The Thrill Is Gone: Bookstores and Me

          Back in the day, after college and before the lost decade I spent at Cosmodemonic Communications, I had a long career in the retail book industry. Beginning with a short stint at the old Waldenbooks in the barely-there Hudson Valley Mall, to three years at the dearly departed Ariel Booksellers in New Paltz, to a couple of years at Norman Levine’s Editions in Boiceville, books were my close companions, night lights of the mind, portals to times and lives I wanted to dip into without commitment, return to without hesitation. 

            I’m feeling lately like maybe I’ve read too many books. I can’t tell you the last novel I finished, or even collection of poetry. I used to spend hours in the stacks, happily pawing through the shredded covers for one treasure, a new poet or an old one I hadn’t read enough of, a magazine printed the year I was born, or even a few craft or cookbooks I’d spend more time reading than emulating. 

            I can still straighten a shelf up like nobody’s business. I remember dusting the fronts, the tops, filling the carts with new arrivals to merge into an already bursting shelf, and figuring out how to make them all fit. I knew the business. But who knew the business would change so drastically in my lifetime. I’m sure the clues were there, while I had my nose buried in Sylvia Plath’s journal or Allen Ginsberg’s collected works. The Internet. Before my current position, I had a final fling at the book business, and failed at my post badly. Unsupported, with a staff of just one (me), I spent my days alone washing windows, mopping the floor, making coffee, and doing just about everything but working with books. 

            The store is still open, and the owner is still breathing, both facts equally depressing. It was a used bookstore, but I was often instructed to sift through piles of buy-backs for books in good enough shape to pass as new. I spent too much money (really, money) on new titles, a mistake I wasn’t aware of until after the fact. The books were an afterthought, shoved onto shelves without thought or philosophy. Being fired was a stroke of luck, since I’d resigned myself to the mess, but the books were no comfort. They were helpless themselves in the murky wood and coffee grounds of the joint. 

            A couple of weeks ago we stopped at an outlet mall in Central New York, one where sneakers were the star. In the far corner was a bookstore of sorts, remainders and lesser known titles deeply discounted. Even with a decent salary, no longer having to rely on strips or bargain books to fill my shelves, I found nothing I wanted to take home with me. I knew the end of all the fiction, the rhyme schemes of the few poetry books on hand. I have plenty of cookbooks I already don’t use, although I’ve read them all several times. Even the books on CD didn’t interest me—what good is a book on CD once you’ve listened. I’ve no interest in the ghostwritten pop autobiographies, or the bodice-ripping romances, the simplistic craft manuals written for those who need written instructions for tying their shoelaces every morning. There was not one book in the whole store I was willing to take home. 

            I’m more interested now in clearing my shelves, my walls, my closets. It’s almost as if I’ve moved the library inside my head. I need the physical space these days to make some headway on the few projects I intend to go forward with. I have my Handler’s companionship day and night, so perhaps the books resent our drifting apart. But like old lovers, I’ll keep in touch with some, part amicably with others. Some will be dropped off at the thrift shop where they’re given away, because that’s the option I like best. Time grows a little short, and I hate to think of the clean up after I’ve dropped the body if I don’t do some of it myself ahead of time. It is time to pare down and focus. If only I can put down this Harriet Carter catalog… anybody need a wall phone with really, really big numbers?

           

Live On Stage: The Ziegfeld Poems

August 20^th came more quickly than I could ever have imagined, and whether I was ready or not, the evening of my presentation at the Omega Institute arrived. I billed it as a sort of lecture/reading, which perhaps might have frightened people less. There is a built-in fear of poetry readings that, having been to a few myself, I can totally sympathize with. Somehow the word “lecture” doesn’t have the same effect, so I was able to sneak a few poems into the presentation with the pressure of having the poems be the center of attention. Except of course they were, to me at least.

The meeting space upstairs at the Ram Dass Library is simply elegant and round, and no mic was necessary. Luckily, because all the mics were being used by Bobby McFerrin for his “Circlesongs” workshop that week. My plans to play a CD of Follies tunes while the crowds moseyed in was thwarted by technical difficulties, as was the use of a remote slide changer. For this event, I put together my very first PowerPoint presentation, using photos of the “cast” to help listeners make the connection between the poems and the people involved. I’ve since purchased my own combination remote changer and laser pointer for future presentations for a mere $20, so my Handler will get the night off. For now, he did me the great good favor of looking for my cues, and advancing the photos smoothly.

It is sometimes difficult for me to explain what I know about the Follies without skipping parts. I have to keep reminding myself about how little most people remember about that time today, without being condescending or overly detailed. I interspersed short biographies with photos and poems, and tried to create a brief narrative that I hope hung together. I was spared the agony of being corrected by anyone who was more knowledgeable about the Follies than I am, because they’re out there. They just weren’t with me that night. I’m sure I made some factual errors, and certainly perpetuated one or two long-standing myths that I hope to put to rest in the future. I see where I need to fill in gaps, and where the poems themselves could use some fine tuning.

There were about a dozen people in attendance, and even a few that surprised me. Still others were merely participants interested in my project. I was grateful for all. It was very beneficial to hear the work out loud, and to see if it would play in Peoria. I believe it will. Now, back to the desk, the books, the research, to make this project the best possible I can, one-hundred years after the fact.

National Poetry Month, Personally

NPM 2018 was a busy time. My Beloved keeps joking that, thirty seconds after I said I wouldn’t do any readings in 2018, I accepted my first reading gig, and April had some additional fine examples of my hypocrisy in it.

I was one of about 30 poets whose submitted work had been framed and put on display for the month in the Starr Library in Rhinebeck. On the 7^th, about half of us read our poems to an enthusiastic crowd that I guessed to be around 75, a veritable stadium-full of listeners. I got handshakes and hugs for my poem about ‘pulling up your god panties,’ and for a moment beforehand I’d been afraid I was a bit out of my usual element. Many of the other poets were more conventional, rhyming and reminiscing. The warm response to my work was a great relief.

On the 10^th, Teresa Costa’s W.O.M.P.s (Word Of Mouth Poetry) reading featured two of my favorite people and poets, Rebecca Schumejda and Thom Francis. I don’t hear them often enough, and it was a treat to not only get full features from each of them, but a little from one of the other 'Three Guys...', Dan Wilcox. A great evening of words and friends.

Speaking of Albany, on the 21^st, I went up to the Emerald City to participate in the annual Albany Wordfest marathon, now going by the reclaimed name, “Readings Against The End Of The World.” Before there was Wordfest, there was Tom Nattell. One of the original “Three Guys From Albany,” Tom passed away in January 2005, leaving a legacy of activism and art. “Readings Against The End Of The World,” contained elements of both. I read at 11:00 a.m., to a sparse but lively crowd. Hosted for the entire twenty-four hours by Mary Panza, I recall the times I hung out all night with the crew, snoozing on the floors of the gallery on Lark Street until the 6:00 a.m. readers arrived. I am not that hardy these days.

Joanne Pagano Weber invited me to read on the 22^nd as part of the second half of an afternoon of performance at the Greenkill Gallery in Kingston. The first half was an original play by Joanne, “Emerging Man,” including Michael McCabe in a featured role, a triumphant return to the stage after many moons away. Sadly, ninety percent of the audience decided to leave at intermission, leaving Allison Koffler-Wise and I a rather intimate group to read to. It was not a surprise. Audiences often use such breaks to make their escape from the imagined horrors of a poetry reading. However, the escapees did include the play’s director and the artist whose work on the walls of the gallery inspired the play. Duly noted. Thanks to Joanne for all support and praise for me and Michael.

Finally, on the 29^th, Guy Reed and I headed to Arkville for the Writers in the Mountains “Writers Unbound” Fifth Annual Literary Festival, held at the cozy Union Grove Distillery. There is an active group of longtime writers here, inspired by maple syrup and wood as much as the everyday drama of our lives, and I enjoy their devotion to the written word. I picked up a copy of Laurie Boris’s latest novel, The Call, a baseball tale, and so far, it’s a great, easy read with heart. I look forward to attending more events with this group.

Non-Poetry events in April included Rhinebeck High School’s ambitious production of Mary Poppins, featuring Jonah Carleton, the son of my old friend Ron, in the lead role of Bert, blues phenom Quinn Sullivan at Bearsville, and my Beloved’s many stagehand gigs at Marist College. We also had a chance to see Al Helm: Martin Luther King in Palestine, an independent film about a theater group, joined by an American gospel choir, traveling and performing in both Israel and Palestine. All in all, an auspicious start to the warmer months, and not very cruel at all!!

 (Photo by Don Levy)