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3 Poems, 2002, 2003, 2004;+ Bertie 2004;+ Station 2004,each unpub.work(c)US/LC |
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STATION, unpublished work (c) 2004, Lisa Page Weil. All rights reserved. Part One Ich gehe um der Stadt, und sofort da, der Bertie in die Naehe ist. Im Sommerzeit, wenn das Luft is klar und die Bergen gruenen, und wenn man kann die Klaenger auf die Kirchen hoeren, mit der Insecten und die Voegelchen, er und ich koennten vor Abends durch die Strassen spazieren. Die Stadt hat einen Museen und ein Bibliothek. After I was out of high school, before college, I went to Ohio to see it. I'd just finished my last year and graduated. I sang in a band, and I went to school dances with the lead singer from our rival band. I had a tiered wedding-cake dress with pastel ribbon trim along the tiers and at the neckline for the dance, and I had another one for graduation. That year, I sang every afternoon, for a few hours, and after eight, I'd type with my new typewriter: letters to my friends back home for two hours. That typewriter was an extra friend, once I didn't have to do my homework. So Del thought that if I met famous people I wouldn't be with him. But, mostly, he was deciding what he was going to do back home. My friend, Dave, was an archetypical scholar, and quiet, and a pleasant conversationalist. He went to high school, and I met him sophomore year. He lived in a house around the corner from me. I don't know whether he could hear all the noise from my side facing the road. I think he was far away from it. I had a room facing the main street and all the sound went out across the street. He never said whether it kept him from working, so I guess it didn't. After three years of school with Dave, we got our application forms for colleges in during that year in December, and we got our acceptance letters from colleges in March or in April; and we had to choose what school we were going to go to by May. I got into three and didn't know where I was going to end up. I knew that Dave was going to travel--he wanted to play music. But, I don't think I knew he was going until right before we left school, when he came over to see me or when I was over at Tabb's with my lyric sheets looking for someone. I ended up going next door one day, and Dave was there to greet me and he told me he was going to get away from school. I saw him being yelled at by an English teacher in a hall for having his arm around a girl, but he quieted down later. Dave's quiet and reclusive by nature. He liked books and music and quiet. I knew I'd be going to one of three schools; but not which one. I guess, I was on my way through the voice requirements. I didn't know I'd received acceptance letters from my audition for voice for the music department that fall, in case I'd be any good one day, which, California or not, is the only way of getting anywhere. Dave didn't know the history of that, but I'm sure he was pro. He thought everything was good, generally. Del knew the history of that, but he never thought about it. He wasn't pro or anti; I guess he thought I'd be a singer, anyway. That summer, as I said, I went to Ohio and I visited Del before we went back home. Del was going to go to school there, but I didn't know that yet. I hadn't thought about it. I thought I'd be in California after high school, from my junior year on out. After my year of voice, and my recital, when I got back home, I was ready to audition again for voice in college. I was one of seven students in voice. During college I took the requirements to go to California for a year. I told the interviewer that I was a singer, and I wrote it on my application, and I was accepted to go and study for my major. Del and Dave and school. I think they came to belong there so they must have liked it. Dave continued to have friends who weren't from school, too. Yes, Del has tried to be fair to the possibility that it's not nihilism. That it has any destructive or constructive effect. May 7-8, 1995. Socially, he says hello from doorways. I didn't think he'd get it together for the pop album--after groove and funk--the next tapes are top quality, though--they'll cross over if they're heard. He has a repertoire from the single that recurrs when it gets airplay. The other songs are not announced. The old songs are new ones. He's good. I don't think he worries about singing. When he sang recordings for pop singers; he had some of the better ones on file. It depends on what's happening. He talks about jazz, but he says that pop is alike as pop--he has new ideas for jazz and blues to pop that go back to the seventies. He knows teenagers listen to him on the radio. He's still #1 with airplay. The style and voice--and he didn't have to say much. I think he sings more. What he talks about is a part of the style and content. It's not as related a world. Everything is supposed to sound the same as the other pop songs. His evolution ideas are worth hearing. About music. The jazz lines are just pop lines, too. A lot of people copy him. You'd have to add the double-meanings back in later, though. The style isn't weighted down by words or verbal ideas, which influences many other performers. Even people who sound different listen. I don't know about the disappearing audience, so I've missed that side of it. His singles go on forever with the radio. In January, on a cold day in a seminar room, when everyone was in a hurry to leave, my new English class waited for the professor to arrive. He was later than I was, that day, which surprised me at the time, and it cheered me up, too; because no one could have noticed me get in and disrupt the class five minutes late. That was Ray's good side, that he was often late, and that he led the class as he got out of his coat. Young, handsome, dynamic, casual, and smiling; he could get a small group of college students to think that he was partly in and partly already out of the class with them. He was at the blackboard to teach us how to write an essay; which I'd had in composition in Mr. Taber's high school class when I was a junior in high school. I thought I could use my old notes and organize out the paragraphs and write papers; which I partly could, because Mr. Taber was determined to prepare his class for college English, when other high school teachers wouldn't. It seemed that, the outlines on the board looked familiar, but college English required more sentences per essay, than high school English had. We all had to learn how to write a composition. We also had to read long poems and plays. Ray wore a sweater, and a dark shirt, and jeans to most of his classes. His hair was always growing out and cut. Ray was one of the new and young future faculty of the times. He acted accessible when he talked about books and what people thought of them, but he'd be just under what a student would have expected when it came to what grades he would give for effort. Every class was all easy, and none of the papers came back with what the student hoped they'd get. Everyone was good in the discussions, and no one was on their assignments. In class, he asked questions and asked for opinions. What does it say? What do you think it means? We had to read aloud, so he knew that we knew the passages, or enough passages from the book to write papers from sitting in the classroom. The class livened up through his characterizations of the themes and the narrative--and he livened up telling people about the appeal of the central characters and the outlines of the good characters, and getting people to consider what the moral might be for the lives we live now. He never talked about his field from graduate school. I mostly saw him in English class in front of the blackboard or sitting at his desk reading from a book. I hardly ever saw him around campus. Bertie: Im Büro. Ein Kinderlauf. Wenn würdest du erstmals "Bertie,"und zweitmals, "Im Büro" lesen, ein und einander, hast du ein Narrativ. Bertie: Im Büro. Ein Kinderlauf. Wenn würdest du erstmals Bertie, und dann Im Büro lesen, ein und einander, hast du ein Narrativ. I saw the lights of the Eastern seaboard from the plane when it neared the U.S.; then it landed at the airport and I was too tired to look out at the other airplanes. Inside the terminal, I went to the baggage claim, and I found that my possessions were the first to appear on the conveyor belt. customs waved me through, and I walked outside into a warm but rainy street. The shuttle bus was due within fifteen minutes. A friend greeted me at the airport. When the shuttle bus arrived, we headed for New York City, where it was late evening. I'd missed a night's sleep, and the lights in Manhattan glowed from signs at stores and hotels. The lettering looked American. Rudy and I decided not to stay in New York. At the end of the shuttle route, we bought tickets to a nearby town. The agent who sold tickets wanted to know where we wanted to go, and Rudy wanted to go out into New England for some quiet and talk. The ticket agent told us the names of a few towns where we'd be able to find hotels. I didn't have a map, and I didn't know the region well. An hour or two on the bus, and we got off before midnight, and Rudy stood and talked to a cab driver about a phone and change for a quarter. He took me over to see the man at the limo booth. At sometime between two or three in the morning, the people at the end of the line wanted to know who I was, what I was doing in town, and for a moment I thought about my visit from Germany. I told them, I was just in from international, was late, and no one was there except for a cab driver and someone who worked for a limosine service. He had a courtesy phone. Rudy and I had no ideas from the yellow pages or the white pages at the pay phone, and someone gave Rudy a number for a nearby town. I'd never heard of it, but I didn't know where I was anyway. Rudy and I got into the taxicab and he told the driver that we'd get a room for an extra ten dollars at two in the morning; the driver took us over to our hotel, where at check in we were told that we didn't have to check out early the next day. Rudy and I were too tired to stay up any later and talk, and I knew it would be a few days before I recovered from European time. Rudy read newspapers and a novel and brought me candy from a store in town. The flight back was the first time I'd been in the U.S. for five years, and I couldn't remember what I'd expected him to tell me when I arrived. After a day and a half, almost a weekend of sleep, at the hotel, I didn't feel the time change. Driving to Ohio //Going to Ohio One day, Del and I decided to get in the little car and go west. We were off to the border; one hour and we'd cross the Ohio line. After we arrived, we could visit our friends in small towns an hour from there. The summer after I came back from school and the family trip to the beach on the Atlantic, I had a red convertible that my friends liked me to drive them around in. We'd get together after school let out, and go out to my car in the lot, and we'd fit an extra person in between the front seats and drive out of the school driveway after the busses left to go home. Saturdays we could get together and go to town. We'd listen to the radio; when the weather was warm, we'd drive with the top down. The radio ran ads for shows in Ohio. At some point, three of us and the youth group decided that we wanted to see the place that FM. advertised every concert season. After we talked about driving out to see a performance, no one wanted to go. I found an ad for a performance that I wanted to see, and everyone backed out of traveling two and a half hours for a concert. My friend, Del, decided that an evening out would be a change from school's day to day life. He agreed to ride along for the 2½ hour drive. I had to go pick him up, if we were taking the convertible instead of his parents' mid-sized. During the afternoon of the show, we met and drove off to the toll booth for a turnpike card and followed the signs for west. One hour to the line and one and a half to the show. The doors opened by 7:30 in the evening. We knew that driving back late would be when we felt the travel. I don't know what time we thought we'd be back; by 3:30 in the morning. On a weekend, neither of us had school the next day. I didn't know whether I'd get a high school date to the concert; I didn't even know who my date would be for the school dance that spring. Del was going out with a friend and neighbor of mine, so he was always driving up and down our hill to go out with her. I knew he wasn't looking for a date: he wanted to see the new band that all our friends were talking about. One double-live album, and there was the ad in the paper. Special appearance, tickets at the door. We both had to see the new band, in case it was underrated and ahead of the rest of them. My boyfriend, Dave, who I saw at the school cafeteria everyday for five or ten minutes, couldn't make the show. I guess he loved music, though. He bought the records that the students played on the high school turntable at lunch. He drove around in his parents' car. Maybe he was in a quiet phase. I always thought he would have loved the show; but Ohio was two hours too far for him at 12 a.m., when it's that many more hours until you're back home asleep. At least, Del was in love with the neighbors! He wouldn't have changed his mind over me Dave would have liked the show, but he was busy daydreaming at 2 p.m. about getting out of school and getting away from it all. He would have liked the 5 hour drive both ways, once he was out of the house. Dave was worried about working. He had to find a job, in a year, so he was thinking about how much time he had left and not about going out until late and having a good time with his friends. I suppose I had a few years left without stress at home, that didn't mean, how is school and what about your part-time jobs. Part-time jobs are almost like full-time careers, once you're not at home after school every day. Your parents think you're putting the rest of your life together. Your teachers think that you're a more responsible person. Dave had a part-time job after school. He couldn't wait to be out and working. Del had school clubs and a girlfriend, and he wasn't working as much. In a year, or the next summer, he might have joined us and found a few hours somewhere. My friends in school didn't have jobs, too, yet. I sat with them at lunch everyday. We all had been in the same class section, once, but in high school, we had some of the same classes and were dispersed out. We could see each other at lunch, or after school getting the bus or going out to the parking lot and riding in my car to go home. If I wasn't working, that is. If I was working, they had to take the bus, when they didn't have clubs. They didn't have sports and clubs, but they had clubs. Of course, they mostly stayed after to hang out with the other kids we knew who were in extracurricular activities. Or they went home and went over to their other friends' houses. I'd work for my hour or two or three, and then practice singing in the car, or at home. I had two hours of swim team practice and swim meets. I couldn't believe how hard it was to make the high school team. When I was in junior high school, I'd thought about being on the high school team, but it was far from the reality of trying to make it. When I arrived at the high school the next year, once I was in the shallow end in 75 degree water looking at the starting blocks, I realized that it was going to be a new set of demands. After two years on the team, I worked after school with the college student who coached the high school and the community team, Denny. He'd commute in across town; and he'd give me advice about swimming for the high school team; and we'd swim relays with the younger age groups. I'd hoped Dave would ask me to go out with him junior year, but instead I went to the school dances with Denny. The summer after my first year on the team, I got my driver's license and drove the car, and it is only after the next months that the radio ads got my friends and I to think about traveling away. Del and Dave weren't on the swim team or the morning swim club. They were involved with other things. Another friend of mine, Doug, was on the boys' team every year. He, Ray and Tabb traded wins for three years and took the three-man relay to the extra man. If I hadn't seen Dave everyday at lunch, I would have thought about going to the school dance with someone like Doug. Dave was so tolerant and well-disposed and easy to talk to. Doug was always busy winning or getting ready to go win. In his untroubled way, Del was going to find his direction and pursue it next year. He had the drives up the hill, his friends, parents and the neighbors to plan with. The wind through the convertible kept us from talking too much as we got on the toll road. It had been a hot afternoon, and I'd put the cloth canopy down before we started out of my driveway. Del parked his parents' car at the garage so he could drive home when we got back the next morning. All we could hear was noise through the exhaust and the current of air taking it away. We decided that we were going to have a good time at the show, once we took the left turn out of the river valley and were fifteen minutes away from home. Our decision carried over into the evening. "Del," I said over the growl of the exhaust, "What do you think of the Sunspots' double live set?" "Do you think it's different." "I don't know'", he answered, "I liked the Jammin' Live double LP and I've been listening to this one recently." "Everyone thinks its art." "Yeah, I haven't decided." "Every time the industry gets a consensus going, it's all you hear about that year." "I wonder what they'll be like live. With all of those people following the articles on them standing around waiting to see them." "I don't know. They'll be with the audience, live." I could see that last state trooper from the Pennsylvania escort take a turn to go back east when we arrived at the Ohio line. I'd been watching them drive on and off the turnpike for the last 50 miles, it seemed. The Ohio border at dusk was a hilly green streak of blue as the evening darkened the uneven Appalachian ridges. "We have another hour and a half to get to the show." "O.K. I thought that Ohio was in the great plains." "It is." "We might not get to see that side of it." With the weather cooling and the air through the convertible, it seemed unlikely that we would get to see any sun-baked prairie, or stretches of summer corn, either. "It's all valleys through the winding foothills along this stretch. At least we're not going around and through the mountains. Through the scenic route. We'd spend three hours trying not to get lost, and another one trying to find the place." Driving to the show with Del, I started to realize how far it would be coming back late that evening. I thought we'd leave by 11:30 or 12:00. If that was early; three hours later would be late. 2:30, 3:00, or 3:30. at the latest. I wouldn't be asleep until 4:00 a.m. I think Del was already thinking that he'd be out the latest of the two of us. The Pennsylvania turnpike became the Ohio turnpike and listening to the road hum, I started looking for the exit. I didn't know what a small city looked like. There weren't any tall buildings at the center, but it had that impersonal hardened look of brick, soot, and concrete. Within five minutes we went from houses to stores. On a two-lane center street, we drove by the lettered marquee for the performance. The list had a month of acts before and after the date. We drove by the place, and in two blocks we found the closest parking lot and pulled in. A few groups of teens headed out of the lot and for the doors, where there was already a small ticket line. Already, because it was only 7:00 p.m. The doors would open at 7:30. With two acts, we thought we'd find our place before 8:00. We stood with the other people who hadn't bought tickets in advance, and we waited fifteen minutes to buy ours. We didn't know if there were seats or tables inside. When we walked past the ticket booth after paying, we could see that there was an expanse before the stage. Behind the standing room, there were seats, which is where we headed; having been early, and behind the seats were tables. At the back was a bar. Del and I had only added a few words here and there as conversation on the noise-filled trip. When we were getting the car parked, we had a where-there exchange during the minutes it took to go from the center street to the side street with the lot and to find a place. After getting two seats together near the middle of the room and at center view of the stage, Del went off to buy a soda while I held onto his place. He brought me one when he returned; the lights darkened after he sat down, and the first act came out. Del and I thought we'd come to see the first act, Already Owned, and we'd expected the duo to win a new audience, but we knew that the headliners had beat obscurity with credibility every year since their founding. If we didn't share that credulity; we would have talked each other into leaving after the applause and last encore from the first band's set. Lieber Rudy, Es war seit Neunzehn Jahre, wenn ich an ihm angerufen habe. Ich habe mit ihm drei Minuten gesprochen. "Hallo, ist Rudy da?" "Ja, ich bin Rudy." "Guten Tag, Rudy! Ich heiße Lira. Ich habe dich in einen Konzert spielen gesehen. Es war soviel Impressiv, auch: drei Perfekten Tagen." Ich war eine Studentin an der Universität, und ich studierte mit deinen Freund. Vorher, studierte ich der Gesaenge." "Wie kann ich dich hilfen, dann?" "Ich habe kein mehr seinen Adresse, weil ich fünf Jahre aus der Stadt wohnte. Hast du für ihm eine neuere Adresse?" "Ja, nur ein Moment. Ich werde es suchen." "Ich habe eine neue Adresse. Er wohnte jetzt nach Ohio." "Sehr vielen Dank, Rudy. Ich will ihm anrufen. Auf Wiedersehen." "Auf Wiedersehen." Rudy hat den Telefon zurück gesetzen. Saturday Downtown Carl drives a van, custom-painted, and he wants to resolve his marriage, so he's not saying where it left him. When Carl looks at a painting, he says he can see the rings and haloes glow off the paint and he can find them when he goes outside and looks at streetlights. His friend, Dave, says, Carl is the star, not the lights. He's the logo magic marker kid. You can start off with your friends and your records and practice, while Dave's off with his music book, practicing. Dave, after leaving the record store, gets his friends around him and goes out to the Avenue. They're going to get the hand drawn logo art screened in color at the copy store. Carl has spent two weeks drawing and coloring and he and Dave lean over his portfolio. "If you don't want them, Dave, I'm going to take them around in a folder." Dave frowns no, "No, Carl, then I'd have to try to do my own." Dave has little facility for color art and drawings; he's not going to be left alone on art. "It's good, Carl. I don't know which one I like. Do you think I should get one on a shirt?" "We could get some shirts, but I don't want to pay for it, Dave. I could be working downtown." Carl frowns, "I'm going to do it, Dave. They're going to take me." Carl is going to be an artist of some kind. He doesn't paint, but his friends think he might get work. He's putting together a portfolio to show his styles and ideas, and the more pages he adds, the better chance he has of getting noticed by a department. He's thinking about getting a job with a newspaper, but people tell him, he won't like it once he has it. He's not sure that he couldn't get used to it and keeps his folders separate to show potential clients for his designs. Dave won't pay him for his work; he can't, but he admires the drawings off and on and will probably like wearing them or putting them in front of people on albums. Carl works in magic marker. He goes to the copy shop to try out transparencies like vis eds in class. His choices of matte color show his designs at their most fundamental, he thinks, they; they run by the configurations that he layers out. Carl's friend and he argue about drawing. His friend likes detail laden pencil work, inked and graduated, but Dave thinks his visual impact puts him into a newer group of drawings, and that the older styles will gradually be out of style. His friend is sure that his drawings will never go out of style, and that Carl's a long shot to get placed. On Saturdays, they get together with their drawings and with Dave to go to see what's new in town together. They always put papers with their latest ideas out on tables, to see what people think. And they always go over to the copy shop with them. Instead of his multi-layers of instruments and instrumentations, when Dave talks, his friends listen. Dave's tables are too small; the papers don't fit on them. You can't sit four at them. Saturday's at Dave's. Dave and Carl go to buy costumes together: velvet and polyester-ruffled; for Dave Hawaiian prints and tie dyed t-shirts. Over a year, they'd come back from the movies, go over to their manager's, and, sitting around listening to the radio, they'd start talking about whether the scenes were right for the show. They'd talk about staying up for the concert hour at twelve, and Dave would go home at ten. Dave listens to F.M. airplay, leaves at ten, and talks about art. It wasn't pure estrangement--just the departure from then. We weren't estranged, because he loses his individuality and gets changed around from life. It doesn't give him much of the life he lived. So he couldn't relive what it would be like to find someone who was the right person to marry. I would marry someone I loved for life. He didn't like my leaving him, instead of relating to him. And he thought that's what would happen after we were older. So what we were saying, is that after we were out of college we thought we were living our lives the way we would when we got older--from there on out. He thought I'd fall in love with someone and marry them when I got older. He didn't think I'd marry him anymore. Nach eine Stunde, Bertie, wer ins Schreibzimmer war, schnell um die Ecke durch der Universitäts-Allee ging. Er hat ein Paar Seiten beendet. Schriftlichen Arbeit hat ihm eine Stunde Stumm gelassen. Drei Freunden, und eine Beruftsbekannte ihm erwartet. Sicherlich, war er über der früh Hochzeit schon froh. Carl and I are almost the same age. His cousins and I spent weekends together working at the flower store. We'd walk down the paths to the greenhouses and talk. Rudy and I were often off by ourselves. The rest of the time, we were all together: Dave, Carl, Rudy, and John. We'd sit for hours in front of the T.V. at night playing Chinese checkers and games. When I went away to college, it was the first week in September. At the end of the week, I saw Rudy standing next to the door by a classroom. He was talking to a stream of students. After I met Tabb, which was later that fall, I moved to his apartment. He lived next door, and long after we broke up, I'd see him around. In the summer, my friends and I would read outside, and Tabb would walk by every day on the way home. His friends and I would talk about their plans to become writers after graduating. The musicians were finishing their last year, by then. So, although, I last saw Rudy when he walked out of the music department and never came back, I actually saw him off and on until he graduated. I suppose he'd planned the opposite. Rudy played a radio theme song in the Midwest one year--when it was on, I thought about what a great song it was. We didn't have it when we lived together. Usually the night theme was from the Sunspots. Late nights with the first albums instead of Saturday music. Rudy visited college to rehearse with his friends. They were going to perform that spring. Rudy would show up for rehearsals for each of the shows. He'd arrive Friday evening, and the musicians would get together to practice and work on parts of their songs for the weekend's performances. Saturday afternoon, and they would be working on their show. Rudy had below the shoulder dark hair back then. He'd stand and listen or play depending on what everyone was talking about. On occasion, he'd talk about what they were trying to put together. When he wasn't rehearsing, Rudy was writing with the other musicians after the Sunspots--before the reconciliation. Every weekend, I had to be in a practice room to practice for my voice lesson. Off and on, I'd listen and watch the musicians; then I'd go and stand at the piano with my music. When I wasn't in my practice room, I'd occasionally see them walking by the building. I was sitting at a table, when Rudy walked through from rehearsing to take a break at noon. He was insular and striking. I went to the performances. Each show impressed the audience. Everyone talked about how original they all were. I'd seen Rudy every time he visited the college without having met him. On the last weekend before the last show in the spring, I went to the music department to practice. Friday evening, and I don't know whether I walked by the rehearsal before leaving practice. Saturday afternoon, or morning, late in the morning, I walked by for the last rehearsal day, when no one would have to worry about an impending performance within a few hours. The musicians were playing, and I went back to my practice room. After 15 minutes, I thought they might be finishing up--so I walked out to the bench outside; they were still playing. Then I went to bench and sat down to hear when they were going to stop. After a while, they stopped playing, and I couldn't hear anything for a minute. I looked in, and they were talking about music. I waited until they weren't concentrating, and then I knocked on the door. Rudy's friends said come in, and I went in and walked over to ask them something. Tabb introduced me to Rudy. I said hi to Rudy and he said hi; Rudy stepped aside, and excused himself politely; then, turning to leave, I nodded bye to them all, before I walked out of the room, leaving them to rehearsal. They were silent until the door closed, and as I was returning to the practice rooms, they began playing. I returned to my lesson song for another fifteen minutes. Then I left the building. The final concert on the next day, was as good as the rehearsal, and after all the applauding and leaving, Rudy went back home, and I finished up my last term at college two weeks later. Yeah, you can write in going to California and athletics and division cuts and not write a novel about it. Then you could write in Ray and talk about his criticism and the New Age; someone not conventional, and not in the same field at any time, but a part of the arguments about books in school. Rudy's music school and your departure into literary criticism; which got you through Mr. Taber's class and their novels. He taught literary criticism and Taber publishes volumes and volumes of literary criticism. You got an article of literary criticism in. You had a submission in scholarship instead of art, a philosophy postulate on subjectivism from rationalism, contributions to scholarship on the lyrics, a voice recital and some songs. After college, Ray went to graduate school in creative writing. He was a writer out of college for a living. He went into newspapers for a short time, and he's still a writer, a novelist. In contrast, you went back to school, had three years of writing after college, and wrote for graduate school in literature and in German. Ray probably got assigned the class because he had a background in it from California, and because he was an artist, instead, so he could talk about what that means to students, who are also influenced by art. Maybe the other professors didn't want the class, so he got it. Yeah, and the government is a critic, instead; like Taber, who is easygoing instead of upfront about the significance of criticism, being in government. The opposite of a California artist like Ray, who thought there were few critics, but many approaches to criticism and to critical writing, so you know what your options are afterwards if you canvas what is published and influential. You can write a number of types of criticism and get read; you can separate the schools of thought instead of confusing their elements; or combine elements; you know what is influential and published and talked about in academics. Yeah, so you didn't have to have an artists' opinion of criticism because of Taber and his voluminous departures into world literature, all of which were influential and published. You would write about literature; maybe world literature has ideas that are too big for a scholar out of graduate school. No--but it's scholarship. It depends on the thesis or exposition; what it's about and what purpose it serves--Ray wrote his own criticism and got it published, too. In their language, it's not always influential; it's opinionated. In schools, it has more scope: it makes students think about what they're reading according to what someone has thought of it. Yeah, it's like writing letters to the editor in essays and opinions; everyone argues their side of it. In other words, if you can write scholarship, you can write novels; it doesn't preclude that possibility. At the Beach What about John? He's playing with his band, and he doesn't meet anyone to get involved with after his band becomes successful? Everyone likes him. Is he always in someone's arms, or is he on his own, and often in someone's arms? Then someone meets him and falls in love with him, so how do they meet? At a beach hot dog stand in Laguna, California. On the way to the beach, where he has a book, beach towel and sunglasses. They know where he is because they have a friend in common from England. Coming out of the walkway? Before he gets to the parking lot, his friend says, "Hi, John, I'd like you to meet someone." And John, unglared in his own sunglasses, says, "Hello. I'm John. How are you," before he can even see the person. He goes on, "I'm getting my postcards out of my car; I'll be right back," And they go on out to sit in the sun of Laguna beach, when the tide is out. Not that he's always out getting a tan, but just one day in the breeze listening to the children and the seagull is what he had hoped for on his drive cross country out to California. John doesn't live in California; he's taking a break from stress. He goes to get the cards he wanted to send to his friends, and his manager, and goes back out into the sand. It's before the tourist season, so the sand is grey and the sun isn't burning bright. It's overcast and clouds are blown over the sun off and on. But it's warm and the air is clear. John goes back to his towel. His two, now two, friends have picked a spot away from where he is and he waves them over. "Who told you I was in California?" "Carl." "Carl?" "Yeah." "Oh," he answered. "I won't ask you how that is." "I want to ask you how that is." John is careful not to let any thought of the band cloud his mind. He sits and keeps his sunglasses on, so that he doesn't get that glare, and is quiet. "I brought a book," he said. "Oh," they said, "we don't want to disturb you." John is thinking, "should I read this, or should I rest and wait until next week before I think about anything." "Yeah," he thinks, "at least it's not Carl, Dave, and Dale, and the manager, for one day. I thought they must have shown up in a bus for a second, or rented a car they got at the airport." John doesn't want or not want company; he just wants quiet. So he peacefully stays on the beach while his new friends look at the waves. At first, they were going to inundate him with questions about the traveling and recording he'd done, but the hour stretched by in an easier silence than they'd hoped for. They didn't know how many questions they'd had. After an hour, they decided to leave John at the beach, so they started to get their bags together, and John asked them where they were staying, in case they wanted to meet him sometime late, after he'd gone back to his hotel and got ready to go out. They hoped they'd meet him. They said they'd talk to him on the phone. John didn't mention his girlfriend from his return from the last tour. He thought about his ever exciting social life, and thought; "I don't want them to go." Then he thought, "But I should meet them and tell them about us." So a once opportunity to go to California and meet John, brings John and his two friends next to each other for an hour, without them ever having talked about the weather, the sun, and the kids playing. They go to California to meet John on a beach towel, and they find him in a parking lot without even a radio, because he wants to be far away from it all. After he gets back to his room, he changes, showers, and lies on the bed listening to the breeze from the air conditioner, which he left on vent. He knows he's too tired to do anything after going away from the noise, crowds, friends, and the noise of the city and the airport. His head aches. He can't decide whether he wants to go back out. Finally, he calls his new friends. "Hi, this is John. You met me at the beach." A new fan of his says, "John, I was just thinking; I'd rather talk to you than go downtown. Maybe we could see each other tomorrow afternoon. Will you be around?" John says, I'll be here, if you want, we'll go for a walk downtown. I can barely move. I think it's the heat. The hour was too much for me. I was out all morning, anyway. I'm going to rest for a few hours. Do you want to hear about the tour?" "I'd love to hear about the tour. What happened," she says. Well, we were opening for well-known acts, and the crowds seemed to like us, and they all came around to see us. We had a lot of fun. I've only been away from the next album for a week." "A week. You mean, it's going to be out soon?" "No, it will be out next year, if the company takes it." John sounded believable. He hadn't been out for a week; he was getting a new album recorded; the more his fan heard, the less she knew what to say. And they had hardly said "hello" on the beach. "I'm from Connecticut," she said, "near the seaport." "Oh," said John, "do you go out there?" "Sometimes," she said, "but tourists go out there." "This beach isn't like the small resorts and restaurants there. I think it's better to wait, so I can figure out what it is that tourists are going to here." "Maybe it's too bright. I can't figure out where I am." "Do you want to talk to your friend?" "Sure, put her on." "John, I forgot to ask you about the tour. I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy out there. You looked happy. Did you get that book read?" John thought, "Happy; read; I'm squinting into the horizons before 10." "No, I'm saving it for when I get used to being here. I'm only going to be here until I've been; then I'm going back. Just joking; because it's too far, to just turn around." "Well, I don't blame you for getting out here before summer." "Yeah, by then I'll be getting ready for next year. Did the band remember me? What are their messages? They didn't want me to bring them back key chains?" "No, they wish they were here, believe me. They send their best wishes from all of them." "O.k., I'll have to call and see what's happening, now that I'm gone, after I've been out here a few days more." "Why don't I call after 12 and before noon, when we're more sociable," he suggested, "then we can see what's downtown and get some idea of where we are." "O.K., that's great, we'll talk to you tomorrow." "O.K., bye. See you." John puts down the phone and looks out the window. He can only see the sky and the clouds and the top of the next building. He decides that he can't stay up any longer. He goes to sleep, and he forgets about everything. "Where are you going, John," Carl asked. "Laguna beach," he'd answered, as though he'd thought of it a year ago. "Sound's great," said Carl. "Write me a postcard." "O.K." said John. "Now he's sleeping it off." What about Dale? He's touring, and he goes back to England, and he meets his future wife in a store. He is back home again, for a time. He decides he's happy to be home, and he's happy to be off tour. Dave meets his wife after a show, going out and standing around with the band saying hi to people. This is before they become famous. Before he is written about or known. Carl hasn't met his wife. He is thinking about his life and what he wants in five years at the time. Dale leaves to go to college. He travels and becomes a professor. He writes for a travel magazine. I was thinking the other day, about what Rudy said about rehearsal. I had to wonder, when did he find that was where popular success would lead him? After my school reunion, around the fourth of July; I left New York and traveled to see Bertie. The plane stopped in the west for over an hour in the morning, and once it arrived it was around 2 p.m., and the passengers waited in the airport to go through customs until evening in the July heat. When I went out of the airport and got a taxi for the train station, everyone was friendly, and I couldn't understand anyone. At a late time in the night, the train was leaving for the University, and I made sure that I had enough money from the exchange at the airport. I bought a train ticket and I took the overnight to the University. The train arrived so early in the morning, that the sun was coming up, and everything was closed. There were no taxis at the station. Someone helped me to find a taxi, and it took me to the University, where everything was closed. I had to sit in the entranceway for two hours before anyone arrived to meet me. The staff signed me in and told me where I'd be staying, and the man who came out to meet me spoke English. He took me to a tourist hotel, where I had an omelet and jam for breakfast, because I didn't know what the summer schedule of events was going to be. With coffee and rolls. The summer classes hadn't begun yet, and my host was worried that I wouldn't be able to find my way around the town or get anything at the stores. There was nothing scheduled for that day. That afternoon, I was taken to my room with a small group of foreign students who'd arrived that day. I was in a single room with a water pitcher and a window, on a hill where you could see the town. Around evening, a translator, came to get me and two other visitors who had arrived early, and he took us out to a park where visitors rented boats to paddle around a lagoon, where we sat at an outdoor café restaurant and were served a lamb and vegetable dish. As I said, the translator, whom the University had called early in the morning; could speak English; and he was going to be my host all summer, until my language classes were over. He was the host for foreign students until the official class schedule began early the next morning. I studied through early fall; and we walked through the town during the day and had language during the day. We also went on tours to sightsee. I had classes in language with a writer, whose most recent paperback book was in the bookstore. One afternoon, I was turning the corner at the bookstore, and walking up the street to the University; when I saw a man in his early thirties, with long brown hair, disappear into an alleyway next to the department offices and lecture rooms. He was tall and looked like he came from a different country, because his appearance was so modern that he might have been from Europe. I was with the group of foreign students coming back from a city-excursion, and one of the translators hosting us, told us that the man taking a short cut to the class buildings was a writer named Bertie who had spent the previous year there, and was finishing his stay that summer. We walked by the alley and saw no one, because he'd gone through faster than our host could talk to introduce us. I had to wait to be approved to study with Bertie the next year. The academic term would start that fall, and I was to take a language class. Then I could continue in German. The room in the tourist hotel faced the mountains and the town. I could look out over a tree and see the church clock that rang a bell every hour. In the morning, I heard roosters crowing, a few of them, and after sleeping through what seemed to be an extra day to recover from two days without rest, I began to look at my surroundings. The room wasn't small, only medium, carpeted, with a single bed and woven wool blankets. Sheets, pillowcases and pillows had been folded on the corner of the mattress. The room was red, but the paint was old and not bright. A wooden table that was to be used as a desk had a pitcher for water. Maybe it had a glass on it. The closet door opened out into the room; it was a wooden door. My suitcases filled the room next to my bed, and I thought about whether I'd unpack them or leave them packed. A different translator, one that I had not met before, knocked on the door and introduced himself. He would be with the foreign students, as would the first person I'd talked to, the one who spoke English and took me to the lobby restaurant. The translator, who'd written to me when I was still at home, checked a list of names, and I'd been accepted. Two or three students still had not arrived, and the administrators didn't know whether they'd visit. The discussion about the foreign students took a few minutes, and then the translator wanted to leave. The city was not warm in the summer. The air stays cool during the days. The students that were expected had not arrived, and it was already evening. I was told that the translators who accompanied us spoke English, often in addition to many other foreign languages, although I could not understand them. None of the other students were around to meet. The university had nothing scheduled for that day; the first event that would bring the foreign students together would be the next day; and it was getting late. The town looked new and familiar. My host mentioned that I might get lost walking on my own and invited me to a restaurant by the park that was down the mountain from the hotel. I could see the park from my window, but not how to get through it, but I couldn't see the lake at the end of it with the boats for rent. People were out in boats on a small pond as it was getting dark. The professor ordered supper for both of us at the restaurant, and he bought us both the same meal. I don't remember what it was, but I think it was a local dish. I couldn't read the menu. The English-speaking host went back home earlier that evening, so he didn't have to entertain visitors. The translator told me about his wife and family; and he told me about English class. He apologized for not speaking very good English, and explained that his colleague, Bertie, was a writer and teacher. He would visit with the foreign students later during the program, and often stopped by the University for lunch. We would all meet when the program began the next day. I had a schedule of all of the classes and excursions and times in four or five different languages. The next morning, he said, the translator would show us the way to get to the University before eight o'clock in the morning. Classes began after the most typical roll and jam and butter that we would be served with coffee. The next morning, I'd meet Bertie. He publishes books. Another teacher would teach students who already knew some of the language; intermediate and advanced students. I'd be with the beginners. Every morning I'd go to class followed by lectures in the afternoon. As visitors, we'd travel through some of the neighboring cities. July. Train to the University. Arrived early morning. Taxi through town. University deserted early morning. Taxi stopped in front of the entrance. A student directed me to the administration office, where I waited. The staff greets students before they walked to classrooms and offices. No one had arrived at the university early. I showed my letter, and I was told to wait. The first person to greet me in English and welcome me for the summer was a person who hosted visitors. He would be able to tell me what room and building I would be assigned to, and until he arrived I could go to a tourist hotel's restaurant with a translator and have breakfast. The hotel served me an omelet with dark jam, salt and sugar, and a piece of white bread. A small sweetened cup of black coffee arrived. I think I had a glass of water, but I was sleepy from two days of travel including the train journey, overnight from the station, and I only half listened to the words as the translator and I conversed. My host showed up before nine, or just after nine, and gave me a key to my summer room. Someone showed me where the town was, and I moved in several suitcases I'd brought with me and a letter. The letter from the University invited me to visit that summer to decide whether I would study with Bertie durng the year. Notes. Sound of town. Days. Dusty streets. Back route hard to follow to town, other way easier to learn. Walks past streets, alleys, and side-streets. Mailboxes and envelopes. Spring. A letter for a summer visit to the University arrived at home. I took it from my mailbox after I returned from school in the afternoon. The envelope contained an invitation. Tabe's late at night, for get-togethers everywhere. You can go over to Tabb's. Park in the lot and talk and smile and wave at Dakota Tabe. Colorado Tabe. He had a cardboard cutout by the door. |
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