The Great Read

Most writers tend to be narcissistic assholes who tend to wait for their turn to read instead of listening to the live ammunition that is firing out of other writers' mouths.

I say this with all the love that I can muster.

What's worst are the ones that achieve too greatly. The ones that lose sight of what was born inside them as a driving force in order to cope with their depression, addictions, raw childhoods, and what-have-yous. What's left is a money and power struggle that tends to force out bad writing instead. The kind of writing that is used to fill bookshelves and sell copies.

Do not lose touch with why you began creating you art in the first place.

Here's a little anecdote which involves one of these "authors" and myself:
 --
 New York City holds (maybe held is more appropriate at this point) a book fair every year in and around Bryant Park. It's called "The Great Read in the Park" or something to that effect. Anyways, a bunch of famous authors always get booked for this event because it's at the end of the summer, early fall, and that's the time of the year when most books are published and/or released (feel free to fact check that; I think I heard the statistic from a drunk man). So, besides having to deal with NYC pedestrian traffic, you have to deal with these book-loving jack-offs that buy special passes to meet special people and think less of you because, at the time, you happened to be a penniless college freshman who dreams of having a novel of your own published someday. You also have to find the room to squeeze past some huge egos that are radiating from the asses of these successful authors. Most of which do not want to be there meeting you, or the book-loving, special privilege assholes. 

"Excuse me," says the lanky prick in the tweed jacket. "This line is reserved for VIP passes only."

"You mean this isn't the line for the bathroom?" I asked. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize that you don't shit and breathe like the rest of us."

He ignored my statement, of course. As well as the middle finger I held six inches from the back of his head.

I really do love all people.

I went with a good friend of mine to the Great Read in the Park in 2009. He's a real book addict with contacts around the Broadway district. The people at the theater book shops know him by name. He rambles to the city quite often via the Beiber Bus out of Kutztown University (my Alma Mater) and insisted that we go together this particular year to hear one particular author (who will remain nameless) be interviewed, give a reading, and then sign books afterwards. I told him that I would take a break from academia and go with him. My paper on Puritan literature could wait until the last possible second.

We took the bus together to the Port Authority and walked to Bryant Park, I took a moment to observe my surroundings and make mental notes on what was going on in NYC on that particular day (spoiler alert: it's still a cesspool).

Why does everything in New York City smell like pee. Straight up pee. Not strong pee with a hint of asparagus, but old pee. Not pee from an old person, but pee that has been peed out a while ago and the pee puddle has dried, but the smell still remains. Like walking into the room of an old cottage and saying to yourself "golly, it smells like old pee in here." That's what NYC smells like all the time. Does everyone who lives there get a free pass to pee wherever? Is it included with your rent, or can you apply for one at the DMV?

I want a pee pass...

Urination aside, there were also plenty of people to stare at. Homeless people being ignored, men and women dressed to the 9's, and twenty-somethings, like me, who looked like they bought their shitty-looking clothes from the store that day instead of taking the time to not do laundry and break their clothes in the way I've been doing.

When it comes to a toss up between laundry and books, I always go for the literature. Nobody ever wrote a good book about the their laundry routine (note to self, consider writing that book).

We got to the park a little before noon and were immediately sucked into the rushing crowds and arranged bouquets of shiny new hardbacks from the featured authors.The crowds, the noise, the smell of a fresh pompous ass around every booth clothed in forest green vinyl covers. God, it made me anxious.

I'm going to skip ahead to bring us to the piece de resistance.

After spending the day waiting in line to talk to a couple of famous authors (who will also remain nameless), We went into a building next the the park for the "main event."

Upon entering, my friend and I felt a great deal of confusion. There was hardly anybody in the main hall. But, as we moved down one white corridor and rounded a corner, we began to see signs of life. Posters, plants, and people scattered throughout. And they were beginning to pour into a large auditorium. We followed suit. And found our seats in the very front row.

A no-named host introduced himself as the "blah-blah" (God I need coffee) of the "University of Bloopity Bloop's Chair-yada-yada." Then, he introduced the author, who shuffled his scrawny, New-York-Time-Bestselling ass on the stage and waved. He then took his seat and began to answer every question the first jack-off could muster.

When the interview was over, I looked over at my friend. He did not seem impressed. I could tell. His brow was wrinkled and I thought I heard him mumble "horseshit."

After he left the room we were all directed down another white hallway to the book signing area. My friend and I were the first two people in line.

Now, the moment we've all been waiting for...

So there I was. So there he was. An unknown writer. A Times Best-Seller. The only thing dividing us was a velvet rope. But then, the security guard removed the rope, and the face-off began.

"Hello," he said.

"Sup?"

"So, who should I make this out to?"

So, they end sentences in prepositions too..."Ryan."

"Did you enjoy the talk?"

"Meh. It was cool, I guess."

"Well... Glad you thought it was--"

"Lemme ask you somethin'. Is this what it's all about?"

He stopped writing and shot me with a look that demanded an explanation. "Is what what it's all about."

"The best-seller list. The interviews. Good Morning America. All of these people standing in this line behind me. Is this what it's all about?"

He scowled. Sighed. And then retorted. "I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way."

I shook my head and smiled. "Not good enough, boss. I'll keep that in mind when I'm sitting on your side of the table."

That got him. He scribbled a little more. Closed the cover, and slid the book in front of me.

"Well, kid," he said. "I wish you the best of luck."

I took my book. Walking out in the hallway. And waited for my friend.

The bus ride home was longer than expected. I kept thinking about all those writers that struggled and struggled, and then were engulfed in the fires of fame and fortune. And, how some of them could never get back what the hunger gave to them in the beginning. I always dreamed of making a living off of my writing. But only a living.

I didn't go there to pick a fight. I was just a kid who wanted answers.

And shit, man... I got 'em.

Cheers,

~Torres

Keeping the Fire Burning

The following is a rejection letter that I received this past Monday. It has been copied word-for-word for accurate documentation (the name of the magazine has been removed). I missed publication because my poem was, simply, too damn long for the page. I would like to thank the editor for not suggesting to change the poem in any way.

"I am putting together the submissions for review now and I noticed that your poem "The First Day of Spring..." exceeds our line limit, so unfortunately, we won't consider that one for publication. Please continue to submit to _______________-- your voice here is so strong and I really loved the comparisons you forced throughout the poem -- from the title to the last line. Because we try to include as many poems as possible in the print version, we have to adhere to a line limit of 34 lines.

Again, please continue submitting. I look forward to reading more from you!" 

Yes, I am going to resubmit. The only problem is that I don't feel comfortable sending the couple poems that I have ready (which are less than 34 lines) because they are either in my chapbook, or have been picked up by other publications. I'll have to dig some poems out of one of the notebooks I carry around with me.

The poem, in case your curious, is about the day that the hate-filled leader of the Westboro Baptist Church died. It's not a poem about hating him in return (never hate, friends. It only creates more useless venom), but, instead, elaborating on how society will move forward a lot smoother without him.

You want to read the poem? Leave a comment below expressing some interest and I'll post it next time (it's the only way I know if anyone is actually reading this thing).

Cheers,

~Torres

The Things We Don't Leave Behind

I remember the kitchen cupboard in my grandparents house. The cupboard had always been there, but I remember that, when I was very young, I was never allowed to open it no matter how much the fancy plates, salt and pepper shakers, various vases, and bottles enticed me. I wanted to be Indiana Jones and they were lost treasures.

I remember how my grandmother would yell (just enough) to get me away from that cupboard when I reached for the cabinets doors in an attempt to put Juicy Juice in one of the Indiana harvest carnival glass cups because I was convinced that one drink of sugar water from one of those cups would give me super powers. They would make me invincible, or grant me the ability to fly. But, alas, those childhood dreams would be forever rejected, and forced back into the ooze of nostalgia when the harsh words came running forth from the mouth of one Pennsylvania Dutch woman.

My grandparents are moving. They are downsizing because time and taxes have caught up with them. Now, I own the those very same cups, as well as the pitcher that goes with them, and other things that deserve to stay in the family for another generation. What happened yesterday is what I like to call the lifespan of a memory. It had a just close. Something bittersweet that you can appreciate. I will carry these simple things with me for as long as fate sees fit. All the while knowing that they could break in an instant. I will keep in mind that they are just things, but the beauty of the memory will resonate within me, and now you, for the rest of our lives. One small boy's dream for superpowers. One grown man's appreciation for his grandmother's prized possessions.

It's often funny, the things we remember. Now, pass the Juicy Juice.

Okay, I gave you some of my own nostalgia. Now, let me share with you a poem about one of my father's worst memories. And, once again, a bit of appreciation.
__________________________________

The Italian

You strapped the Italian

to the back

of your Yamaha

motorcycle

and made your way to work.

I can feel your stomach hurting.

your curly,

Puerto Rican locks

tucked into your helmet

like steel wool

against foam

and hard plastic.

You had hunger pains.

Not from missing breakfast.

But from missing breakfast

for the second day in a row.

The motor roared.

Your stomach growled.

As you drove to one

Of the three jobs

You had back then.

It was because you had a newborn

who was lactose intolerant.

And the formula was unreasonably expensive

For 1987.

You checked the Italian

At the 8^th street light.

You check the Italian

On Lehman street.

You got comfortable.

And you kept moving through downtown Lebanon,

back when the city was still hopeful.

I can see you

Parking.

Turning the bike off.

Dismounting.

And the look of shock in your face

when you realize that the Italian

was gone.

Your last five dollars

bought the foot-long sub,

a Coke,

and a bag of chips,

which you would never know the taste of.

It would be a victory

that you would never experience.

It would be a lunch hour

spent staring at the clock,

and thinking about your son

who never stopped crying

because he could never drink

from his own mother.

I’m sorry.

For everything,
and for nothing.

Yesterday,

I won $50

On a scratch-off ticket

And I thought of you

At 18.

I wished I had a time machine.

I would have bought us both one,

I would have broke my vegetarianism.

I would have sat in the lunchroom.

Two blue chairs.

One gray table.

I would have eaten with you

in beautiful silence.

I promise that I have never taken a meal

for granted.

I eat every bite.

I have no son.

But I am one.

And

I have you

to thank

for

nourishment. 

_____________________________________

Pay it forward. Give back. Keep your head up. Boogey down.

~Torres

It's Not Hard, Not Far to Reach

I was, and still am struggling with this post. I think it's because I've been working on other things. That, and because I'm on vacation in the Outer Banks.

Typically, a vacation, for me, is a time to do nothing but catch up on reading books (I brought 20 because I didn't exactly know which ones I wanted to read), and writing my next-great-anything (to me at least. You can think that it sucks if you like).

For those that care, and I'm assuming that you might since you're reading these electronic brain farts of mine, I have begun writing a new play. I will not tell you what it is about. All I can say is that the last time I wrote one, it won a contest and I was able to see my mentor and friend act out the role that I had originally molded and wrote for him. It was one of the highlights of my writing career (NOTE: a career of mostly rejection letters and sprinkles of self loathing).

In other news....

In case you didn't know, Tommy Ramone died a few days ago. He was the last living--original--member of the fathers of punk music. I remember getting into the Ramones after Dee Dee Ramone died of a heroin overdose in 2002. Joey died the year before. Then before graduating high school, at the height of what the girl who sat behind me in homeroom called Mr. Ramones Rocker, all into the grunge scene, we lost Johnny Ramone; The drill sergeant of the group.

I wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans. My friends and I would listen to the Ramones religiously, and mourn for the revolutionaries that we would never see in concert. Tommy Ramone's death re-hatched a bit of sadness that I haven' felt since Joe Strummer died.

Here ya go, kids. The Ramones covering Tom Waits. Nothing better. And, nothing ever will be.

Also, because I'm feeling generous, here's a poem.
_________________________________________

Genesis

There was a simpler time,
but it didn’t last that long.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
I could have been a carpenter.
I could have had a business.
I could have had money.
I didn’t choose to write poetry.
He awoke me one day
from a glorious sleep
with a violent shake
when I was much younger
and said,
“Hey man. I need to crash here for a while.”
I haven’t slept well since.
I’m always tired.
He keeps waking me up
in the middle of the night
with wild ideas,
and demands that I write them down
for him.
He likes the blues,
and cheap wine.
Walking outside during rainy night.
And stealing the lives of strangers

to turn into his next-great-anything.
I’m the only one who pays rent.
Even though he swears he'll be good for it
one day.

He never eats my food.
Even though he's always starving.
On his best days,
he devours typewriter ribbon
and downs Indian ink
first thing in the morning.

There was a time
that he took a vacation,
and disappeared,
for months.
So, I waited for him to come back.

I had almost given up hope
and settled for the typical
and mundane,
but then I saw him
rise from the dust on the bookshelves,
sit at the typewriter,
and begin again.
And he's still here,
for now.

We're taking bets
on who will die first.

Because it's the only thing
we don't know about each other.

_________________________________



Rock on.


~Torres

Made By This Human

There's nothing quite like waiting five months for one poem to be published. I'm not being a smartass... I think it's great. It gives you time to forget about the fact that you were published in the first place. So, as you begin to drown in rejection letters, you suddenly get a pleasant notification that tells you "Hello. Remember us? Your poem is online now for all the world to see if they would like to take the minute to read it." Then, sometimes, they invite you to read at an open mic that they are hosting. And, maybe if you're not leaving for Canada during that time for something work related, you would go and read something different to a crowd full of fresh faces.

Let the cards fall. And be grateful that they chose something of yours in the first place.

Here is the link:
http://apiarymagazine.com/leonardo-never-dreams-ryan-j-torres/

There is another publication that will be placing another one of my poems on their website sometime during this month. I'll post it when they send me the notification.

Also, Beat Night is tomorrow. Come to the New Hope Art Center at 7  p.m. and bring a friend, a poem, and some wine. Or, your could just bring your body, plant it in a chair, and listen to all the beauty and insanity that we can muster.

I look forward to seeing you there.

Dangling in the Tournefortia

The past two weeks have been a struggle. I wish I could figure out how to get a novel off of the ground and run with it, but something keeps holding me back. I don't think it's time yet...

In case you were wondering, the feature I had last Thursday went well. Although the town got dumped on with buckets upon buckets of rain, the turnout was decent. The people were great (thank you to those who came out to support).

I've come to the conclusion a while ago that relaxation and writing don't mix well with my personality. I've always been more productive when I've given myself deadlines. Maybe that's what I'll have to do about the next chapbook in order to get things moving along. There's only one problem... the goddamn typewriter doesn't write this shit for me.

Is Mercury out of retrograde yet?

Enough astrology... Poetry time (it's an old one that I found in a stack of papers in my filing cabinet).
 ___________________________
 The Way He Drank

It wasn't about how well
he could could get it all out of him,
and put the demons on the page
before they consumed him.

It was the way he drank
that I found the most poetic.

I saw a picture
in which
she--
smiling--
wrapped her arms around his
bulging waste,
as he
lifted that bottle to his lips,
threw back his head
as far as it would go
until it became a shelf
for afternoon sunlight.

He must have been drinking
to drown one special demon
that he had noticed
creeping down from his heart
to the pit of his stomach--
and taking a break to rest--
before crawling down to his colon
and yanking that wild hair
he had up his ass.

No matter how much you drink,

You  
will 
always 
drown 
first.

The picture depicted what was most important
to him.

And she
just thought the world of that man.

Cheers.
 ________________________________________

Yours, 

~Torres 

Heat Wave

It's been hot, and getting hotter by the day (I'm outside of Philadelphia if you're wondering). It's been a kind of break the car window of the asshole who left their dog in there while they go shopping hot. A kind of, I'm not hungry for anything except A/C and Rita's hot.

It's the beginning of another summer, and some people still do not believe that global warming exists. They refuse the science as their asses melt into their recliners. I think that the heat affects more than just the earth and the glaciers. I think it dilutes common sense as well.

Okay. I'm done talking about that shit. In one of my favorite songs, Tom Waits states that we are in a world "where strangers talk only 'bout the weather." And I would like to think--because you are taking the time to read this--that we are more than just strangers. You have my soul. I have your time. That's a fair trade that I can live with.

I haven't really written any poems about this kind of heat. More like the heat that exists between two people. We all feel weather. But too many of us take the time to really appreciate a good love, or a tremendous hatred for all the right reasons.

Okay... Remember in an earlier post how I said that I tend to say "screw this," walk away from blog posts, and pick back up at a later time? Well... this is another one of those instances. Here we are three days later because I've been out and about the past couple days and haven't written anything.

It was pretty nice, both weather- and event-wise, yesterday in Jim Thorpe, PA. The little town is nestled in the mountains and there is a lot of history there that tourists tend to eat up by the heaping spoonful. It's a lot like New Hope; an extremely bloody history has left the place haunted and damned, but at least we can get ice cream and walk around from shop to shop. I highly recommend going if you've never been. Visit the Old Jail where a few Irishmen were hanged because somebody decided to blame them for murder instead of giving them a decent job. They made a movie about the men (they were called the Molly Maguires). Sean Connery was in the film.

I've never seen it...

Poetry? Nah. Not this time. This was more of a... oh, I don't know... let's call it a "practice post" for the hell of it. Me just needing to write just because.

Enjoy the weekend, friends. Spoil a canvas.

Yours,

~Torres