First Friday

The Rochester artist community started a monthly event dubbed First Friday (a successful venture in many larger cities around the US). I stumbled onto the premier event in October by chance, November’s was interesting with low attendance at some venues and high attendance at others. This latest–third, for those counting–installment grew in venues and complexity. Performances with restricted temporal occurrences were on the schedule which required pre-planning — gasp! I only attended three events, the fourth one on my agenda was postponed (Studio 354, where Rachael Hetzel was supposed to have some work displayed–which I was looking forward to after seeing Kelly Jacobson’s work at last month’s event.)

The first event was a poetry reading by Tony Leuzzi at my favorite used book store in Rochester, Greenwood Books. The book store never occurred to me as such a venue; its book-laden walls, piles of new arrivals, limited space, and yet, before me lay two columns of folding chairs lining the already narrow passageway leaving an even more narrow passageway between them. The seats were filled, the poet was standing silent. He had probably been reading moments before my late arrival was heralded by the chiming bell attached to the door. I silenced the bell with my finger. The reading commenced.

Tony Leuzzi at Greenwood Books.

The reading itself lacked character (like a mediocre actor in a poetry reading scene), but the poetry had lots of character, so that averaged out. His imagery was superb but his logic seemed flawed, that does not average out. I don’t recall specific lines, so I can’t clarify through example, but I’ll try to elucidate my point, which may only be something I perceive because of my brain’s hardwiring: I believe his intense imagery and his logic provide a negative feedback loop.

He supplies the scene in wonderful detail, but is unable to successfully supplant the next image. By leaving little to no freedom in the first image he has trapped the listener’s mind. Rather than take advantage of this by piling and pushing this image, the poet follows with an image that is incongruous with the first. Originally, I thought it was intentional, but I saw no clear need for such a device. When it repeatedly occurred in other poems, I surmised that the poet was unintentionally inconsistent and probably unaware that his style is slightly stifling. Regardless, I did enjoy his attempt at a Texas poem entitled Commerce, TX and its intentional play on words. The Gay Cowboys poem was steeped in subtle sexual euphemisms, which were fun to decipher in real time.

The next event was at the nearby Rochester Contemporary, where the member’s show guaranteed a large turnout. The art was familiar, artists’ styles were consistent, and I was naturally disappointed since I saw little to no evolution. More so, the pieces nominated for awards were not my picks. If it were up to me the top three would have been some permutation of Colleen Buzzard, H. T. Coogan, and Jim DeLucia. Okay, Colleen Buzzard would have to be on the top of that list. Her work appeals to my taste because it gives a calm and quiet appearance yet demands attention. It strikes a favorable balance lacking in many of the other member pieces which often holler “Look at me!” only to disappoint when you do. Another thing about her piece that I really admired, but it did not influence my ranking, was that it was not for sale. Rachael Hetzel had a nice piece up as well, but I was reserving judgement for her show at Studio 354 (whimper whimper).

The final event I attended was at the VSW. Matt Walker’s Iroquoia and Yichun Lin’s Lost and Found photograph exhibits were on display along with a series of the workshop’s limited run books. The photograph exhibits were unappealing to me. The ideas were sound and full of integrity, but their execution seemed to lack foresight, provided little insight, and were overall, haphazard. The limited run books were a pleasure, I couldn’t believe that I was holding some of the out-of-print books. The temptation to dash out the door, down the two flights of stairs, and into the night was high. I imagined my life with Agnes Denes’ Isometric Systems in Isotropic Space - Map Projections and Bonnie Gordon’s Anatomy of the Image Maps According to Merriam-Webster’s Third International Dictionary of the English Language and had to summon every last ounce of honesty left in my body to keep me from performing this seemingly easy crime. Desire is the root of all evil. Sigh.

Required Viewing for the Nincompoops

But seriously folks… come on!

Winter

So cold. Eleven degrees when I woke up this morning. Eleven degrees, what does that mean? I’ll tell you. It means the average energy of the particles I find myself immersed in on the walk from the abode to my vehicle, from my vehicle to my class, etc., is 33 meV, discounting windchill. By comparison, the air immediately surrounding me, i.e. a layer a few molecules thick and against my warm, blood-filled veins has an average energy of about 38-40 meV. How can 5-7 meV make this cold feel like hell? Because heat goes where it isn’t. And my body is trapped in a futile attempt to warm the subfreezing air around it.

I imagine it could be worse, so I’ll stop complaining about the temperature and complain about the snow. For three days it snowed. As if the coming of December jogged winter’s hibernating memory. It was a mess. I watched the snow fall, trying to track single flakes amongst the descending masses. Another exercise in futility but this one is by choice and, maybe, with a little more success. I can track a snow flake until the background prevents me. It isn’t other snowflakes that muck up the experiment, it is snow-covered awnings and roofs in the distance. They create a pseudo-blind spot.

I watched the snow so much that streaks of white were burned onto my retinas. When I close my eyes, I can still see the snow fall. In the electric warmth of my bed, this kind of snowfall isn’t so bad.

The

I learned about this technique one can use to get to sleep faster. The technique helps one vacate their mind of those freely floating thoughts that occupy one’s mind when one is lying in the dark trying to get to bed. It involves repeating the word the non-rhythmically, as if to interrupt your own thoughts.

When I tried it first, I had been tossing for a few minutes, preoccupied with my recent completion of Roberto Bolano’s Distant Star, I was ruminating on when I should start reading Savage Detectives, on one hand the. It worked, I stopped thinking. It’s like the ball thing. But then it stopped working, like the ball thing.

One the one hand, his imagination is engrossing, while on the other hand, the… (shut up), on the other hand, he has a small catalog, so once I get through his available books, its over — maybe I am not doing it right. The, the, the, the, the. Oh wait, that’s rhythmical, be more sporadic, calm down the, think about the absence the of the rhythm. the-is stupid; it doesn’t work.