writer | author of Cake Time
This month’s love note is about death and mountains and guns and Chekhov. It begins thusly:
One evening a few weeks ago, I got lost in the mountains. I was on a road I was pretty sure I’d been on before, but in the post-sunset dark, all the pine trees looked the same. Google Maps wouldn’t work — I’d crossed into an AT&T dead zone. Then my phone died altogether.
Bears will be out soon, I thought. Meaning I could be dead soon. I started panicking. I broke into a run.
Yesterday I drove toward a gigantic fire! Today I’m breathing smoke! More on that, Lake Arrowhead, hiking with friends, and the nomad life in my latest love note.
Last month I quit my job in the middle of a pandemic! I’m happy about it. More on that, suicide, fuck you funds, and freedom in the latest love note.
If you’re looking for a dark summer vacation read, check out my latest book review in the Los Angeles Review of Books — “Too Close to Home: On Yun Ko-eun’s The Disaster Tourist.”
Here’s a little excerpt:
All the upheavals of 2020 perhaps make now the perfect time to read Yun Ko-eun’s latest novel, The Disaster Tourist. This slim work centers around Jungle, a Korean travel company that caters to people’s love of gawking at accidents. Jungle coldly quantifies natural catastrophes and human suffering into tourist dollars, designing tour packages that tug at people’s heart and purse strings.
Read the rest at Los Angeles Review of Books!
Last month I moved to Tucson — temporarily — and discovered this city’s filled with Little Free Libraries. More on that, serendipities, chance encounters, and summer life in the latest love note.
The poets arrived in style, wearing trench coats and velvet gloves, combat boots and platform Mary Janes. They slunk around looking dark and dangerous — though the day was preternaturally bright, a perfect July Saturday in Los Angeles.
The event: The sixth annual Poetry Circus. The brainchild of local poet Nicelle Davis, this annual extravaganza is described as a community event that “blurs the line between performer and audience to allow everyone the chance to run away and join the circus.” In more practical terms, The Poetry Circus combines zippy poetry readings with circusy joie de vivre at the merry-go-round in Griffith Park. When I arrived around six, the crowd was lazily milling about, getting their faces painted and leafing through chapbooks of poetry at the tables literary presses and organizations that had set up around the area.
The theme for 2019 was Circus Noir, which is why fashions ranged from film noir to circus punk. I was one of the poets invited to read, but if there was a memo about coming in costume, I missed it — and showed up in a sundress.
Luckily no bouncers enforced a dress code, though there were a couple men in three-piece suits and fedoras who swashbuckled around like they might soon enforce — something.
We soon found out what that something was: poe-hibition! No poetry allowed! Nicelle announced in a faux-tremulous voice that readings could continue — so long as the words didn’t make anyone feel anything.
And so with cheeky aplomb, round one of the circus acts began. “I think you better get ready! I’m about to go to jail doing this,” Douglas Manuel declared before launching energetically into his first poem.
The performances were as moody as the costumes. “Red is so needy, so eager to spill on the floor,” read Armine Iknadossian in a slow, sensual drawl. She wore long velvet gloves. She applauded the other poets by tinking a long cigarette holder against a martini glass. Jennifer Bradpiece also had her accessories: lace fingerless gloves, striped stockings, and a tiny hat with feathers pinned to hear head. Sample line: “You slip a peach pill between pink lips.”
Between readings, the fedora men kept up the poe-hibition ruse. “There’s no way these are poets,” one declared about half way through. “They’ve been incredibly timely!” It was true. Each of the twelve poets in the round had been given just four minutes to read, and for once everyone stuck to the limit — likely because Nicelle had sent out a simple yet effective warning a few days before: “YOU WILL BE KICKED OFF STAGE BY THE NOIR TEAM, if you go over your time.”
As the first act ended, I thought: Maybe all poetry readings should be limited to four minutes. They’re so much more enjoyable that way…. I was about to go looking for the snack table when Nicelle declared: free merry go round rides!
Then there was a puppet show from the Bob Barker Marionettes.
The first Poetry Circus happened six years ago. Since then, the annual event has brought hundreds to the park. This year’s event, of course, was the noirest.
The sun set. Things got ravier as Nicelle and other organizers handed out glow lights and neon party hats and snake bracelets. The second round of poets went up, then the third — my group.
Awards for most noir-circus outfits go to Ivey Merrill who came in a black goth-ish cheerleader type skirt and black platform Mary Janes (sample line: “Temporarily, razors can help”) and Melanie Jeffery with her purple hair and Doc Martens (sample line: “Cinderella’s doing time for prostitution”).
Here’s one of the poems I read:
Then suddenly, it was over. The fedora men gave their final poe-hibition threats. Nicelle thanked the audience for coming and asked us to help clean up by folding up our chairs and taking them to a designated corner. I did that, then I found the snack table and ate cookies.
Then we all walked across a grassy hill to the parking lot and drove into the starless night.
The Poetry Circus will return in 2020, though the exact date hasn’t yet been set; keep it on your radar by following the Poetry Circus Facebook page, and support it by making a donation through GoFundMe.
All photos by Andrea V, except for the selfie taken by Liz Rizzo on the merry go round