Worthy Site: The Literary Type

The New Quarterly’s blog, The Literary Type, is my secret addiction. (The Zsa Zsa Gabor workout video on YouTube used to be my secret addiction, but I tweeted about that last week, and well, it’s no longer a secret.)

I love it because it’s fun to read (I love Rosalynn’s true confessions that she loves TV, especially when the Chicago Bears are playing) and that they featured Vallum as part of their Mighty Small Magazines featurette.  I also like the insight into the small mag world and the day-to-day at TNQ.

 

A Very Special Vallum Holiday Celebration

On the twelfth day of production, my circulations manager gave to me….

twelve misplaced commas
eleven cheques uncoded
ten reviews a-editing
nine printers breaking
eight poets reading
seven repairmen swearing
six interns folding
five direct mail campaigns!
four website updates
three renewal letters
two Eds-in-chief
and a manuscript in a pear tree!

Thanks for being great this year!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM EVERYONE AT VALLUM!

 

Boo! Halloween Haiku!

It’s the day before Halloween! Whether you call it Mischief Night or Devil’s Night, you’re probably either frantically putting together a costume for tomorrow using cheese cloth and toothpicks or buying a large quantity of toilet paper and eggs. Whatever you’re doing, take a moment to enjoy these Halloween inspired Haiku by Vallum workers Maja Romano and Drew McKevitt:

Sweet tricks: tissue, eggs.

Lights inside flick on. Scramble

quickly little feet!

-Drew

What kind of trick is

this? Raisins are not candy!

Don’t knock on that door.

-Maja

I’m tall for my age,

maybe wearing platform shoes…

Just give me candy.

-Drew

Sweating in my mask

as I drag my burden home;

candy feast awaits.

-Maja

Delicious and bright:

Jack carved lanterns from turnips.

Safe pumpkins tonight.

-Drew

We will share a cold,

dark interior, ignore

requests at the door.

-Drew

Fat Jack O’ Lantern

glowing brightly on my stoop.

Hallowe’en is nigh.

-Maja

Happy Halloween everyone!!

 

Sir Hudibras and the Ivory Tower

As the summer months drew to a close, Sir Hudibras began to feel a certain chill in the air, and in his bones. The time was drawing near when he would have to return, not to the flashy Castle Indigo, not to the baroque Palace of Art, but to the stark, spartan edifice of his quiet youth–the ivory tower.

The road was long and winding, strewn with obstacles and dangers, labyrinths and puzzles, byzantine bureaucracies and steep registration tolls. And worst of all, the path to the ivory tower was flanked by tomes, not tombs, mind you, but gigantic, heavy tomes.

Although a born philistine, Sir Hudibras was constitutionally incapable of resisting a good tome. As such, his trek down the path to the ivory tower was always much delayed. This year was no exception; the first tome he came across was heavier than most, denser than most and, consequently, more irresistible to poor Sir Hudibras.

The tome began “Those trained in literary critical habits of thought are usually enamoured of ‘concrete illustration’; but since I reject the idea that ‘theory’ is acceptable if and only if it performs the role of humble handmaiden to the aesthetic work, I have tried to frustrate this expectation as far as possible by remaining for the most part resolutely silent about particular artifacts.” Having established that Terry-Eagleton-don’t-play-second-fiddle-to-nobody, the author went on to establish his theoretical work as akin to “the symbolist poem, [which] generates itself up entirely out of its own substance, projects its own referent out of its formal devices, escapes in its absolute self-groundedness the slightest taint of external determination, and takes itself as its own origin, cause and end.” This gave Sir Hudibras pause; was Eagleton admitting that he was making up his philosophy as he went along? He had always felt terribly highbrow while reading philosophy but, if it was entirely made up, in addition to having no objective referent, then what pragmatic use could it possibly have? In other words: what the hell was he reading it for?

His question was answered in the next page when Eagleton turned his razor sharp pen on Schopenhauer, calling him “crotchety, arrogant, and cantankerous, a scathing Juvenilian satirist who professes to believe that the Germans need their long words because it gives their slow minds more time to think.” Oh yes, thought Hudibras, I remember now; I read it for the cat-fights.

With that thought tucked into his back pocket Sir Hudibras continued down the path to the ivory tower content to know that, once within its walls, he wouldn’t be the only one suffering from constant humiliation; perhaps he and Schopenhauer could even commiserate over an existenz-verzweifelnd cup of kaffee.

 

Sir Hudibras and the Palace of Art

Last week found Sir Hudibras embarrassing himself in a palace of consumption. This week, although our protagonist and his affect remain the same, however, finds him in a dramatically different locale. Instead of the metropolitan bustle of the Castle Indigo, Sir Hudibras has found himself on a pilgrimage to none other than the Palace of Art.

Located at 201 upon a Fair Mount, this palace is a wonder to behold. Four courts it had, East, West and South and North, in each a squared lawn, where from the golden gorge of dragons spouted forth a flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row of cloisters, branch’d like mighty woods, echoing all night to that sonorous flow of spouted fountain-floods.

But contrary to the popular account given to the palace by Tennyson, the palace was more than a foursquare storehouse for objets d’art. Five sibyls, once in a blue moon, were known to descend upon the Palace, slipping through its ever-open door just ever so slightly past 7:00pm and, beneath its eaves, whispering the variegated poetic truths. Their insight and wisdom in matters of Aftfulness was rumored to be immense.

This insight was what Sir Hudibras was after. You see, our hero was never blessed with anything resembling an artistic soul. No, instead he had been given a spirit of tinfoil and soot. Although it had served him well, he had a large interior decoration project ahead of him, and hoped the sibyls might offer some guidance; he much preferred to be told in plain English what was gold and what was manure before hanging either on the wall, and he was certain the the sibyls of the Palace of Art would be the best candidates to make that distinction. Herein, dear reader, lies the seed of the latest in Sir Hudibras’ interminable series of weekly humiliations.

For as the first of the sibyls began to speak, he realized that her words were not the variegated poetic truths spoken in plain English at all, but rather the language of poetry itself. This first sibyl, her name was Drew McKevitt, spoke of eggs and incisions and the unutterable intrusions of toast. The second, one Ilona Martonfi, spoke in measured tones of rooms left empty for days. The third, Danielle LaFrance, whispered of womanhood. The fourth, Jeffrey Mackie, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and spoke in the voice of Andy Warhol. And finally, Jesika Starnino, strummed upon a guitar and sang out a tale of bitten arms, of excessive spirits, and of an inarticulate man who was unfortunately–even tragically–hip.

As their rite drew to a close, Hudibras’ face drew a deep blush; though moving, the words had not been the secrets of Art; he was as much a philistine now as he had ever been. How embarrassing; he had come all this way and not heard a single decree, nor dictum, nor instruction. Nothing but the minutely timed release of metered words into the atmosphere. “What a wasted pilgrimage,” he thought, “now I will never know which of my spoils to hang upon the walls of my abode.” Yet even as this dull thought trundled across his mind, Sir Hudibras turned to see that, behind him, a crowd forty strong had gathered. They must have followed him along the twisted trails of his pilgrimage, but they certainly didn’t follow him along the doubtful path of his conclusions. Each of those metered words, it seemed, had fallen upon the shoulders of the gathered crowd and was, even then, continued to whisper delight into their ears. 

And the moral of our story then, dear reader, is that even artless turds stumble into good venues now and again.

 

Sir Hudibras and the Terrible Dragon, Continued

This week we find Sir Hudibras where we left him, behind a shelf of overpriced bookends, deep in the labyrinth of the castle Indigo, in the realm of Eaton, far far away from the remnants of his dignity. On his way to this spot he had been buffeted by ardent fans of one David Sedaris and wracked by his bourgeoning fear of that self-same author. Would he turn out to be as fearsome as he had grown in Sir Hudibras’ mind? Was it true, what Sir Hudibras had read, that Sedaris had a death-grip on the minds of North America’s anglo-saxon literati? Only time would tell. And so Sir Hudibras waited, nay, cowered behind the bookshelf, dreading the monster’s emergence.
And then, there he was! What a beast! What a scourge! He towered over the audience at the monstrous hight of…. approximately five foot five. He loomed! He glowered, terrifying and resplendent in his…. button down shirt and khakis. He opened his mouth wide, oh so wide and… and he…. he… chuckled.
Sir Hudibras was not impressed.
After all this travel, all this suspense, after all the indignity of his crushing fear, Sedaris was nothing more than a benign gentleman with a handbag. Sir Hudibras sank into his disappointment and his embarrassment and his chair with deep shame.
And then Sedaris began to speak. He told the audience how well dressed it was, overall. They laughed. He talked about his patchy success in learning Japanese. They laughed harder. He reminisced about his attempts to quit smoking. He dwelled on the absurd English signage he had seen in Tokyo. His devotees dissolved into hysterics. Sir Hudibras let out a giggle.
As the reading continued, Sir Hudibras’s giggles only multiplied. Giggles sprouted chuckles which bloomed into full on guffaws. By the time Sedaris was encouraging the junior members of the audience to capitalize on their youth and go into sex work, Sir Hudibras was rolling in the aisles… and this was not the kind of joke Sir H usually went for AT ALL.
By the time Sedaris was finished, Sir Hudibras was completely won over. He swooned behind the shelf. His face burned with blush after blush at the thought that the crown prince of prose might sign a copy of his book for Sir Hudibras… if only he had copy. He scurried around, desperately trying to find one, gripped by the twin lusts of covetousness and consumption.
That is, until he saw the book itself. When you are Engulfed in Flames shrieked the title, in letters whiter than the scull grinning out from the cover. Sir Hudibras gasped and leapt back, stumbling into a long line of Sedaris devotees who failed even to register the disturbance, so profound was their concentration on the author.
The shock had shaken Sir Hudibras from his stupor, however, and soon it all became clear. The jokes about his mispronunciation of the japanese word for ‘dragon,’ his unmistakably burnt umber handbag, the thin threads of smoke which constantly curled from the nostrils of this alleged non-smoker. All of his fears had come true; Sedaris was a basilisk as cunning as he was powerful, and Sir Hudibras had nearly succumbed to his wiles. As sedate reader after sedate reader filed towards him to have their $40 hardcovers signed, Sir Hudibras fled.
And so, dear reader, the mystery is resolved: Sedaris is monstrously compelling, and Hudibras is mousy and meek. Yet, as he scurried out of the castle Indigo, Sir Hudibras reflected that, though their dignity is scant, mice who squeak and run away live to save about $25 dollars when they buy the paperback edition another day.

 

Sir Hudibras and the Terrible Dragon

This weekend, while perusing Stuff White People Like, that parodic encyclopedia of hegemonic taste, Sir Hudibras came across an article on one David Sedaris (http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2008/01/26/25-david-sedaris/). He was intrigued by the roast the literary superstar received on the site; could it be true that Sedaris has entrapped the white imagination in his iron, if humorous, grip? Could this unassuming little man possibly command the entranced adoration of anglo-saxon literati and lay-readers alike? Had he turned North America’s light skinned illuminati into little more than dim witted devotees? Could it be true?

“What kind of monster must he be,” Sir Hudibras wondered, “in order to wield that kind of power?”

Luckily, he needn’t wait long to find out. That very weekend, this crown prince of prose was reading from his new book. The reading was to be held in the great castle Indigo, in the kingdom of Eaton, where vast piles of gold and riches accumulate behind shelves of books recommended by the revered Queen Oprah.

Upon entering the great castle Indigo Sir Hudibras found that, as per usual, his quest was doomed before it had even had the chance to begin; Indigo was no less than a gleaming labyrinth of polished wood and velvet ropes. He was hopelessly beguiled. 

He did his best to take refuge from the hordes of Sedaris enthusiasts who roamed the labyrinth, attempting to find a seat near the man’s podium (or was it an altar?) only to find himself hustled behind a wire shelf of merchandise. Never one to let a compromised position get him down, however, Sir Hudibras took a seat behind the shelf and found it, surprisingly, an outstanding vantage point.

“What a boon,” he thought, “and if our encounter comes to blows, god forbid, I’m sure these $40 paperweights will make a formidable bludgeon.”

While he still had a moment, Sir Hudibras surveyed the scene. The labyrinth was filled–it was undeniable–with a throng of very very pale people. They stared expectantly, clutching Sedaris’ books, and awaiting his appearance. They were anticipatory, it’s true, but were they enraptured? Were they entranced? Was Sedaris truly a devilish beast who held them in unholy sway? Only time would tell. So Sir Hudibras too, waited for the author to appear. 

And so must you wait too, dear reader, for your narrator has run out of both parchment and patience. Will Sedaris turn out to be man, or monster? Will Sir Hudibras reveal himself as man, or mouse? Answers to these questions, and so much more, will come to light in the next harrowing installment of the saga of Sir Hudibras.

 

Sir Hudibras Takes Flight

So we all know that old saying about disguises right? The one that warns us that if we hide behind a mask for long enough, we become the thing which we pretend to be. I think it goes something like this: “Stop pulling that face dear, or it’ll get stuck that way.” Well, Sir Hudibras never suspected that the effect of hiding behind his nom de plume would be so fast-acting. Merely one week after adopting the name of Low Burlesque’s answer to Mr. Bean, my humiliating misadventures have already begun.

And so it goes: Once upon a time Sir Hudibras was embarking on a short quest. Montreal to Toronto by horseless carriage, then Toronto to Vancouver (round trip) on Ye Olde Air Myles, and then back to Montreal.

All was going well, in terms of humiliation, until the second leg of the trip; apparently the fellow who was meant to be seated beside Sir H. was attempting to evade criminal charges, but had been convinced to leave the seat vacant, in favour of more spacious seating arrangements in jail, by the helpful Air Canada staff. This left old Hudibras mercifully free to stretch out his weary questing legs. 

So far, so good.

Legs akimbo, Sir Hudibras opened, with the utmost dignity, his copy of The Dore Illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy.  Page after page of gory high-art unfolded beneath his eyes. The hurricane of the Lustful, the headless Bertram de Born, and the Blasphemers, scorched under a rain of fire. Neat stuff. Visual poetry at its depraved best. No cause for humiliation here.

But then…. oh then. Sir Hudibras looked up, and what should he see but a sweetly disheveled family headed his way, flanked by a stewardess, heralding the end of his fortuitous comfort.

“Would you mind if this precious little girl sat down next to you?” she asked. Then, turning to the precious girl in question, she asked “You’d like to sit down next to this nice man, wouldn’t you?”

Nice man looked at precious girl. Precious girl looked at nice man. He tried a wan smile. She wasn’t buying it. He confirmed that he was a nice man. She scraped her buckled shoes on the carpet. He promised not to bother her for the whole flight. She seemed to like that, and tried a wan smile of her own. He shifted in his seat to let her sit down. Her eyes fell on his book.

It was all over.

Sir Hudibras imagined how the dismembered corpses in Dore’s hell must have swum under her eyes as they filled with tears. And then the whimpering. And then the wailing. And then the a shrieking even the erinnys could be proud of.

“How humiliating,” Sir Hudibras thought, as he stretched his weary questing legs back over the empty seat.

 

My Name Is Sir Hudibras

“Oh, and one more thing,” she says. “Could you write 500 words on something vaguely poetry-related for the blog?”

         “Yeah. No problem.”

         “By Wednesday?”

         Eep.

         What’s an intern to do?

         The first step, it would seem, is to hide my scant knowledge of all-things-poetry (and my dignity) behind a red herring of a monicker. So out comes the trusty Glossary of Literary Terms – thank you, Mr. Abrams. The page 27 entry on Low Burlesque looks promising: “The Hudibrastic poem takes its name from Samuel Butler’s Hudibras (1663), which satirized rigid Puritanism by describing the adventures of a Puritan knight, Sir Hudibras. Instead of the [...] traditional genre of the chivalric romance, however, we find the knightly hero experiencing mundane and humiliating misadventures which are described in [...] a ludicrously colloquial idiom.” Well, slap me silly and call me Betty! “Sir Hudibras” it is, then.

         The second step, I suppose, is to find a giant on whose shoulders I can ride, a monolith of the Montreal poetry scene upon whom I can build my own shabby temple to Apollo… a mentor in the ways of the muse… or just some schmuck off of whom I can leech street-cred. Whichever’s easiest. So I Wikipedia’ed “schmuck” and, lo and behold, I’m linked to the article on Leonard Cohen. In which of Lenny’s footsteps should Sir Hudibras follow, I wonder, to effectively hide his ignorance among the literati?

 

Spend youth in Westmount. Check. Although Sir Hudibras can’t say he’s soaked up much of the poetic flavour around Vallum’s Westmount office, he has soaked up a lot of puddle water displaced by discreet old dowagers shooting out in their Mercedes on errands of mystery.

 

Study Irving Layton with gusto. Check. While Sir Hudabris never got the chance, as young Leonard did, to actually study under the recently deceased Layton, he did attend the eerily pre-mortem eulogy delivered by Brian Trehearne for the CBC. Them’s “fighting words” if I ever heard them, Brian.

 

Prolong an undergrad degree at McGill with a 5th-year Victory Lap. Check. While Cohen used his final year to publish Let Us Compare Mythologies, however, Sir Hudabris may or may not have been busy comparing mythologies with some of the more dashing students… if ya know what I’m sayin’. How Leonard found the time, I’ll never know. Sir Hudibras, however, vows, from this point forward, to lay his paramours aside in order to provide you with some of the best vaguely-poetry-related posts the blogosphere has ever seen!

          

         Which, I suppose, brings me to the third step: make wildly extravagant promises to one’s

 

audience and, in attempting to fulfill them, try to avoid mundane and humiliating misadventures.