’s notions of history in his meticulously researched and thematically soundtracked podcast. In fact, it was Nathan who first told me about this unique Kansas City landmark, which I’m sure factored into his own writing and understanding of time, philosophy and the city. All I could think of while watching birds fly in and out of the broken clock face where the 7 used to be, is how surreal and gothic the former Pickwick Hotel looked even at noon on a bright summer weekday. With all plans to renovate it cast aside and no visible designation as a historical monument, the frozen clock tower stands as an intermediary between the commerce and bustle of downtown and the mostly vacant stage set of its eastern hinterlands. Its stately yet suspended-in-time presence manages to effortlessly embody a future that awaits its surroundings, and which awaits us all.

Blow Up lebt!

Blow Up

Received this SMS from Botschaftler last week:

Bitte beachten Sie auf das folgende Dispatch aus Bonn. Der infamous late-night Lokal und Konsulat unserer Organisation, “Blow Up”, macht künftig dicht, bzw., zieht um in eine gr?ere und bestimmt völlig beschissene Lokation, was deutlich auf das Ende unserer heiligen Tradition, nämlich “Explodieren,” hinweist.

Adam, thanks for the message and hope you drank at least one Kölsch and one Pils each for each of us. With those little .2 pours and a 5 a.m. curtain call, noch eins never hurt anybody.

Photo by Jennifer Wetzel, summer 2011