a place to resist

Reading has been a fundamental part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s something that has always been stressed as a noble and necessary activity for enlightenment and pleasure. My family of origin is loaded with readers and as such book are a good common ground. One of the side effects of this familial bond is an interest in how the sausage is made. I like reading books about writers but more than that the good interviews that one so seldom sees. That urge coupled with a weekly trip to the periodicals section of the only bookstore to which I have access put “The Paris Review” in my hands this past weekend. It’s been a brilliant read and brought to the front of my mind something that has been bubbling for a while now.

I’ve mentioned a million times how tough it is to be creative in this era. There are no more rules. There are moments of fashion that come and go with the twitter stream and because they are so ephemeral, it’s hard to imagine being out of sync with the world for two weeks is going to be the end of a career. In the absence of rules and standards and schools there is no room for rebellion because everything and nothing is a reaction to the atmosphere. That’s a hassle.

my notebook right now

In several places I have heard about a recent trend in literature toward eschewing the “confessional narrative.” My first brush with this change in the wind was on a poetry podcast. But then I saw it on a book blog. And now in “The Paris Review.” It must be true! Writers and critics are pushing against something! It makes me jealous.

The brief analysis I’ve done (which consists of reading a blog or two in my RSS feeds and hearing a podcast) leads me to believe that it will be short lived but not without some noise. Sounds more to my untrained ear like kicking the “I” of the world that resonates in blogs and bad poetry. It doesn’t matter. It is a reaction. Something has been found for authors to push against. Maybe it sounds silly to make such a big deal about it but I’ve been pushing this brick wall with my forehead for years now with no motion at all. Musically anyone can do anything. The “innovations” are mostly tricks of technology whose novelty, if there is any, is assimilated so quickly that we forget its origin as quickly as the taste of an onion in a pot of chili. You know, like that one YouTube video of that woman who has the loop pedal and plays all of the instruments? Wait. You mean the looping thing has already come and gone? Huh.

(NB: The music produced by KT Tunstall is wonderful. I don’t mean this disparagingly in the least.)

It may sound as though I want something to exist simply for me to tear down and that’s so true. How many pages of history are devoted to those who did something new by flying in the face of the known? Perhaps I could start a movement with the expressed intent of destroying it. But that would probably be labeled as a repeat of Dada-ism. Or worse, would be called “Dada Two-Point-Oh.”

Picking up this scent has put me into a mind of finding a similar something in music. With music criticism dead and relegated to the 1 to 5 star ratings on iTunes it won’t be easy. Sorting fashion from criticism with a longer view takes work and most of what I see bubbling here and there falls more into line with quick reactions to particular pieces or albums. But I have hope that there’s something out there.

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