Among other things, last night, I picked up a hitch-hiker at three in the morning. Before you get hysterical, let me explain.
I was leaving the apartment to pick Linda up from the casino. There was almost no one out: the night of Good Friday, the early morning darkness finally winning over the ambient city-light. At the bus station at the corner of Broadway and Claiborne, there was a ghostly figure. She had no shoes on. She wore a cocktail dress. Her eyes were coal smudges onto her face. There was no indication, other than her standing and breathing, as to whether or not she was alive.
Naturally, I looked away. Living in cities, you find this action easy, if a little embarrassing.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her arm jut out, thumb up. I was the only car on the road, but pretended she was not signaling for me. The light was red and I stayed there transfixed for an eternity. She looked at the dearth of oncoming traffic and crossed over to my little car in the middle lane.
Normally, I'd have waved her off. But she was frantic and young. I rolled down my window. "Can you please take me home?" I noticed the pallor and death stain from before was her mascara smudged about her face. "I'm a law student." "Please." I waited until I saw both her hands holding nothing. "Please."
I opened the door. I said, "My fiancée's going to kill me."
Turns out, she was more afraid than I was, though less of a coward. She cried and tried to make small talk. As far as I could tell, her story was true: her boyfriend left her on her 28th birthday, somehow stranding her on the side of Claiborne. When I dropped her off at the Garden District mansion she lived in, she was incredulous that she had no shoes.
--
Afterwards, I was exhilarated as I told Linda. But what I was thinking the whole time is this: why don't we stop for anyone? Often I see accidents or people with car trouble, and the most I do is feel guilty. Same goes for chairs in the middle of the road, abandoned animals, and certainly hitchhikers. Something's changed here. Maybe it's New Orleans, maybe it's America. But you don't stop anymore.
I think to myself, what if I hadn't stopped this time? But worse, what about all the times I haven't stopped?
In terms of culture, New Orleans bills itself as the big easy, right? A place where people can get along and help one another. Cajuns think this of themselves too. So does about any culture I can think of. But the truth of the matter is that something's gone awry. Nothing is safe. Except maybe the lone hitchhiker, a 28-year-old blonde in a cocktail dress sans shoes.
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est New Orleans. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est New Orleans. Afficher tous les articles
dimanche 23 mars 2008
vendredi 14 mars 2008
The Real Meaning of Poetry, with temperature and supreme fictions
So in New Orleans, the temperature is very high. I would say hot, being that Sunday when I left Moncton it was snow-storming. Not an awful snow storm however. Spring is here.
Two days ago, I was in Dartmouth, Massachussetts giving lecture/readings on my poetics and Cajun poetics and Southern poetics--which provided an interesting/bizarre experience for me and my audience, who were, as you may have guessed, barely a few years younger than me.
The first class I spoke in was a Southern Literature course, where I discussed some of the main issues of the American South in poetry, i.e. sense of loss, bewilderment with contemporary society but a longing toward it, sublimity in nature qua token of a past long gone. Then I read my section of Evangeline about leaving the South. I talked about how Komunyakaa and Ammons left the South. I talked about how postmodern poetics require that the poet be at once the ambassador of a specific cultural element but must remain elliptical in his relationship to said culture. Etc. Etc. In any case, the students were impressed when I referred to the Acadian diaspora as le grand dérangement and my characterization of Pigeon Forge in Tennessee. Which could be, as one student described, "wicked hot!"
The second class was Culture and Language, to which I addressed the obvious Cajun elephant in the room. Everything was quiet, etc, until I read the entirety of my Rougarou sequence, which as you may know, is a murder mystery/epic poem told mostly from the perspective of a young gay male prostitute. The class was hushed and engaged. They even debated among themselves the ambiguous outcome of the end and their favorite voice (between the working boy narrator and the extratemporal Rougarou). Students came up to me afterward to compliment me for giving them something entertaining and touching. Students who maybe never read poetry were enthralled by a poem with admittedly hard-sell qualities (controversial characters, huge length, etc). And while the offers from U Mich and Cornell are flattering, validating, and chanceux (and the "apologies from other schools disappointing), this is really what poetry is about. Touching. Moving. Thrilling. And for this reason, I am proud to be part of a literary tradition.
The final class was more informal with me discussing the creation of a Supreme Fiction from the shards of modernism, ruin value, and Cajun culture and history. The course title was Advanced Writing and Thinking. I read from both completed sections of Evangeline and essentially answered questions about craft and poetics.
Now I am living the high life in New Orleans--visiting and wedding planning and eating. A welcome change, believe me, after being in total transit for almost 100 hours in the last two weeks.
Two days ago, I was in Dartmouth, Massachussetts giving lecture/readings on my poetics and Cajun poetics and Southern poetics--which provided an interesting/bizarre experience for me and my audience, who were, as you may have guessed, barely a few years younger than me.
The first class I spoke in was a Southern Literature course, where I discussed some of the main issues of the American South in poetry, i.e. sense of loss, bewilderment with contemporary society but a longing toward it, sublimity in nature qua token of a past long gone. Then I read my section of Evangeline about leaving the South. I talked about how Komunyakaa and Ammons left the South. I talked about how postmodern poetics require that the poet be at once the ambassador of a specific cultural element but must remain elliptical in his relationship to said culture. Etc. Etc. In any case, the students were impressed when I referred to the Acadian diaspora as le grand dérangement and my characterization of Pigeon Forge in Tennessee. Which could be, as one student described, "wicked hot!"
The second class was Culture and Language, to which I addressed the obvious Cajun elephant in the room. Everything was quiet, etc, until I read the entirety of my Rougarou sequence, which as you may know, is a murder mystery/epic poem told mostly from the perspective of a young gay male prostitute. The class was hushed and engaged. They even debated among themselves the ambiguous outcome of the end and their favorite voice (between the working boy narrator and the extratemporal Rougarou). Students came up to me afterward to compliment me for giving them something entertaining and touching. Students who maybe never read poetry were enthralled by a poem with admittedly hard-sell qualities (controversial characters, huge length, etc). And while the offers from U Mich and Cornell are flattering, validating, and chanceux (and the "apologies from other schools disappointing), this is really what poetry is about. Touching. Moving. Thrilling. And for this reason, I am proud to be part of a literary tradition.
The final class was more informal with me discussing the creation of a Supreme Fiction from the shards of modernism, ruin value, and Cajun culture and history. The course title was Advanced Writing and Thinking. I read from both completed sections of Evangeline and essentially answered questions about craft and poetics.
Now I am living the high life in New Orleans--visiting and wedding planning and eating. A welcome change, believe me, after being in total transit for almost 100 hours in the last two weeks.
lundi 24 septembre 2007
Passéisme
There is something in cultures that invariably turn them into Passéisme. This word, I've encountered in a manifesto by contemporary Acadian artists, is used to attack the obsession of a culture with its own past. In Acadian letters and art, it is evident by the constant referral to three events: the idyllic origins of Acadie, the deportation, and the renaissance of Acadian heritage in the late 19th century with the founding of Collège Saint-Joseph.
This phenomenon does not limit itself to my small community and her culture. Take for example the culture of New Orleans, which obsesses over the idea of a decadent, bohemian port city that thrived until about the end of World War II. The truth in New Orleans today has been unveiled and laid naked under horrifying light by Hurricane Katrina. The city has a 70 percent poverty rate, structural incompetence, and ghastly crime, yet people still talk about this magical and fictional version of the city. Perhaps this is a good thing--afterall, it keeps the morale up. But it can only be truly useful if it urges the people of New Orleans to rebuild her city and change their attitudes about justice, social sustainability, and everyday life. Although I am skeptical, because I see the simulacrum of New Orleans competing with any valuable progress.
Likewise, in Acadian (and by proxy Cajun) community, a lot of the cultural energy is spent on tableaux of the past. I will recount my first encounter with this, when I traveled to Bouctouche for the exhibit, Le Pays de la Sangouine.
Sangouine was a character in the work of Antoinine Maillet, the mother of modern Acadian literature and theatre. In the park, one can listen to monologues by people who are dressed as Maillet's characters and who perform them in little buildings decorated for the period, which I guess is either right before or right after the deportation.
The land there is truly beautiful and most of the spectacles occur on a little island accessible by a foot bridge (although there is a golf cart that drives people back and forth, driven by a Lirette whom I had not the pleasure of meeting). When I went there, it was a clear, windy day.
When I arrived on the island, I went directly to where I could hear music, coming from a bar. The band was energetic and talented. They sang songs in French, even some from Louisiana. Afterwards I wandered. I met a guy, a Girouard, who was the inhabitant of the lighthouse. In the light house there was a statue of a monk with a mirror suspended over his head. The head was cocked all the way back so as the monk could view his face. The statue was at one point the masthead of a boat.
This Girouard and I talked about a few things--the presence of Lirettes in New Brunswick, the plight of the Acadians and Cajuns, his trip to Lafayette. He said that after driving 2300 miles to Louisiana, "it was like coming home." He also discussed black culture with me, a conversation I tried to avoid. He told me the Cajuns, "That's blacker than nigger." This is an example of ethnocentric passéisme. Apparently, he is also a clairvoyant.
I went back to the music.
This phenomenon does not limit itself to my small community and her culture. Take for example the culture of New Orleans, which obsesses over the idea of a decadent, bohemian port city that thrived until about the end of World War II. The truth in New Orleans today has been unveiled and laid naked under horrifying light by Hurricane Katrina. The city has a 70 percent poverty rate, structural incompetence, and ghastly crime, yet people still talk about this magical and fictional version of the city. Perhaps this is a good thing--afterall, it keeps the morale up. But it can only be truly useful if it urges the people of New Orleans to rebuild her city and change their attitudes about justice, social sustainability, and everyday life. Although I am skeptical, because I see the simulacrum of New Orleans competing with any valuable progress.
Likewise, in Acadian (and by proxy Cajun) community, a lot of the cultural energy is spent on tableaux of the past. I will recount my first encounter with this, when I traveled to Bouctouche for the exhibit, Le Pays de la Sangouine.
Sangouine was a character in the work of Antoinine Maillet, the mother of modern Acadian literature and theatre. In the park, one can listen to monologues by people who are dressed as Maillet's characters and who perform them in little buildings decorated for the period, which I guess is either right before or right after the deportation.
The land there is truly beautiful and most of the spectacles occur on a little island accessible by a foot bridge (although there is a golf cart that drives people back and forth, driven by a Lirette whom I had not the pleasure of meeting). When I went there, it was a clear, windy day.
When I arrived on the island, I went directly to where I could hear music, coming from a bar. The band was energetic and talented. They sang songs in French, even some from Louisiana. Afterwards I wandered. I met a guy, a Girouard, who was the inhabitant of the lighthouse. In the light house there was a statue of a monk with a mirror suspended over his head. The head was cocked all the way back so as the monk could view his face. The statue was at one point the masthead of a boat.
This Girouard and I talked about a few things--the presence of Lirettes in New Brunswick, the plight of the Acadians and Cajuns, his trip to Lafayette. He said that after driving 2300 miles to Louisiana, "it was like coming home." He also discussed black culture with me, a conversation I tried to avoid. He told me the Cajuns, "That's blacker than nigger." This is an example of ethnocentric passéisme. Apparently, he is also a clairvoyant.
I went back to the music.
Inscription à :
Articles (Atom)
