“I am an artist…and therefore a liar. Distrust everything I say. I am telling the truth.”
-Ursula LeGuin
Weekend Reading – Eat Your Broccoli
Midweek Staff Meeting – Why Is Charles Murray Still Speaking?
Tuesday Morning Staff Meeting – Kindle Not On Target
Weekend Reading – Conceptual Writing, Jesus… You Know, The Usual Suspects
Thursday Staff Meeting – Canons
The Dark Room Collective
There was a sort of reunion of members of the Dark Room Collective on Monday night, put on by the Folger Shakespeare Library but actually held at the church across the street (which has considerably more seating – and the place was still pretty full).
The Dark Room Collective (and I had not been familiar with them before attending this reading) was a sort of group house for African-American artist-activists in Cambridge that (when the house was sold off) evolved into a sort all purpose artistic clearinghouse for writers, painters, sculptors, dancers, and musicians. But always, it appears, poets, poetry, and poetry readings held a central place in its history and the role it saw for itself.
Present this particular were eight poets of, admittedly, varying quality and charisma (none were poor, but several would be considered among the country’s leading poets, so naturally stood out). The poets present were: Tisa Bryant,Thomas Sayers Ellis, Major Jackson, John Keene, Tracy K. Smith, Sharan Strange, Natasha Trethewey, and Kevin Young. Among that group, you might have picked out the names of Smith (who just won the Pulitzer Prize for her collection, Life on Mars), Trethewey (who won a Pulitzer in 2007 for Native Guard), and Young (who wrote The Gray Album, a book which is very du jour right now).
I enjoyed listening to about two thirds of the poetry read, but loved all the descriptions of the early days of the Collective and was intensely jealous of their participation in that history.
I bought one book, of course – Smith’s Life on Mars – and got it signed.
Midweek Staff Meeting – The Most Stylish Critic
The B Spot Jazz Trio; Or, Is Cornel West Drunk?
Last Saturday night, my better half I ambled over to the B-Spot, a teahouse on the second story a building on Pennsylvania, just above a pizza-by-the-slice shop.
I haven’t been there in a while, but I keep on meaning to go for their regular, Saturday night jazz sets, usually featuring the B Spot Trio, the teahouse’s aptly named house band.
The place serves quality tea (the owner takes his tea very seriously), is swankily decorated with modern looking furniture and paintings by local artists (the place also does brisk business in framing, which seems odd, but what the heck).
So I convinced her to come with me and listen to some tunes and drink some tea.
The Trio plays some good music and the crowd skews older – forties and up. With the more mature audience and the lack of alcohol, the vibe really was one of the coffeehouses I remember from my adolescence and early twenties, back when the main draw was not Starbucks latest attempt to serve a sixteen ounce cup of frothy milk, cut with a little coffee, nor even a place to bring one’s laptop, but rather music, poetry, and conversation.
And while my camera took a fuzzy picture, in the corner, next to the window, is a painting that looks for all the world like someone painted a portrait of Cornel West as if the philosopher was just coming off a two day bender and wearing a wife beater and drinking a warm bottle of beer.
the coffee philosopher 