Barding through Pamphlets

As my summer job was winding down last year I thought to myself "I need to create additional sources of income for myself. I sure would like to be able to make money off my writing somehow..."

That is how I became a pamphleteer. It's actually really fun to create your own series of chapbooks. I had enough material to produce five different chapbooks, three short stories and two poetry collections. After finding the cheapest printing available in my area I printed out about twenty copies of each, all told. Possibly more, though it's difficult to remember now. The cost of doing this was low. The plan was to sell the stories and the large poetry collection for five dollars each and the small poetry pamphlet for a dollar.

Plans change. I found quite early on in this endeavor that selling my work was much harder than giving it away. To most people on the street, the idea of paying to read something is offensive or stupid, or stupidly offensive. I'd ask people if they like like to read, and many of them simply replied "No, I'm illiterate." I think most of the strangers that paid for my pamphlets assumed I was homeless. In the end I was satisfied if I was able to cover the cost of printing the pamphlets.

You might think that this turned out to be a profitless exercise. You might be right. I certainly took my time coming to this conclusion, but I have also noticed some unexpected benefits of carrying around a stack of strange stories.

For example, you may have heard of the Seattle Freeze. In theory, this is a physical principal that prevents native Seattleites from being friendly or rude towards one another. Many out of towners complain that any "howdy" or smile, or even rude gesture proffered to a stranger on the street is invariably met with an indifferent gazing in the opposite direction. This is mostly true, except on the bus. You always thank the bus driver for the ride or you are an asshole.

So having a stack of things you want to share is a good way to introduce yourself to strangers around town, as long as you don't lead with your stream of consciousness poetry pamphlet. Strangely enough, it turns out that almost everybody is from out of town. I wonder what that says about the Seattle Freeze? That it's an import? I don't know.

If you don't charge, you will find that there are enough people interested in reading something new around town to make the whole thing worthwhile. Other unexpected plums manifested in the form of four edited manuscripts ready to submit for publication by reputable presses and not RAMS copy center. Even the scorned stream of consciousness collection found a surprising niche: Bums love it.

No kidding. I will sometimes give a bum a cigarette, or a quarter, and I am well aware of how little giving a bum anything is going to help their situation. Something I also became aware of is that transient life is boring and repetitive. All day long you make faces at strangers who mostly seem disgusted by you, and you guilt or charm them into giving you money, which you might spend to quell the gurgling in your gut or the pounding in your temples, and then an hour later the gurgling, the pounding returns. At night, the same pine cone jabs you in the back every time you move, and the most exciting part of your day is if you get robbed or arrested.

Enter "Sunday, Seattle" a small unassuming pamphlet that fits nicely in my front pocket. When asked for change, I'd give the asker a copy of the pamphlet, and warn them that the whole thing is for entertainment purposes only. As I've said, I've given out change and cigarettes before, but the gratitude in return for these acts is always minimal and then you will be asked for something else, something larger. These pamphlets brought genuine smiles to the lips of those homeless folks who read them, and genuine gratitude as well. I was not expecting that, but it's a good deal for everyone concerned I think. I should print up more.

As a side note, I should mention that Pamphleteering WILL NOT get you chicks. Fair warning.

The Curse of Duncan Carbunkle Production Stills

Always wear a mask for safety










Don't get sloppy, Alan









Director Seth Wessel-Estes lays down some science










An awesome crew








Act one of the movie has essentially been shot. Here's a photo of me on set. As an AC/PA it is my duty to cater to the demands of our DP's, which sometimes involves getting dirt out of their carpet.

A review of "Reality Hunger" by David Shields

“Reality Hunger: A Manifesto” comes out next month.

In telling the origin story of this book, David Shields begins by describing the household of his childhood, where journalism is the ruling religion.

David Shields began his career in writing with three works of fiction. Reality Hunger is anything but. Is it essay? Is it prose poetry? Is it a collage or confession?

Yes.

Is there a narrative?

Yes. The narrative in Reality Hunger is the story of literature through the ages and up to the modern day, with it's modern dilemmas. It is also the story of the author's own struggle with writing and language throughout his life.

Some quotations from the book and David Shields himself:
“All art is theft.”, “Art is not truth. It is a lie that enables us to recognize the truth.”, “There is no way that a non-fiction work is 'true'.”

Reality Hunger is constructed from a series of numbered paragraphs organized according to theme and random flashes of inspiration. Shields did not write many, if not most of these paragraphs. As the scissors and paste man, however, he can take credit for the subtext inserted between each passage.

In Reality Hunger, you will find citations for all quoted passages in very tiny type. This is in the interest of legality, and against the author's will.

More quotes from the author: “I want the reader to experience that uncertainty.”, “The reader not being able to tell who is saying what.”, “Don't read the footnotes or I'll come after you.”

If Reality Hunger can be said to come from anywhere, it would not be from a desire to lay the facts out flat. The facts presented in this book may conflict with one another or magnify each other until a rich texture of thought pushes out and away from anything you've read before.

There is an urgency to Reality Hunger that can't be ignored. If you can imagine reading “Les Miserables” or “Moby Dick” with all the plot cut out and cast aside, perhaps you can imagine reading this book.

“Fiction is meaningless.”, “Novels are often so languorious as to be catatonic.”, “You're wasting my time.”

What do you get when you cut plot from a novel? You get a series of ideas, and a ton of questions. In the case of Reality Hunger, these questions come with high stakes. What is reality? Why do artists try so hard to preserve reality or truth in their works? How can they even begin without knowing what truth is?

Reality Hunger is the screen. David Shields is the magic lantern. In this theater, are you the rapt audience member in the front row, or the old man asleep in the back? Or somewhere in between?

Legend has it that Werner Heisenberg was once pulled over by a cop. “Do you know how fast you were going?” asked the cop. “No,” said Heisenberg, “but I know where I was.”

One interpretation of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is that by his very presence, the observer alters what is observed. This interpretation has little to do with quantum physics, but it's an interesting idea.

I can't tell you what you will experience when reading Reality Hunger. I am trying to tell you what I experienced.

“I was bored to death writing fiction.”, “I found my life raft.”, “If you want to get on my bus, here we go.”

Hack Work

So maybe I'm not really a professional photographer after all.

If I was a professional photographer, I'd know my camera inside out. I'd have my own printers. I probably wouldn't be able to sell my photos at the prices I do, but I'd know what it meant to be a professional photographer. As it stands, I am more of a hack.

But maybe I am a professional musician. Having been paid a cool five bucks by the Sunset Tavern, and with a check from the Cherry Street Coffee House coming down the pipes, it appears I have finally realized my dream of getting paid to make music. It's not much, obviously, but it boils down to less hack work than my real job. I think. Whatever. Still a long way to go.

Another day Another dollar

Well, after a month and a half of writing and jamming, I can add another pastime to my list: Photography. Not that I can post any of the pictures I take here on the Internet. They are not mine to post. They belong to my employers, which is fair, since they provide me with the film and the camera.

What is this secretive, enigmatic employment I speak of? Is it some kind of spy work? FBI? Bird watching? Good guess, and kind of. While I haven't seen hide nor hair of Xena the Hawk for a while, I have been seeing a lot of ducks...

That's right. I take pictures of ducks. Professionally.

I get the feeling that I'll get tired of hearing the chorus of "YMCA" play as the tours roll in, but not yet.

In the meantime, I get to stand around trying not to get sunburned and meet small waves of tourist/passengers and take their picture and guide them towards their boat/bus contraption. After an hour and a half, when the passengers return, I sell the picture to them. Enough boats come in and go out every half-hour that you keep yourself pretty busy. It's pretty fun.

At about 4:00, the shadow of the space needle falls over our tiny parking lot. It's pretty cool. A short eclipse.

Anyhow, now I can add Photography to the list of professional (however loosely defined) trades I have held, joining Technical Support, Driving, Machining, and Hospitality. Whereas when it comes to the trade of Writing, probably my strongest skill, I am still an amateur.

Weird.

SRJO

A word about the Seattle Repertory Jazz Orchestra. They are pros. No doubt about that. Know how I know? I'll tell you.

Every song has different sections. In Jazz, there's also a tendency to allow players to take solos over a certain part of the form. How long will a solo last? When do you move to the next part of the song? This could all be written down, but the important thing is communication. The band leader of the drummer can easily signal for a change at any time if everyone is paying attention. This is a mark of the pros: they are ready for anything.

For example:

On the evening I attended, their last song began with an elaborate and improvised piano solo. He began gracefully and beautifully, but as he played, one of his sheets of music started to fall from the stand. He caught it with scarcely a musical blip and was back to business. The sheet leaned forward again, and again he caught it. As his solo became more and more intense, however, the sheet finally fell fully off of the stand and drifted gracefully into the audience. Soon another sheet followed. Sheet after sheet of music peeled off of the stand until soon all of his music was scattered around and off the stage. The intrepid pianist played through to the end of his solo, and the rest of the band came in on cue. Calmly, the pianist left the stage, collected his music, and rejoined the band unobtrusively.

It was cooler to see than read about, let me assure you. You see the things you can miss out on if you don't scrounge around for free tickets once in a while?

On a side note, stuff like that always happens. Always. You want to see something cool happen? Play some music.

Cross town tour

Everybody knows that the best thing about Seattle is riding the bus, right? As the most economical form of cross town travel, some efficiency is sacrificed. Also, you never know who you'll end up sitting next to. That hot girl? That old lady? The dude who is off in his own world and then pukes in his lap? Buses kick ass, but sometimes they feel a little dangerous. Everybody who is on the bus is there because they must ride the bus. In a city this large, some distances can't be practically traveled by foot. The bad hip, the blind eye, the empty pocket, these are things the average bus riders might have in common.
Enter Billy. His full/real name is unknown, but probably something patriarchal, like William James III. This guy has been places. He's seen some things. If you ask him, robbing a bank is a perfectly reasonable way to overcome financial troubles. If you want his opinions on automatic weapons you don't even need to ask. He feels as though he rides the bus by choice, even though the reason he's not on his bike is because of the DUI. If you ask Billy, though, there are very practical ways of reversing that situation that involve little more than some strategic application of the right to bear arms. Billy has been selling his time and labor for an ungrateful wage for twenty years now, and he's getting tired of it. I did not have the balls to ask Billy what he would do if he got fully tired of it. I hope Billy remembers that everyone on the bus is there for the same reasons he is.
For who do we throw our lives and wages away? Where should Billy direct his inevitable anger? Can the United States government possibly represent this poor asshole? To me, Billy is represented by his choice to get off the bus, taking his backpack with him, and go have a beer. What was his other option? It was a good choice. For all of us still on the bus, what choices do we have?
I for one enjoy catching a free concert at Benaroya Hall, gratis a The Seattle Repertory Jazz Orchestra. It was spectacular. Just watch out for weirdos on the way there!

Finance

Yesterday I traveled downtown on a bus. The bus ride was free with my U-Pass. Next I went to Westlake center and bought a Mango Lassie, $2.00 even. Outside Westlake, there were several street musicians, some of whom I recognized from the U-District. A friend of mine claims to have made $80 playing music in exactly that spot.

Next to the fitting room in Macy's, there is a small TV. It was playing CNN. According to some dude on CNN, the big govt. democrats are going to turn the federal government into a hulking behemoth that will devour all prosperity in it's path.

Obama, you are welcome to it! I doubt I'll ever know the difference.

Inside Nordstrom, I was already appalled, and so were they. I was wearing my cargo shorts and wool shirt(my clubbing gear, natch), they were all wearing suits and expensive cologne. How expensive? Too expensive. The man who was helping my roommate, Kevin, pick out a sportsjacket was quite helpful, though, and didn't discriminate against us just because we were poor white boys and he was a black man in a suit. He was pretty chatty:
"Here try this on.", "What do you need the jacket for?" "So you're musicians then?" "What's a bard?" "I dreamed I was a saxophone player once, in Jazz Alley, filled with smoke, I was just up on stage blowin"
Kevin picked a jacket he liked. 51% cotton and 49% linen. It looked good, and it was the right size. I noticed that while he held it up to the light I could see through it. We asked him what the price was.
You ever hear the phrase "If you have to ask, you can't afford it?" It turns out nobody actually uses that phrase, they can say it all with a look.
"I'm sorry" Said Kevin, "I can't buy a jacket that costs more than my rent."
Random stranger interjects here: "A suit should always cost more than your rent."
Kevin: "But how will I keep it clean when I'm sleeping on the street?"

Thank you, helpful suit man. Thanks to you I now know what size I should look for when I hit up the thrift stores on The Ave. And thank you for being willing to assume that either one of us could actually afford that jacket.
Or...
This is what happened next:
"Well sir, if you don't have the money now, would you like to open up an account with the store?"
No, no, no, get me out of here!
"If you open up an account..."
We (Nordstrom) will own you. And your suit.

No thanks. I want to look nice for my job interviews, not desperate.