Category Archives: Books

Books Music Poetry

Lou Reed (1942-2013)

Sunday, October 27, 2013

I’ve been under the weather the past two weeks, ever since getting back from Brooklyn, where I gave a poetry reading with Patricia Spears Jones. I was barely able to keep up with my teaching assignments, let alone post an entry to this blog. The news today of Lou Reed’s death sends me to the keyboard, though, despite still feeling less than at my best.

One of the best pieces I’ve read on Reed so far was by Greg Kot in the Chicago Tribune:

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-lou-reed-dead-20131027,0,4221650.story

I dropped Greg a note to let him know how much I appreciated his article and mentioned that Brian Eno’s comment (“and everyone of them started a band”) was more accurate than we suspect, if we expand it just a bit to include all artistic activity. It’s certainly witty to say that everyone started a band, but the joke turns rambunctiously serious when one realizes that it is quite possibly true that everyone who bought the record did go on to do something artistic. A college roommate, Tony Landmesser, for instance, bought that first album and he went on to do puppet theater in San Francisco. Records were like books back then. “You’ve got to listen to this” was said with the same frequency and intonation as “you’ve got to read this.” I listened to Tony’s copy over and over, and it certainly was a touchstone as I went forward with my life as a poet and editor.

I doubt that Lou Reed ever understood the extent to which his work made an impact on an enormous variety of people. Just a few hours ago, I received a letter from Steve Axelrod, a literary critic of the first rank, which ended with the following quotation. My thanks to Steve for providing the best way to end this post.

This is no time for phony rhetoric
This is no time for political speech
This is a time for action
Because the future’s within reach

This is the time
This is the time
This is the time
Because there is no time

— Lou Reed (1942 – 2013)

Books

Blue Collar Review

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

I just received the latest issue of BLUE COLLAR REVIEW, a magazine out of Norfolk, Virginia that describes itself as the “Journal of Progressive Working Class Literature.” It’s been coming out several times a year for 16 years, and it’s becoming a classic in its field. Is every poem well crafted in the traditional, academic sense? No. Are some lines sentimental to a degree that I have no desire ever again to revisit the poem? Yes. And yet I always look forward to this magazine in a way that I could never find myself anticipating the arrival of most poetry magazines. Al Markowita and Mary Franke keep their minds and hearts open to the voices left out “American Poetry Review” and almost always find a poem or two that leaves me in awe of its honest precision. Joe Weil’s “The First Time I Got Up Early,” in the current issue, for instance, is one of the best poems I’ve read this year and I look forward to sharing it with my students.

For anyone out there who would like to support a literary magazine that supports a radical reevaluation of our the conditions of our lives, then send $15 (check made out to Partisan Press) for a one-year subscription to:

Blue Collar Review

P.O. Box 11417

Norfolk, VA 23517

 

 

Books

Retirement Shutdown

October 1, 2013

Retirement Shutdown

Today, according to Social Security calculations, I am now officially counted as being at the full retirement age of 66. It’s hardly a moment when I am able to celebrate; for reasons mentioned in an earlier post, my application for benefits languishes in the indifference of the Social Security bureaucracy. And now, even if I were to get access from another bureaucracy to the information that SS claims I need to finish processing my application, there will be no worker on the job to move things along.

I suppose I will be told not to take this personally. The GOP’s apologists are undoubtedly eager to explain that their opposition to affordable health care insurance is not meant to infer that they resent in any way having to pay me retirement benefits. Yet, as I face the possibility that a lifetime of time-certain work will not be recognized with an on-time payment of my hard-earned benefits, the suspicion lingers that the GOP is rather like someone eating out at a restaurant and having a great time ordering food and eating it with relish. When the bill arrives, the financially strapped customer realizes that the only recourse is to complain with flustered indignation about the cost of eating out and thereby reduce the bill. The fact that the food has already been eaten gives the customer a sense of entitlement. “I’ve gotten what I want. But I dare you to collect what you deserve. I’ll throw a tantrum in your restaurant and see how much your other customers enjoy their meal.” The employment systems have extracted their labor from me, but any willingness to reciprocate seems to have vanished with ideological rapacity.

There is no social contract in sight, only social contractions. One can see in this instance the disparity between the estimated centers of power and the exact centers of power. Temporality is still an outcome; when I was young, the chant went, “On strike. Shut it down.” Almost a half-century later, the GOP is marching to that chant with more efficiency than my cohorts ever did.

Books Ground Level Conditions Military Life

The Acupunctured Counterpoint to Social Insecurity

Saturday, September 28, 2013

The Acupunctured Counterpoint to Social Insecurity

On Monday, September 16, I turned in my mother’s applications for VA Health Benefits at the hospital next to CSULB. One of the small details I learned about my mother’s life is that she had the desire to attend college, even after she had gotten married during World War II. Her discharge papers from the U.S. Navy in October, 1945, include a box to indicate plans for further training: “attend u. of California” (lower case “u”). My father, on the other hand, was never interested in attending college. Even if he had also gotten out of the Navy at the end of the war, it’s difficult to imagine him encouraging my mother to attend college on the G.I bill while he headed off to work as a clerk in a retail store (which was his first extended job after a 20 year career as an “aviation mate”).

My own application for social security benefits back on August 1st seems to have run into a classic case of bureaucratic indifference. It’s bad enough that a couple weeks ago I had to wait 45 minutes on the phone, listening to a recorded voice loop with all the officious sincerity of a “Do not park in the loading zone” command of a metropolitan airport, in order to get sent a copy of my electronic application that was supposed to have been automatically mailed out. That’s a minor irritation, compared to waiting for some statement from social security about the status of my application. Finally, I spent half a morning in a local office two weeks ago to find out that additional information is needed and that nothing can be done on my application until I submit that information. “And why did I not receive a phone call or an e-mail or a letter requesting this information at some point in the past six weeks?” “Oh, we’re sorry.” There was no explanation of why I was not contacted or acknowledgement that I could very well have just kept waiting and waiting and waiting, wondering when my application would receive the slightest processing.)

I should emphasize that nothing on my Social Security application portended that any kind of specific document would be required from the University of California about my time as a graduate student, during which I was part of UC’s retirement program. Now I am given a deadline to get this information, and have been informed by the workers at UC that it will take a couple weeks to process my request. Unfortunately, the Social Security retirement date begins in 10 days. All of this could have been resolved if only the workers at Social Security had done their job and sent out a simple letter or e-mail a month ago. I guess working and contributing to Social Security for almost half a century is not enough to earn the basic respect that should be accorded any worker’s co-operation with a painfully unequal system of rewards and punishments.

Meanwhile, it turned out that by yesterday (Friday, September 27), nothing had happened with my mother’s application whatsoever. I had twice called the number I had been given by the intake worker to inquire about the application, but my message was never returned. Finally, early yesterday afternoon, I parked in a school lot and walked over. It turned out the intake worker was out for 10 days with a serious cold and had just gotten back on the job, but if I were willing to wait, the application would be processed. I settled into a chair with the Complete Poems of Robert Frost, whose work is just ahead in one of my classes. By the end of the afternoon, my mother was officially in the Health Care system of the VA as a WWII vet, with a “group five” designation. Now begins the process of getting her vetted as being eligible for a “group four” rating, which would provide an allotment for assisted care.

Fortunately, the morning had its exquisite counterpoint. Susan Wiggins and George Hart (one of my very favorite colleagues at CSULB) spent the past summer at work on converting a commercial space on Atlantic Boulevard in Long Beach into a community-based acupuncture clinic that offers a sliding scale of payment. Neither Linda nor I had ever tried acupuncture before, but both of us have reached the age when we feel we have very little to lose by trying alternatives. The unexpected part of the acupuncture treatment was that it gave me a period of rejuvenating surrender: I leaned back in a recliner and permitted the entity I am conscious of as the performer of a public identity to experience the absence of that need to perform. A vulnerability set in that allowed me to meditate in an integrated manner distinct from any sitting seance with Nothingness. Instead of having my knees folded in selfless-enchantment, the acupuncture encrypted my stiff body into an elongated horizon that cradled me in a gentle levitation. What secret messages were sent from nervousness to mindful nerves remain too whispered to have been heard by other than the recesses of my body; more than an hour after the first needle was inserted with exquisite precision by Susan, though, my mind found itself clarified with remunerative aftertastes of unusually peaceful continuity. My posture (both physical and psychological) has never been vibrant and its accumulated disintegration has put more pressure on my spine than it is designed to absorb; hence, I was gratified beyond expectation about twenty minutes into the treatment when a tender but firm warmth began slowly effusing from my spinal fusion. It was like an infinitely tiny solar eruption of a pent-up knob, as if a hemisphere of remorse had had a tectonic plate settle back in its proper groove. Leaving the clinic, I walked with a new sense of purpose, which I turned out to need later on in the day.

Perhaps the most meaningful part of my visit to this clinic is the realization that not all the aspirations of my youth have foundered in the vortex of conservative obeisance in the 1980s. The willingness of gifted individuals to commit themselves to a life of generous service that empowers others by strengthening their frailties is exemplified in this community health project, which is a member of POCA (People’s Organization of Community Acupuncture). If you are living in or near Long Beach, you can find Susan’s clinic at:

http://www.longbeachcommunityacupuncture.com/

If you live elsewhere and want to give your body and mind an equally restorative moment, then start your search at:

https://www.pocacoop.com/clinics/search/0,0/18000/

 

Books Poetry

The latest review of HOLDOUTS

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Joe Safdie wrote a very appreciative review of HOLDOUTS: The Los Angeles Poetry Renaissance 1948-1992 that Paul Vangelisti published in an issue of OR magazine last spring. Since I started this blog after Safdie’s review was published, the arrival of Mike Sonksen’s enthusiastic endorsement of my literary history of Los Angeles’s poetry communities seems to be an appropriate time to celebrate the continued good fortune of favorable commentary. In posting excerpts from the notices my book has received in the past year and a half, I’d also like to send out a note of appreciation to Noel Kalenian in Colorado, who made a point of including a favorable citation of my book in his job at a library in Denver, Colorado.

“Bill Mohr’s Hold-Outs, published by the University of Iowa Press, fills in the blanks with a multigenerational account of southern California’s literary landscape from 1948 to 1992 that connects the dots between the Cold War, the Beat Generation, the Civil Rights era, the small press movement, punk rock, and the spoken word.  … Mohr’s volume is the only one I’ve seen to connect the movements, mapping out the cultural topography with specific writers, readings, bookstores, and literary magazines. …. Hold-Outs commemorates the small press movement in all its do-it-yourself grandeur yet also demystifies it by showing the social, political, and financial struggles and sacrifices that poets like Wanda Coleman and Leland Hickman had to make in order to survive as writers in contemporary times. Future poets and literary scholars can use this book as both a roadmap and caveat.”

— Mike Sonksen, Southern California Quarterly

“Bill Mohr’s exhaustive and poignant reclamation of the poems, small presses and various poetic communities of Los Angeles over four-plus decades. …. There’s nobody more qualified to conduct this literary anthropological dig than Mohr …. The insights and information – not only about individual poets and communities, but about the grunt work involved in being a typesetter and magazine editor – are priceless. … The more I spent time with Holdouts, the more I realized what an extraordinary gift it was, helping me reclaim some of my own poetic legacy and that of any writer who’s lived on the West Coast in the last half-century.” — Joe Safdie, Or magazine, forthcoming in issue no. 10 (Spring, 2013)

 “Holdouts is the first serious, big-picture consideration of the often ignored or misunderstood post-war L.A. poetry scene. In a book both accessible and authoritative, Mohr tells an essential story of our cultural history with surprising, provocative and poetic insights into place, politics, and the people who contributed to what Mohr argues is an enduring art.” — Andrew Tonkovich, Host, KPFK, “Bibliocracy”; Editor, Santa Monica Review

“Mohr captures this half-century of exuberant creativity in his terrific new book. … Mohr’s account is richly detailed and, with its anecdotes and portraits, a delight to read. The city comes alive through an eclectic and passionate group of people and their writing, publishing, reading and sharing. Further, Mohr’s is a generous and passionate voice, refusing the codify and cement a single history, but determined that there be some acknowledgement of the Los Angeles poetry renaissance and that it at once be part of a legacy, if only to question the limits, exclusions and boundedness of such a term.             — Holly Willis, “Arts and Culture,” KCET (January 17, 2012)

“The history of poetry is the history of change in poetry. … Bill Mohr’s superb Hold-Outs: The Los Angeles Poetry Renaissance, 1948-1992, (is) as decent a history of the poetry of that period as I’ve come across, whatever the focus.” — Ron Silliman, Weblog, Tuesday 29, 2012

“A dedicated editor and publisher, and now scholar and literary historian, Mohr has made an indelible mark on the city’s literary history.” — Stephen Motika, Palisades Post; (January 20, 2012)

 

REVIEWED IN GREAT BRITAIN

Review by Jim Burns. http://www.pennilesspress.co.uk/NRB/holdouts.htm

 

Books

The Disappearance of Imagination

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

“The Disappearance of Imagination”

Linda gave me her copy of Sarah Thornton’s Seven Days in the Art World to read while I was at Idyllwild this summer. The chapters are sufficiently self-sustaining that I was able to start with the one that interested me most, “The Crit,” and have worked my way through several others at this point. While I primarily teach literature courses at CSULB, I also (for the time being, at least) work as a member of the MFA faculty. This particular degree program, no matte what the emphasis, is one that seems to have a certain historical amnesia built into its propagation. My book, Holdouts, pointed out how the prominence of MFA programs in creative writing routinely gets backdated to the 1970s and nobody bothers to fact-check the accuracy of that dating.

Thornton falls into a similar trap in Art World: “Since the 1960s, MFA degrees have become the first legitimator in an artist’s career, followed by awards and residencies, representation by a primary dealer, reviews and features in art magazine, inclusion in prestigious private collections museum validation in the form of solo r group shows, international exposure at well-attended biennials, and the appreciation signed by strong resale interest at auction. More specifically, MFA degrees from name art schools have become passports of sorts. Look over the resumes of the artists under fifty in any major international museum exhibition and you will find that most of them boast an MFA from one of a couple of dozen highly selective schools” (45-46).

The problem with Thornton’s compression of the role of MFA degrees in the art world is that she implies that MFA degrees were just as important in the careers of visual artists born between 1946 and 1955 as those born between 1960 and 1970. The artists under fifty she refers to at the end of the paragraph would have been born in the latter increment, and indeed MFA degrees would have become a much more familiar legitimation ritual by the time they were in their mid-twenties. But her book erases the period in which the so-called “baby boomers” began to exhibit their work in public galleries.

What I am curious about is how this aporia might be connected to yet another vacancy in Thornton’s book. The word “imagination” does not have much traction in the “Art World.” In fact, I would urge you to read it for your self and count how many times the word appears in the first hundred pages. Is not imagination an inextricable part of the experience of art? Apparently not, if Thornton’s book is to be accepted as a gauge of artistic discourse. If it can be so casually overlooked in a discussion of the contemporary scenes, then this should serve as a reminder that the many definitions the word summons need to be memorized and made use of on a daily basis; otherwise, the social meaning of art will soon become nothing more than an economic arrangement meant to devour what little is left of our ability to resist insipid homogenization.

Books Ground Level Conditions Military Life Poetry

The VA (the value added tax of class servitude)

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

The VA (the value added tax of class servitude)

The Veterans Administration, popularly known as the VA, at some point set up its health system in Southern California so that its hospitals were located next to major colleges or universities. In San Diego, there is a huge VA center next to UC San Diego; in Los Angeles, the VA is on the flip side of the 405 freeway from UCLA; in Long Beach, the hospital is adjacent to CSU Long Beach. I went over to that VA the other day to work on getting some veterans benefits for my mother, who was a WAVE in World War II. She receives medical care through both Medicare and a program called TriCare, which is available to the surviving spouses of career military personnel. She will need to be in an assisted care home at some point in the near future, though, and I wanted to get information about her benefits.

Walking around the grounds of the VA complex, I felt on one level as if I could relax in my performance as a college teacher. How much chance was there that I would meet up with a colleague in a building at the VA? In fact, when was the last time any of the tenured professors I have taught with or studied under or conversed with at conferences would have found themselves visiting the VA? It is a social ghetto, in certain ways, and the fact that it is right next door to the campus only mounts the spotlights on the three hundred and fifty-nine degrees of separation between military and civilian life. Power extends from the organization of space itself, and the milieus one is assigned are meant to delimit your activities in a manner befitting one’s station in life. That I find myself at the VA, in hopes of finding a remedy for my mother’s plight, is only what might be expected, given the initial terms of my childhood enlistment. I remember a spokesperson from Brotman Hall who greeted the cohort of new faculty at CSULB in 2006: “When one has a Ph.D.,” she said with utter sincerity, “class is no longer an issue.” Even if one has severed all contact with one’s family, I doubt that’s true. To the credit of my colleagues, a skeptical murmur of disagreement ricocheted around the room.

I did, in fact, have one teacher who was a veteran, and he was perhaps the crucial teacher in my development. In the fall of 1967, I ended up enrolling in classes at San Diego State, mainly because my application to UCLA’s theater department had been turned down. I would be successful the following spring in gaining admission, but in the meantime I decided to study at SDSU and found myself in a poetry class with a young poet named Glover Davis, who had studied under Philip Levine. I had never heard of any of the poets Davis taught me about in the 1967-1968. I was 19 years old when I started studying in his classes and by the time I was 20 I had learned more from him than most MFA students learn in their two or three years in current programs.

Glover Davis’s class would serve as a prime example of how Don Allen’s The New American Poetry ended up as the most influential anthology of the past half-century. After his discharge from the U.S. Navy, Davis had enrolled at Fresno State University and had moved on to the Iowa Poetry Workshop, where I believe one of his classmates was James Tate. I took poetry writing courses with him as well as a survey of poetry course in which I first read Hart Crane’s The Bridge as well as substantial amounts of WC Williams. We read Williams first, so encountering Crane was initially a bewildering experience. I was utterly intrigued by Crane’s dense lyricism and imagery, but how could his poetics be reconciled with Williams’s? Which side was Davis on? He seemed to be presenting an equal case for each poet, and I found myself unable to decide between the two. In the end, I liked Crane’s sense of the line better than Williams, whose sense of enjambment never really matured.

One of the best parts of the year was a chance to attend readings by Allen Ginsberg, Philip Levine and Robert Mezey. Ginsberg didn’t read “Howl” or “Kaddish,” but instead gave a powerful reading of “Wales Visitation,” which even the conservative member of the English faculty, John Theobald, appreciated. Ginsberg by far attracted the largest crowd, but it was his talk in the afternoon that made an equal impression. In retrospect, I have to concede that the overwhelming emphasis on male poets in Davis’s canon would have been daunting for the female students; perhaps this is part of the reason for Rae Armantrout’s unflattering characterization of Davis in her memoir. She neglects to mention, however, that he would have been the first teacher she had to have praised at length the writing of Denise Levertov, with whom Rae went on to study at UC Berkeley.  Memory can be capricious, and maybe Rae wasn’t in the class in which I remember Davis giving “The Sharks” a close, deeply appreciative reading. Davis was perhaps the most fortunate encounter I could have hoped for at that point, given my limited options. For the first time, I encountered a man who embodied a masculine variant of physical prowess that was also vulnerable to the subjunctive.

Books Poetry

George Hart and Robinson Jeffers

Hart – Hawk

Hart – Hawk

Monday, August 26, 2013

It’s been several days since I’ve had time to give much thought to my blog. A week ago, one of my three younger brothers in San Diego called on the phone and said I should drive down to review my 91-year-old mother’s situation. The next day, my wife, Linda, and I were driving her up to Long Beach. I’m afraid that what is happening in my family is more fit for a diary or a piece of fiction, so entries in the coming weeks may be too few to retain even the few people who check on this blog. By the time I get back to it on any kind of steady basis, perhaps it will have become nothing more than a diary posted on-line. If this entry is the way-station to a mirror held up to the form and pressure of my age (going on 66), then let it be a note that reflects my sense of good fortune in having a chance in the fifth act of my life to become part of a scholarly community.

Classes started at CSULB today, and the best part of arriving on campus was spotting George Hart on my way up to my office to prepare for the first of the three classes I’ll teach this semester. I first met George at an American Literature Association conference in Long Beach, back when I was still a grad student at UCSD and I subsequently had the pleasure of organizing a panel in 2003, when the MLA was in San Diego, in which George presented a paper. He has a major book out on Robinson Jeffers, which everyone interested in 20th century poetry should get a copy of. The good news is that it is fairly affordable. In fact, it’s even on Kindle. I myself may not have a chance to read it until after the semester’s over, but it is at the top of the list of the books I want to read before then.

Perhaps I am wrong in suggesting the following connection, but I’m going to put it out here and see how it, in fact, plays out. One of the Beat poets I’ve long admired is Michael McClure, who summed up his ecocritical stance with the declaration, “I am a mammal patriot.” My guess at this point is that Hart’s book will help elucidate McClure’s espousal of a biologically-based consciousness. I look forward to finding out if my hunch proves correct.

Here are the details:

Title: Inventing the Language to Tell It: Robinson Jeffers and the Biology of Consciousness

Author: George Hart

Publisher: Fordham University Press

 

 

Baseball Books Poetry

Kirk Gibson and Charles Olson

Monday, August 19, 2013

The approaching 25th anniversary of Kirk Gibson’s pinch-hit home run has coincided with the Los Angeles Dodgers winning an astonishing number of games in the second half of this season. Although it’s been decades since I’ve cheered with any enthusiasm for the Dodgers, I am pleased to see the team doing well, if only because Vin Scully has endured more mediocrity in recent years than any Hall–of-Famer broadcaster should be saddled with. For his sake, I would be pleased to see the Dodgers do well in the postseaon playoffs.

In the drumbeat boosterism that is beginning to build towards what the local economy hopes will be a Dodger triumph in the World Series, this quarter-century celebration of Gibson’s limp-off dinger is an all too obvious item on the restaurant menu. Sure enough, the Los Angeles Times trotted out a long column by Bill Plaschke the other day that reviews some of the background contributions to Gibson’s sole at bat in that series. Most of the key elements in the story, however, are not particularly insightful revelations. In particular, Gibson’s use of a scouting report to anticipate the pitch that Dennis Eckersley was going to throw is fairly common knowledge, and anyone who has followed the game at all knows that Gibson has previously credited Mike Davis’s steal of second base with helping him settle in at the plate and focus on the basic task of getting a single and simply tying the game at 3-3. A pinch-runner could then have been used to finish off the job of rattling the Oakland A’s confidence in their odds-on status of being the team favored to win the Series.

There’s been at least one game this year, in fact, in which a similar comment to the one Gibson made years ago about how Davis’s steal affected his equanimity at the plate. In mid-May, the Cleveland Indians were playing the Seattle Mariners in Cleveland in an extra-innings game that was tied at 3-3. According to Jordan Bastian’s coverage of the game, a two-out walk to Drew Stubbs (who has struck out 113 times in 354 Abs this season and drawn only 28 bases on balls) proved to an unforgiving extension of the inning by the Mariners’ pitcher. As with Mike Davis’s two-out walk in the 1988 game, the subsequent stolen base altered the approach of Jason Kipnis, whose comment after hitting a home to win the game was very similar to Gibson’s recollection of his most famous at-bat: “I knew that I had to go up there and just get a single — just slap it,” Kipnis said. “That approach may have helped me stay back on his offspeed.”

In other words, as with writing a poem, don’t try to do more than needs to be done to resolve an immediate adversity. That’s easier advice to follow, of course, about a conservative game, such a baseball, as opposed to choosing a course of “self-action with Whitehead’s important corollary: that no event / is not penetrated, in intersection or collision with, an eternal / event.” Furthermore, the hyper-masculine environment of professional baseball remains a problem in drawing any analogous permutations of potential choices with outcomes. The word missing from Olson’s reminder at the end of “A Later Note on Letter #15” is one of gender assignment: Are “the poetics of such a situation … yet to be found out” patriarchal or matriarchal, or is there a new androgyny yet to articulate its plural capacities? (In one of the poems called “Elements” in “Great Slave Lake Suite,” Leland Hickman included a slight variation on Olson, describing his context at Fort Providence in Canada as the “poetics of this situation not yet figured out.”)

Nevertheless, the intersection of familiar cycles with a seemingly infinite variety of personal circumstances makes both baseball and poetry prime subjects of my daily meditations.

Books Performance Photography Poetry

“Who is She?” — Terry Braunstein’s show in Long Beach

Saturday, August 16, 2013

In the late 1970s, I worked at a bookstore at 11th Street and Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. It had been launched by three young fiction writers who were eager to join that decade’s lively independent book store scene in Los Angeles (and in this case, I mean the county and not the city). By the time I started working at the front counter and running the reading series, only one of the three fiction writers was still involved with the store, which served as the entry point to Los Angeles for one of its most prominent literary spokespersons, Michael Silverblatt. He had recently moved to Los Angeles and was living in an apartment, slightly north of Wilshire, several blocks west of the store, Michael didn’t drive, but he was in a perfect neighborhood to get around without a car. One afternoon, when business was slow, he happened to walk in and we began talking about poetry. I was putting together my first anthology, The Streets Inside, at the time and ended up inviting him to my apartment for a combination publication party/New Year’s Eve party at the end of 1978. It was there that he met Jim Krusoe, who became one of his enduring friends. Though Michael and I did not remain confident acquaintances, I am happy that he eventually found a niche where his specialized acuity continues to flourish.

Among the people I met at the store who turned into long-time friends was Dinah Berland, a photographer and critic who was beginning to write poetry. (The opposite move was being made by another visitor to the store, Peter Schjeldahl, who went on to write one of the classic poems about Los Angeles, “Pico Boulevard,” but would soon begin to focus on writing about art.) Dinah eventually introduced me to her best friend, Terry Braunstein, with whom she was an undergraduate roommate at the University of Michigan. I reviewed a show of Terry’s at the Long Beach Museum of Art in the late 1980s for the Long Beach Press-Telegram and have continued to admire how she retains her commitment to local activism even as she has exhibited her work on an international scale.

Terry sent out a notice the other day about her most recent project. The first weekend after Labor Day is traditionally a very busy occasion for visual artists, so I want to post her invitation well in advance so that any reader can plan her or his visits to various openings that weekend to include her event, “Who is She?” It will take place at a vacant lot in Long Beach at the corner of Anaheim & Walnut Streets. Terry’s installation/sculpture will be placed into dialogue with a choreographed piece by Cyrus Parker-Jeannette at both 5:45 and 7:45 p.m. The second performance will also feature projected animations by David Familian.

This event is part of a larger project called “A LOT,” in which vacant pieces of property in Long Beach are temporarily appropriated to present free arts experiences. It is sponsored in part by an Our Town grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

For more information on both Terry and Dinah, please go to their websites: terrybraunstein.com and Dinahberland.com.