aka bpNichol: a speculative biography

Last week I finished aka bpNichol, a preliminary biography by Frank Davey. I can honestly say that it was probably one of the strangest texts I've ever read on the subject of another person's life, and so I am now only thinking of it as a "biography" - just like that, in quotes. This is not to say that it was not interesting to read, but it should probably not be read as a biography of Nichol. Throughout the book, Davey discusses a number of intriguing things - the invention of the author persona by an author, for example, or the concept of a "psychotherapy poetics." Even the minimal historical context Davey provides about the rise and fall of The Coach House Press phenomenon makes the book worth reading, and given the climate of our current poetry culture, there is some worthwhile discussion about the anxiety that may or may not be produced when an author tries to produce both "honest" and "original" work under the weight of the cultural milieu in which they live. But in order to discuss these things, I don't think it was necessary to use a biographical framework of bpNichol, especially given the fact that Davey speculates so much about so many things. That and why Davey has chosen to focus in particular on embarrassing material about Nichol's early childhood is what sends the whole narrative off into questionable territory. What makes it all untrustworthy is Davey's choice to use, for the most part, Nichol's notebooks written as an adult, a recent history of Therafields, & Nichol's own poetry as evidence (Davey quotes nearly 600 lines of the Martyrology throughout the text, not one of which was asked for permission to use, I understand) to support his speculations. In fact, Davey didn't appear to talk to anyone who knew the man, and only quoted written . So, a "biography" aka bpNichol will have to be, now and forevermore. I would go so far as to call aka bpNichol a "speculative biography," which is a term that perhaps Nichol would appreciate, but maybe only the version of Nichol that Davey has presented his reader.

The question that remains is how to deal with this weird book moving forward. A biography of bpNichol was way overdue, but now that aka bpNichol exists, will anyone be able to work past it and create a more accurate picture of Nnichol's life and contribution of Canadian poetry? Probably the correct response would be a biography of bpNichol composed by a community of those who know him.

The Future of Literature

All this kaffuffle with the Globe & Mail "letting go" or "reassigning" Martin Levin and Jack Kirchhoff from the Book Section, which will still (apparently) continue their "stellar" coverage of books and literature even though they are slashing the section and folding it in with their Focus section (after already reading globe articles about the shifting plane of literary publishing -- the death of the mid-list author for instance, or the changes in the landscape that have left House of Anansi Press (who are now using musicians to decide what is good literature) as the largest Canadian owned publishing firm in the country) has me thinking that the future of literature is likely not in books, but in Television or Film, and it will be published in Hollywood.

BookThugs & TroubadourSlaves

Come out on 31 January to see me and Michael Menegon jam music and poetry together into an evening of unpredictable entertainment. There is also a lot of chocolate available!

What: BookThugs & TroubadourSlaves (Jay MillAr & Michael Menegon in concert)
When: 31 January 2013, 7-11pm
Where: COCO, 365 Jane Street, just south of Annette.
Why: Why not? Chances are you might hear me read all of ESP, some fungal poems, a few select "cover tunes" and some poems from my forthcoming collection Timely Irreverence. And Michael will be playing all sorts of things too – original songs and accompaniment.
How: Where there is a will there is a way to get to COCO.

Back

I was gone for a while again. Not that I actually went anywhere. But it is now 2013 -- and i turned 42 -- isn't that strange? It seems like a good number, even, quiet, and sure of itself. I am in the midst of dealing with various things -- anxiety mostly. Who knows where this stuff comes from or why it sticks around the way it does, but it sure is annoying and why not become happy or even content with oneself? The world isn't so bad, even if it is going to pot. In fact, the world doesn't even care -- it's like the world can't be critical because it is so particulary indifferent, so you have criticize your self all by yourself. So I'm trying to lift myself up and over all that stifling self awareness this year. Should be fun.

Oddest Industry Ever

This week I wound up thinking a lot about why I do what I do from the point of view that we are defined by what we do to earn money -- the "why bother" factor crops up again and again when I do that. Fred Wah asked me about this in an interview this week, both with regard to writing and publishing, and I found myself staring off into space unable to formulate an answer despite knowing that I hold a pure and deep belief that what I write and what I publish IS important. People who live their lives doing "normal jobs" (I don't know why I call them by this name since my life feels pretty normal most of the time, but I suppose it serves a purpose here to label them as such) constantly use the term "courageous" when they find out the details of what I do as a writer and a publisher. I have met other people in the publishing industry (usually people who have made savvy choices and work for large corporate publishers) who tell me they are so glad that publishers like BookThug exist because the companies they work for would love to publish the kind of work we publish but when such projects cross an editor's desk they are ultimately rejected by the firm's finance department. And the miniature "business guy" inside me thinks: that's pretty smart, I should get a finance department. But I'd have to pay said department more than my yearly budget to publish 15-20 books of literature to turn the things I want to publish away. And after they tell me how courageous I am these people don't buy any of the books I publish anyway, so I guess I'm stuck in the cottage industry the mass media as defined for me. So yay!

Secret Blogging

It has been ages since I wrote anything here on this blog. I have often begun to write out my thoughts on something and then suddenly hit a wall: It dawns on me that no one cares about what I think, mostly because what I think couldn't possibly be of interest to someone I don't know. So why bother with the diffraction of publicity? It's a hurdle. So in the interest of leaping over hurdles I am challenging myself to write publicly in this space while considering it an act of secret blogging.

Memory Loss

It seems I have forgotten how to write. And while that might seems like a troubling thing for a writer, at the same time, I don't seem to mind it all that much.

Long Poem Workshop

In a few days The Long Poem Workshop at the Toronto New School of Writing will kick off. Twelve students will join me for twelve weeks in an attempt to force an idea not to end.

Melville House

Great time last night at Melville House in Dumbo/Brooklyn where I read with three fantastic poets -- Matvei Yankelevitch, Cathy Eisenhower & John Coletti. The event was organized by Matvei due to a familiar affliction he suffers from -- publisher's envy. A heady evening -- Coletti's cool lyricism, Eishehower's intense meditations, Matvei's wonderous fable-like narrative. It was quite an honour to plunk myself down in the midst of it all. I'm looking forward to reading more work by these poets.

It was interesting afterward talking with Dennis of Melville House. We swapped various literary history stories about our own presses and others in our respective lands. He told me that the inception of the press involved the culmination of a few people and events, most prominently George Murray & 911.

Off now into the city with Rob & his son Oliver to check out some art and look for nik-naks for the kids.

Visual Poem

for dfb

I'm trying to think up
a good comeback for
your fucking kidding




nope.










nope.

Some boxes arrived from the printer the other day. In them were copies of ESP: accumulation sonnets: a book written by me and designed by me and Mark Goldstein and published by BookThug. So now I've gone and done it. I've published myself. Again.

It's terrible. I'll be entered into that category of writers inhabited by the likes of Walt Whitman, Gertrude Stein, Virgina Woolf, bill bissett, bpNichol, Gwendolyn MacEwan, Victor Coleman and Stuart Ross to name a few -- poets who paid for their own work to be published or disseminated their work through publishing houses they either owned or worked for.

So why do I feel guilty?

An Essay

Meanwhile....

One must consider, from time to time, say, when the solid mass of accomplishment to which one is engaged daily, breaks open, a moment of pause revealed in which lies a brief self-reflective moment that holds up a mirror, however quickly, and one must clearly see how to deal with the onslaught of The Other. In the mirror I see a crowd of blurred faces looking over my shoulder. I'm not sure exactly what I mean by this, but recent events have made it clear that there is a tension that exists within my own frame of mind based on what I imagine are the expectations of others in relation to what I imagine are my own expectations for my self. It "affects" me, and I'm never clear how to negotiate the affectation.

For instance, it is becoming more and more clear, as my various projects begin to engage with the mechanisms of The World, that my Public perception grows more and more narrow. At least I imagine it to be so. Ben Watson, if I recall correctly, wrote in Art Class & Cleavage that we are defined by what we do to earn money, and this might be more clearly stated by saying we are defined by what others perceive one does to earn money. My trouble is that I'm not sure what it is that I do that earns money -- I count mice, for one thing. I teach workshop classes at George Brown College. I publish books. I sell books. And occasionally I publish my own work and am paid for it. Soon, I will finish the library degree I am working on and I will get a job in that field and add to my assorted definitions whatever it is that I will be doing that pulls a paycheque. And somehow in there lies me -- the me I wake up to each morning and stare at in the actual mirror sans extra faces before I run off to accomplish several things at once for the day. But what does The Other I imagine looking over my shoulder think I do to earn money? Or, if I'm not defined by earnings, what does The Other think I am?

Woods/Pages

A quick post to announce the publication of a new chapbook, Woods/Pages, published by the incomparable souls at Greenboathouse Books. Those of you who are sick & tired of the dark inane voice(s) of Lack Lyrics will enjoy my return to 21st Century nature lyricism. But don't worry, there's still loads of heavy procedural & conceptual & "experimental" work going on, (just like there is in all poetry).

I'm very pleased to be part of Greenboathouse, and lucky too, since Woods/Pages is the final publication in this project. Jason and the team are moving on to new things, but I'm sure they will be just as beautiful.

If you'd like to get a copy visit www.greenboathouse.com -- there are lots of other lovely things to pick up while you're there!

JM

Art Bar

Thanks to those who came out last night to my reading at the Art Bar. I had fun, and it was nice to go out into the world like a poet, nice to chat with Stephen and John and Sam and Becca, although Sam accused me of being a librarian and censoring the small blue. the small blue was not censored last night, insofar as it was first "censored" by my editor who insisted that I cover all that lovely blank space throughout the book with black smudges shaped like words, lest people think that we made a mistake. My readings of the text are meant to return it to a state more resembling the original, which is why I say that there is no number 63 (or whatever) when people ask me to read them.

The Art Bar is endearing. Never am I ever quite surrounded by so much seriousness when it comes to poetry. It's endearing. I love it. There is nothing like being validated for being something you hope no one will ever defined you as. Life is strange that way -- the seriousness of it all, when it is all so fleeting, so uncompromising. And yet, it happens, it has consequence. I have been thinking about classification for a long time now, at least a few months (can we classify that as a long time?) and I wonder often at what it means to "be" something. What metaphors are at our disposal to explain how things "are"? No wonder I'm so uncomfortable describing myself as something, or classifying myself in relation to everything else in the world. To define oneself is to let them ascribe. It gives them power.

Anyway, for those who weren't at the Art Bar last night, or perhaps didn't even know about it, I'm reading again on Friday at the IV Lounge. For now I must return to my paper on Foucault, discourse, truth, knowledge, identity and power. And surveillance. Watch out!

Dear Blog, hello.

I seem to have developed a cold. I'm tres grumpy right now, but I won't go into why. It is curious however that I'm generally grumpy. I wonder why that is? Perhaps one day I'll write something on the grump as an impetus for writing. But for now I have to blow my nose.

Jay

Dear Blog, hello.

It is a fantiastically fall night, but I am tired. Not really. My internal sense of language makes me write things like that. I've been typesetting a White Porcupine all day and glowering at how the world conducts itself. As a distraction, after massive hamburgers, Cole and I read Mr Happy before bed, and a Frog and Toad story we'd never read before called The Garden. Toad is very anxious about his new garden and keeps annoying it by reading it stories and talking to it and singing is songs and reading it poems. How annoying! Then Toad finally falls asleep and while he's asleep the garden finally has a chance to actually grow. A wonderful story.

I had a dream last night that the DEMTENED POEMS 21-30 I finished yesterday are not only not finished, they are not part of DEMTENED POEMS at all! How odd to have spent all this time on them thinking they were one thing when really they are something else all together. Well, fine. Cudos to these poems for having the decency to speak up and put me straight. So I'm still working on them and when they are done they will be done. Meanwhile, all that's left of DEMTENED POEMS 21-30 is a sequence of titles. Maybe I'll write some poems under them some day.

Maybe I'll get a grant to finish them. For the time being, I'm feeling somewhat distracted.

Where'd ya go?

Oh. There you are.

Back to printing millions of copies of covers for The Sands of Dream for the US market, even though it's the first English edition of the first surrealist text ever published in Canada. Dumbass Canadians -- when you suddenly realize it's right there in front of your nose it'll be out of print.

I'm not sure what else to tell you at the moment. Reid is watching inappropriate crap on the internet. Hazel is out at work. It's a fairly quiet night.

Jay

Dear Blog, hello.

Well, here we are in September. I'm having a somewhat awkward day, just kind of crummy. Mostly because people are often weird and annoying and there's nothing I can do about that. Mostly it has something to do with numbers. Aren't numbers awesome? Like how the whole world is about numbers, or that everything comes down to numbers? Love is about numbers, I'm sure of it. More ofthen than not, however, things (emotions?) are really about a lack of numbers. Perhaps I'm just stressed with the usual tensions in my life between writing and publishing and scholarly work, and work. Or lack of work. I mean numbers. There's lots of work. I work a lot. But few numbers.

I've been working typesetting books -- new BookThug books are on the horizon. And I'm happy with how they're coming along. And I'm generally ignoring everyone. Which is kind of fun, but annoying too, because the world of publishing poetry requires an excess amount of hype.

I'm working on the third sequence of DEMTENED presently -- an inter-linear translation of a poem by Stuart Ross. There are ten poems. Each one uses the poem before it to create the poem it is. Or rather I use the poem to generate a new poem. It's dreamy. When they are done perhaps I'll post them here. It isn't like anyone wants to publish them or anything.

I'm working listing Open Letters at the bookshoppe. What a funny journal that is! It starts out all playful and fun, lots of interaction and bizarre papers. There's even the All Incest Issue -- what a riot! It makes me think there was a lot of down to earth understanding about how stupid it was to be a poet or a writer with any inkling toward the avant-garde. Then at some point it gets totally serious, hardcore dense writing, hip happening theory with a capital T! A sudden shift in the wind -- or the minds of the younger generation -- the sort of thing that has some rippling effects through the land -- bitterness, anti-theoretical stances (a theoretical stance in and of itself) and so on. It sure is an important journal though.

And I've been working on my new book the small blue soon to be published with Snare Books in Montreal thanks to the good person Jon Paul Fiorentino (thanks Jon!). The book has changed a lot since I first wrote and published it myself through BookThug -- I'm looking forward to the "public" reaction to this public version. har har har.

And I'm just about to start school again, both teaching and learning. My workshop at George Brown College starts on Monday the 10th, as does my first class in Information Sciences at UofT. But I'll be in Woodstock giving poetry readings and workshops at College Avenue Seconday School that day, so I'll miss my first class. Auspiscious beginnings.

Well Blog, that's it for now. I'd better get back to work.

Moving

Well, now that we're back from moving all over Ireland Scotland and London we're getting ready for our big move. After more than ten years reigning over Webb Avenue the MillArs are heading west. West of Runnymede that is. We are moving two blocks, so we won't be that hard to find, but boy is it a nightmare pulling free of a space we've been in for this long. Everything fits so precisely.

We're so sad to be saying goodbye to Manfred and Alison and their boys Curtis and Eric who are all moving to Halifax and renting us their house on Ardagh. I'm driving them up to the airport in an hour. Hopefully their new home will be fantastic and we'll visit them or they'll visit us soon. But meanwhile we're finally moving out of the basement here on Webb and we're so totally pleased with that event. Our lungs will be ever so grateful.

So the Webb house is upside down, and tomorrow we start turning it rightside up in the Ardagh house. We had our first meltdown (at last!) from Cole on the matter of moving when Staci and Bill drove off with the old couch, which turned out to be Cole's favourite thing every. Tomorrow things start wandering over to the new house and we'll be in there by Tuesday night. And the books will be set up in like two weeks.

Meanwhile, I sent JPF reponses to his excellent edit of my forthcoming book the small blue, due out from Snare in the coming months. What a strange little publication that will be. A lone sport in the field of canadian poetry. At least it feels that way to me as the author. It'll be interesting to hear the response from the world at small on this. I haven't heard anything back from JPF yet, so he's either stumped or in awe or just away from his desk. It is the summer after all. At the end of which I'm returning to university which is so exciting and frightening I don't know from which direction to approach the subject. Perhaps I'll just leave it at that.

I recently finished reading (or listening actually -- ipods rule) to Blink by Malcom Gladwell. All about the power of thinking without thinking, and by that he means the power of first impressions. Fascinating stuff to think about in terms of my relationship between the poets I know and the poetry they write. I know that people's personalities get in the way of my ability to read their work objectively and now I'm so disappointed to have in confirmed intellectually as well. Bummer. But now I can begin to work my way out of that space of thoughtlessness.

15 June 2007

I'm going to try to add something to this blog from time to time. I've always found it difficult because I find it hard enough listening to myself -- why would anyone want to listen in? Plus I've found that blogs seem to get people into trouble, or cause them to edit their own thoughts. It's a stupid way to view honesty, as something that either doesn't exist or as something that (inadvertently or not) upsets people. But anyway.

Today I'm using this as a chance to distract myself from the fact that we are trying to sell as many of our things as possible tomorrow at a yard sale. We're moving in August, and neet to get rid of things. So we're starting early, mostly because there's so much to get rid of. It's amazing how much stuff one can cram into the nooks and crannies around them. If you happen to see this there are a lot of books being let go cheap!

I've also been reading about Thermopylae, which is fascinating, beautiful and terrifying all at once. I think it has something to do with the symbol Spartan culture presents for me in relation to the current state of affairs in the world at large. And no, I haven't seen the movie. Any of them.

good things