Some progeny seem viewed as societal liabilities if they do not drink the convention of their predecessors.

Driving to Chicago this evening to launch the new issue. Lewis and Clarke show Saturday.

We don’t know how long we’re meant for, so lets find comfort, even if it comes from a lack of it.

Greetings, you can listen to an interview I did yesterday on the Grand Rapids NPR affiliate here.

One of the clarity’s good friends, Mr. Joe Meno (whose work will be appearing in our first print edition), once had a student named Stephanie Kuehnert. Today marks the release of Ms. Kuehnert’s second novel, Ballads of Suburbia. You can visit her website to read the prologue here. The book takes a look at drugs, disintegration, death and redemption, all rather interesting topics.

Today a 59-year-old golf legend had a 7 and a half-foot putt to win the Open Championship, (formally know as the British Open) perhaps professional golf’s most prestigious event. Watching Tom Watson outplay the best golfers in the world this week was one of the most invigorating things I have seen in a long while. For four rounds of golf he was the essence of decorum, a testament to resilience, and the same magnificent player he was 25 years ago. The shots of him standing stoic on the cliffs of Scotland waiting to tee-off, were some of the most compelling images I’ve ever seen in the sporting world. The possibility of what could have been today, what was 7 and a half feet away, is mind-blowing. I felt like a child, nervous and bursting with excitement.. One par=four strokes on the last hole of play. That’s all he needed to do to become iconic.

And he didn’t. He missed his par putt, played the hole in five strokes and lost to a 36 year old in a playoff.

Some dismiss sports as something narrow or trivial, they could not be more wrong. The elation I felt today watching an old man walk on emerald carpets while scowling in the face of age and expectation, was perhaps the purest and most cerebral feeling I have ever had. I raise my glass to Tom Watson for reminding me that anything, absolutely fucking anything, is possible. I believe that again.

Strange how lonely Michigan gets in summer, the season everyone has been waiting for.
Returned from Chicago Tuesday, it was nice to get out for a bit anyway. Went to see Judson Claiborne play at a little tavern, then met an interesting and talented pianist named Daniel Knox and a poet named Thax Douglas. Christopher Salveter, aka Judson Claiborne will be joining us in NYC’s “Living Room” on September 13th. That show is going to be bursting with beauty…I look forward to it very much. My shopping list this evening was quite absurd, no doubt fueled by my isolation and love of salt; both of which will get to my heart at some point.

August issue is coming along very nicely, lots of wonderful poetry and discussions about poetry coming up.

Sunday, September 13th some of the finest musicians and poets in the country will be performing at NYC’s famed Living Room.

Not much more to say to that. The Fog breathes in the apple.

We are bringing an incredible lineup into NYC for two Evenings with the Clarity. September 11th in Manhattan (we are shopping), September 12th in Brooklyn at the Williamsburg Music Center.

Its almost funny how good the lineup is for these shows:

Strand of Oaks also known as Timothy Showalter, who is in my opinion the one of the top 5 contemporary songwriters will be playing both shows and headlining our Manhattan show. You can listen to Timmy’s beauty here.
Samantha Farrell, a fine musician with an unbelievable and ethereal voice will be playing both shows. Her forthcoming album Luminous was the first and only ever produced by late DMB horn player Leroi Moore. You can listen to Sammy here.
Karisa Wilson a brilliant singer/songwriter from Michigan will also be playing both shows. She absolutely killed it at our June 20th event. You can listen to her here.
Michael Tyrell former poetry editor of The New Yorker will be reading. Michael is a truly gifted writer whose work moves me deeply.
Amy King another amazing poet who has published five collections will be reading.
Chris Hosea The Harvard grad will be reading his beauty as well.

These will be two very very special nights.

In other news, here is a poem I wrote while overcoming an afternoon panic attack today.

I died drinking in the afternoon and called it a victory
Before, I walked up to eat at a restaurant alone,
smoking cigarettes by citronella candles
Where were the bugs in the mid-day?
Michael Jackson died, and a sports idol
I wasn’t hungry, but I started bleeding at the table
The liquid slipped through the black wire mesh diamonds
and fell in no apparent pattern
I wished I could get away with loneliness
I couldn’t. Got caught red-handed three hours later
Cessation…..curled up next to a half gallon of the Russian
Zoloft, Risperdal, and Welbutrin in my stomach like skittles
Taste the rainbow

July 7th, post Independence Day, post Rothbury. The friends who came back home for celebration are now trickling away again. Solitude, after a whirlwind of interaction renders both loneliness and purpose. As I grow older I become more comfortable with my grey matter and don’t mind being isolated with it as much anymore. Art is fine company. Although, a sense of shame still lingers over my fungi consumption. That I would willingly permit leave the rationality and reason I hold so dear disturbs me. A painful compunction swept over me yesterday as I stood outside of the strip mall sushi restaurant and smoked a cigarette alone at my birthday dinner. Why detach from a reality I love and fight for, surrounded by so many good souls? I don’t know if one mere drunken indulgence is worth this self-chastisement, but I do know I feel like a pornstar: gorging on the primitive in the scene, but ashamed to see the film. This film, I hope, doesn’t have a long run in my upstairs apartment.

I won’t let it.

Ben

I am not festival material. I knew this going into the campgrounds on Thursday, and by the time I drove out a day early (yesterday) am even more convinced. On Saturday, with the debauchery amidst, I re-introduced myself to a couple of old friends whom I hadn’t spent time with for quite a while. The first was a translucent, Russian fellow who I sat down with at 11am for two tomato juices. In the morning his company was welcome, and our talks injected the grounds with a pleasant indolence. But I knew how he could get after 4 or 5 hours; irritable and demanding. I wanted to lose him, break away and jostle playfully with my friends from Milwaukee for the rest of the day. But he was tough to shake, and ended up riding my coattails and swimming in my cranberry juice for the duration of my Saturday.

So it goes that upon leaving the concert area, a fellow festival attendee offered to reacquaint me with another past chum, a lover really. One who was colorful and operated under the guise of introspection. A few years back she had clung to me like the fungus she was, and even when she wasn’t around she was always there, threatening the insecurity and panic she can bring about at any moment. But with the Russian by my side a small tryst, for nostalgia’s sake, seemed harmless.

For a small fee I was able to take her to my tent, wrapped safely in a plastic glove that food vendors use for sanitation. She broke apart and burrowed herself down into the index, ring and pointer….she wore three berets and had six legs.

Before I could work up the courage to invite her to dance, I had to sit down and have another talk with the Russian. One can say many things about the Easterner, but shy is not one of them. He invigorated me with a boldness, and I crunched up a large beret with no hesitation….it was getting dark, and as I entered the front seat of my car, decided it might be a good idea if I threw the old girl up. I did, and then inexplicably dined on the rest of her. What ensued was nothing profound, nothing dynamic. I sat in my car and listened to jazz for five hours as the clouds chased a full moon.

Now I feel as if I have conquered or caved in to something……the paradox of old friends.

Martin Sexton is jamming out across the couch from me right now recording a cut for a radio interview. He’s good and his voice undulates like a stone in a pond, a big stone. But it seems so sterile, so sterile in a media tent. There is nothing intimate here. And then I reach out and get to tap in.

Got him, Sexton interview recorded. It is not as good as the Ralston Bowles one though, which you will hear (He was diagnosed with cancer five weeks ago, but is still feeling and living beautiful). He walks with a little wobble that lends decorum and presence. Toubab Krewe coming up soon, interview in 10 minutes. Their drummer and founder is amazing, they put on a great show yesterday.
Ryan says interviews and photos need to be refined before we post. But I am feeling happy.

Love, Ben