What can you do?
Three of us wore blue.
McCaffery shot two.
Please check out: http://www.chax.org/
Karen Mac Cormack's _Implexures_ complete text (Chax Press, 2008)
Steve McCaffery's _Slightly Left of Thinking_ (Chax Press, 2008)
A nice pair!
June 2, 2008
Monday afternoon. Emerging from printed cocoon of old texts in English translation, emerging onto this tight little electronic slate on which language (not bread, not seed, not tuneful tone) is placed, letter by letter. Emerging from long day of slow trawls over an electronic sea of clicks, creaking mouse wheels, images and texts. Yawn.
little scratch pad now officially owns littlescratchpad.com but the site is still being "constructed", and today brought with it a little anxiety and confusion about the press business account, dropping me $25 further in the hole in insufficient funds fees. I was offered a tutorial in Quickbooks this afternoon, so, after i learn to keep better books, i will soon have more accountancy acumen--registering taxes, setting money aside, not assuming that the $25 i used to open a checking account will actually be available in my account balance.
[I'd like to go walk on Bird Island Pier right now, but there's been a real swarm of helicopters out there today, the most placid day yet this spring, and their drone would ruin the soothing rushing sound of Niagara waters in which i'd most like to disappear. OR i'd like to write a song with my friend who writes songs, but her silence is as loud or louder than the helicopters. So its just you & me 'ol keypad buddy]
i started my press, little scratch pad, in order to name a collection of poetry i had written and bound into book form, and dedicated to my summer love of 1996. i took my first poetry writing workshop in the subsequent semester that fall with Maggie Anderson, during which i asked my ex-girlfriend to send the book back to me, after she had moved to Rochester. it's an odd book: i called it Eating a Stone, because i was taking something lithic at that time, a latin word for "rock". Every day i'd swallow three stones to keep myself mellow. Supposedly there is a mineral that was discovered in Minnesota, in a town whose waters contain a high amount of calm-inducing content. Not having any documentation at hand, and too lazy right now to look online for more information, i'll simply say that the people in this town were known for their continuously easygoing manners. They rarely got excited about things, or anything. So they analyzed the water and found a miracle drug for people who got way too excited over next to nothing. Eating this stone for a year had made me docile and friendly enough to be an attractive mate for a beautiful, intelligent, amazingly tender person. Eating a Stone was my most effective homage/tribute to the ways these "informing conditions" had helped bring our love into fullest flower. But it is also a book about some very awful experiences i went through, events that made it clear i should eat stones in the first place. Gulp.
Seven years later, little scratch pad editions were encouraged into existence by Michael Basinski (in the winter of 2006), who hinted at some possible funding in order to publish Tom Yorty's book Words in Season. We, or maybe just i, also decided to publish a set of chapbooks, by L.A. Howe, myself, Mike, Kristianne Meal, Nick Traenkner, and Jim Lang. I was given a copy of the Indesign editing suite, and the verbal promise of funding to have two of the chapbooks printed. Time rolled on. I decided to print up hand-bound editions of Kristi's chapbook and my own, in small editions called Buff & Rust. I didn't have any money to print these, so we only made 25 copies of each. I did use the indesign software to design them, however. Kristi and I cut all the paper, waxed the binding thread, punched holes in the thick paper stock and cut fabric to glue to the covers in her bookstore the Sunday before the Buffalo Small Press Bookfair.
All this coincided with the rather painful breakup with my girlfriend which also coincided with my decision to stop seeking college-level assistant professor jobs. i was then very torn between wanting a secure job with benefits, or staying independent to write, think, and work on my poetry, art & publishing. Since 2003 (i had finished my dissertation that fall), i had been applying for assistant professor jobs every winter. In four years, i had succeeded to gain one job interview. In my interview, i talked about putting poems and poets on TV and getting poetry placards installed on buses. They wanted to know if i could teach a commercial publishing course. i talked about reaching out to all of Cleveland's communities from their poetry center: south side, east side, west side. i tried to seem enthusiastic, fun and lovable under a hazy sheen of sweat and anxiety. i had heard that witty, like-able, super-intelligent and well-organized were good traits to show an interviewing committee. i did my best to show them. i look back and see that my efforts were, in academic job market terms and in terms of MLA professionalism, only halfhearted. i never really felt truly academic and professorial in sanctioned ways: believe me, it was certainly a goal of mine to have these feelings, but other anxieties seemed to be crushing me down. i didn't know if i was supposed to play a role, or just be myself. All the advice i had gotten seemed to suggest that you shouldn't be yourself, unless you were 100% through and through a living, breathing geyser of fun-loving interpretive, student-nurturing, love-of-literature-inspiring critical enthusiasm. At the time i was circumspect, incredibly shy, passive, and scared out of my wits. A blinding light was reflecting from the high-rise across the street into the 35th floor window of the Philadelphia Hilton where we sat. One strike for not having studied at the Iowa Writer's Workshop, and another strike that i was overwhelmed by the over-structured nature of the conversation with three complete strangers who needed me to prove myself "right" for their students, their classes, their poetry program and book publications, their department, their State College. This was my one chance so far. Two strikes, and you're out.
little scratch pad is fun, lovable, and enthusiastic.
the writer of this blog is, instead, feeling sorry for himself right now.
But never fear, my friend, brighter days are indeed ahead . . . "for the whole planet"
June 3, 2008
It turns out all the helicopters keeping me from Bird Island yesterday were observing/assisting firefighters at a huge warehouse fire on Niagara St. that caused a few of them to have to seek hospital treatment & also burned barrels of pool chemicals, causing some evacuations in the neighborhood.
i've been reading William Bronk. His poetry in Living Instead (1991, North Point Press) is spare, highly conceptual (world, time, life, death) but coincides exactly with a lot of my own personal realizations and insights in the last month or so. But he goes a lot farther than i have. He is a philosophical, spiritual poet. i've recently started a email pen-pal correspondence with someone living in Russia, and told my friend, "i want someone to love me for who i am, not what i can do for them." This idea has grown into an understanding that, to be loved for who you are is to be loved on a basic level that has no real distinguishing characteristics--that to be loved is a simple grace, there's no reason (personal, practical, social, emotional) why you should be loved, individually, apart from anyone else. What i've come to see is that i have, fundamentally, only my own human experience, which can coincide with anyone else's. Love, in whatever it can mean, outside of a context of mourning/proximity, is purely accidental. i have no say in who i love or who loves me, when to withhold it, when to let it go. When it becomes a "decision" it has taken up other factors (such as "what are you going to do for me?") that are not it. If it exists in one's life, its because there is nothing else to attach itself to the feeling it is made of--no need or desire or grasping. It's just "there", all the "work" of a relationship is found in our means of taking all the "reasons" for its existence out of the basic shared space and time in which it lives, everything we catch and hold onto as an excuse to not pursue its influence. So we are turned away at every stage we decide to hold on to a memory, or anything, instead of moving past that into the present moment where it can actually exist. Wake up to the accident, the contingent, the event. I remember singing a love song on a stage not too many days ago, and a person saying afterward (someone i'd never met) "i love you", which was true, the feeling, and having it shared with me was a beautiful thing, but i knew it wasn't "me"--it was the song, and its energy. i didn't intend to turn this person away, and i only intended to invoke what was inherent in that song. i guess i take responsibility for bringing that love into the room, but i couldn't do more than accept it. i couldn't own being the 'source', and if i sang it for a certain specific someone, that person also couldn't take it as 'mine' either. i admit that love can be very confusing. In one sense, i could squint at someone's expression of love towards me, and be squinted at as well by another person who could see my singing a love song as an attempt to invoke it in her (otherwise blocked by some other reason to not give in to its invitation, its consequences, its motives). There was a lack of trust, maybe, on all sides. I have to believe it will get there, the love, but it has to start in one place, one place alone, or simply be a fortuitous accident. There is no special reason why i, you, or anyone should be loved--and that's the exact reason why we deserve it continuously. i guess what i learned was that it is nothing i have consciously willed to exist, and it never can be willed. All the pain of love arises when you decide you can will it into existence (because of X, Y or Z which are your attractive qualities, your assets, and sense of the other person's obligations, promises) rather than acting consciously to make yourself prepared for it, instead, out of what is MOST universal within you. The unendowment.
June 5, 2008
placards (a blog post with footnotes)
despite admonition i'm posting aphorisms today--talismans charms & mantras--use of the word to get beyond the word
"Belief is like love: it can not be compelled; and as any attempt to compel love produces hate, so it is the attempt to compel belief which first produces real unbelief."
- Arthur Schopenhauer (note A)
We want to believe but the factual is a belief
less fact the farther in or out we push.
The god we need to learn to love gives
us no reason to—no knowledge, power, or other
magnificences: being female or male
or neither of these. If we come to love ourselves
we need to love ourselves the same way.
if i did it at all
it was because i believed
it was wanted
and if i did it the wrong way
can't not doing it
make better do?(note D)
A: i don't know the source, Wayne Coyne put this quote on his christmas card in 2000, then put it on the flaming lips website
B: this is half of William Bronk's poem "Unbeliever"--i didn't like the other half as much.
C: This is the entirety of William Bronk's poem "Even So" (1991) which led me to reread/look at Kenneth Patchen's "But Even So" (1968), a book of visual-verbal aphorisms. It is a perfect book ("the book that needs no blurb"). It was given to me by Kathy Korcheck for my birthday one year. For a while she would find, buy and send me Kenneth Patchen rarities. Thank you kathy for these endless gifts. Kenneth Patchen has a myspace page, but he still hasn't added me to his list of friends. Even so, I believe Kenneth Patchen is my friend.
D: this last one is mine. Alternate title: "Overdue (an apology)"
June 7, 2008
i'm taking my damn guitar into the swamp
to listen hard
hoping the birds & frogs
will teach me a new song
or at least a few new words
June 14, 2008
poetry week in review
It's been a wonderful week, especially for the press, as last Sunday's poetry marathon resulted in many favorable outcomes: Elizabeth Mariani's book launch was a success, and is doing well. To order your copy of the book, go to http://www.lizmariani.com/ and click on the image of the book.
I'd like to take some time describing what the week was like, perhaps as a "week in the life of a poet" since it is important for me to try giving shape to what it was like, and what it means to be "immersed" in a community of active, public writers, poets, artists, booksellers (archivists!) and musicians.
The first event was my recognition that I could not travel to the University of Maine this weekend to attend the Poetry of the '70's Conference sponsored by the National Poetry Foundation. It was not an easy decision to make, as I have for some time been longing again for the atmosphere of great discussions, wild flights of ideas and influences on my own poetics that a great conference can provide. I just have to say I really miss all the people I would have seen there, and I hope the conference is shaping up to be an important one. My own presentation topic was to be on bpNichol's own work as a publisher in the 1970s--the importance of his mailing lists as forming a community of readership, and the work of publishing poets by way of the best possible execution for the nature of the text/object and its intentions (I hope to write more about this, and about my scholarship project with Celery Flute, soon).
Last Friday I walked down to Eli Drabman's third floor loft on Richmond to hear Scott Puccio deliver a lecture on bee dancing, Kristi Meal read her "scroll" poems (entitled "Who Is Caliss?") for the last time, and Jaye Bartell read a work of 20 Choruses, punctuated by instrumental sequences, and enhanced with projected paintings. Each artist provided a different modality to the evening, from the informative, to the scriptural/recitative, to the "intermediary" of a dense textual poem enhanced by painting and guitar.
Saturday I escaped into a small suburban woods, was duly apprehended by a local megafaun (a very sensitive, thus still-wild deer), and offered a few new words and tokens. That evening I attended the opening of Steve Kurtz's show "Seized". This is an important show, not simply for the level of thinking art involved, but for its deeper historical/social meaning, the sad fact that artists can be attacked and be put on trial by unthinking, censorious and reactionary authorities for their (the artists') critical and creative challenges to the ethical implications of contemporary trends in science, agriculture and technology. (see http://www.hallwalls.org/ for more information).
My woodland jaunt was in some sense a way of clearing the mind for Sunday: holding the monthly Poetry Tasting I've conducted since last December (averaging 1 visitor per month), the book launch for Liz Mariani's imaginary poems (about 30 people attended), and then later that night, Liz's open-mic/featured reader series Spoken Word Sundays (about 20 attendees).
At the poetry tasting we read a poem by Joshua Mehigan entitled "Father Birmingham" from the Carl Dennis-donated 30:1-2 (2008) issue of Parnassus (which disturbed us for a number of different reasons, some we suspect were intended, and others symptomatic of its form), a poem from Kazim Ali's new book The Fortieth Day (lauched the day before in that very bookstore), which gave us a lot to talk about, and to admire (sadly, I can't remember the title of the poem--the context is that the speaker standing at a railroad station, observing the place, and then feeling a deep questioning of being and purpose--an image of a "spider biting the back of the neck" had a visceral effect on us, a sudden apprehension of alienation), and finally, we read a poem from the magazine Yellow Edenwald Field composed of a series of postcard letters, arranged over time, providing a telegraphic history of a love affair by way of that intimate absence which is much of what constitutes literature per se, in my view (as I've been dipping into Blachot's The Space of Literature this morning). Sadly, since I don't have a copy of this magazine, I forget both the title and author of this very accomplished poem. This prompted a long discussion, not of the poem (which is a great example of an effective series-poem), but of Eugene O'Neill's play Strange Interlude, involving a long-term love triangle that, I was told later that day, was really about O'Neill, John Reed, and Reed's wife.
By this point I was pretty wired by the Ethiopian coffee I was mainlining, so we concluded the June '08 Tasting. Next up was the book launch. It was a real pleasure for me to hear writers I am not especially familiar with. Patrick O'Keefe played three songs. He describes himself as a "comedy musician" and his songs were funny, but delivered with a great awareness of his audience, in a style that reminded me of Woody Guthrie's (& Bob Dylan's) "talking blues"--a song about a "cat-dog" called a "cog", and a song about Sesame Street Revisited. Then Marina Bitshteyn read some "blood & guts" poems about relationships, a Bukowskian rant against getting advanced degrees in writing, including a rather gratuitous image for a conclusion (I didn't find this poem very effective), and finally a beautiful praise-hymn song with hip-hop/Hebrew meters that celebrates Jewish tradition and family. This last was a remarkable work and performance. I was caught up by its rhythm of an expanding/contracting open metric.
Gary Earl Ross delivered a short, intense "set" of poems--most memorable is a love poem composed of many fictional brand-names for technologically-enhanced body parts. It is a great poem/ satire, up there with that brilliant movie, Mike Judge's Idiocracy. He then introduced Liz Mariani, who read her chapbook in its entirety, from beginning to end. I was very impressed by her articulation. If you want to hear someone recite a poem expertly, and if you haven't heard her read yet--you really should attend one of her readings. Here are the remarks that I read to the audience at the opening of the event:
"Elizabeth Mariani. With so many of us discovering poetry as a consistent resource in our lives, it is rather remarkable when a poet or writer stands out as an exceptional talent, and also provides the community the space and means to offer their talents. Liz Mariani stands out, and she stands up for the spoken word. Her spoken word poetry has the amazing ability to blend the deepest rapids of her personal life into the rhythmic fabric of our social selves. her poetry offers prayer, perplexity and provocation: the poem is offered to us as a means of critical communication as she offers herself up to its shifting, unpredictable weathers. She gives us the goods direct and immediately to the page and to the world, from their first insistence. She stands back from the tide and then plunges in to let it wash over her. You never know what you're about to experience in her works or readings, or what you'll taste in any given bite of her stampeding linguistic cake."
I was glad to meet so many new people at the book launch, that I have to thank Liz once again for the whole experience of working, editing, and publishing this book, it has been a real learning experience for me.
Finally, the day came to an end with Spoken Word Sundays. Both Liz and I were pretty tired. She interspersed reading from her new book with the featured readers Anthony Neal--who sings/intones beautiful and rhythmic poems--Li Farallo--a cornucopia of metaphoric imagery--and Kazim Ali--a poet of contemplative yet urgent lyricism. Ali was brave enough, at one point, to "talk shit about his own poetry" when he admitted to not feeling certain about writing in a new form. And so the day came to a close--I even got a chance to "speak" some of my shorter poems at the open mic.
I'd like to go on and talk about the Grey Hair Gala that Ryki Zuckerman hosted on Wednesday, as much as I'd like to post about the state of the books of poems and readership in the current age, as much as I'd like to beg everyone to help me figure out if I should continue publishing Celery Flute (I really want to, but am experiencing a little fatigue--I have about 30-40 poetry works I've promised to review, at least in capsule form, and I've fallen WAY off schedule for the magazine), as much as I'd like to lament the growing pains of establishing a business and website (also delayed at present)--but I've got to go--more tomorrow.
Please buy little scratch pad editions!! just email me at inksaudible at gmail dot com, provide your address, titles you want, and then scoot the dollars or check (made out to little scratch pad) by the regular post to:
little scratch pad
82 livingston 2
buffalo ny 14213
June 16, 2008
Here are some slowly mulled-over remarks on Ron Silliman's great, useful analysis of "the world of poetry",
which was prompted by his need to explain his long lists of links to online poetry journalism, and a way of addressing the structures of readership in the USA by means of marketing and the institutions of literacy (universities, arts organizations, competitions and awards). The example Silliman uses to define the conflict, and by implication to valorize the democracy of the web, is the choice by the Lambda Foundation to award its annual prize to Henri Cole. The first conclusion reached is that awards are determined in part by the need for a book to gain wider readership, and that the structures that enable that readership (foundations/organizations/businesses) already depend on distribution and marketing resources that significantly surpass the resources of the small publishers who print the majority of new poetry books. This means that writers and publishers with long affiliations to these structures are much more likely to derive the benefit and readers they provide. While middle-tier and independent publishers do achieve success and awards from time to time, it isn't likely that this recognition will happen with frequency. Another conclusion he makes is that, in his own practice, he can promote an "alternative logic" to the prevailing book publishing and promotion system by offering a wealth of access to new and important works, events, poets and styles through his website. I think both forms of logic try to promote wider readership, especially for works that themselves offer an alternative (in this example, of works enacting GLBT subjectivities and issues). Yet, he argues, one means should be understood as inevitably reducing access to these books, and another for its giving a much wider access.
But there is another issue at work: in the late 1940s, each year one book was published for every 18,500 people, whereas today there is one book published for every 750 people. If poetry has consistently been 1% of all books published, and going strictly by the numbers, a book of poems published in 1948 was guaranteed a readership of 185 people, whereas today this translates to 7.5. This conclusion is pure fantasy, obviously. It leads me to question the value of having such a statistic at all, outside of its urgent call for poetry publishers to get busy!
It does say that publishing a book in 1948 was a rare accomplishment and that publishing a book today, while still a great accomplishment, is less rare.
There are other implications to the contrasting logics: a major national award is likely to go to a "product" that can be quantitatively proven to succeed (thus reducing the degree of risk, not only in the "product" but in the kind of writing found under the wrapper), whereas the small presses and newer writing take on a high degree of risk in the name of some other purpose, perhaps one irrespective of markets. While it would be of great importance to draw these tensions out more explicitly, I think it is safe enough to say that poetry and publishing are a cultural necessity that exceed the structural forms utilized to sustain them (while many would agrue the true function is constraint). For me, personally, it makes the art of publishing primary, and allows me to concentrate on that dimension without the constant management of readership markets. There was a time when these logics would have been discouraging to me, but instead, they are in fact a welcome relief from the constant deference to profit models that would have to take place in both the work, design and furthering of the activity. To me, this opportunity to work within an alternative model is nothing short of miraculous. Ron Silliman provides the chance to see that the scope of the available works is much wider than ability of the institutions to convey them to audiences, which is, in the best light, their main duty. My press does not exist in some rarefied field untouched by the need to market, to promote, and to seek funding. But the sources of its support are diverse and of no single source--it comes direct from the writers, from individuals who give me $10 here or $100 there, from discounts by booksellers and printers, and a significant amount of my personal income. I am happy to know that institutions can provide a significant benefit to our active cultural life, but I also know that readers and writers need not always choose those sources as the only means to activate their creative spirit, and hone their intelligence. The issues of publishing and reading are, in my view, inspirational, and my thanks goes to Ron for his frequent listings & of course, to the web as a crucial forum for playing out these new means of communication.
But this problem of "too many books" is not a new one--it was a problem for Robert Burton in 1621 as well:
"What a company of poets hath this year brought out!" as Pliny complains to Sossius Senecio; "this April every day some or other have recited." What a catalogue of new books all this year, all this age (I say), have our Frankfort marts, our domestic marts brought out! Twice a year, proferunt se nova ingenia et ostentat, we stretch our wits out, and set them to sale, magno conatu nihil agimus [we do nothing with a great expenditure of energy]. So that, which Gesner much desires, if a speedy reformation be not had, by some prince's edicts and grave supervisors, to restrain this liberty, it will run on in infinitum. Quis tam avidus librorum helluo? [Where can we find such a glutton of books?], who can read them? As already, we shall have a vast chaos and confusion of books, we are oppressed with them, our eyes ache with reading, our fingers with turning. For my part, I am one of the number, nos numerus sumus: I do not deny it, I have only this of Macrobius to say for myself, Omne meum, nihil meum, 'tis all mine, and none mine. As a good housewife out of divers fleeces weaves one piece of cloth, a bee gathers wax and honey out of many flowers, and makes a new bundle of all, Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant [as bees in flowery glades sip from each cup], I have laboriously collected this cento out of divers writers---"
The Anatomy of Melancholy. 1621. New York: NYRB, 2001. 24-25.
what roofing better than this breathing sky?
what siding more secure than this living wood?
June 28, 2008
We ask: what is postmodern metafiction?
little scratch pad is wondering what POSTMODERN METAFICTION really means. If we live in a world after modernism, does that mean we're all truly just robots, like the guy in Woody Allen's movie Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask who has a whole little city inside of him helping him have sex with his hot date? And is metafiction instead so "beyond fiction" that it accurately portrays real events? If you go beyond fiction, aren't you just talking about something that really happened? I'm very confused. I would like the press to be able to publish postmodern metafiction, but I have no convincing proof that we know what this term means. Does it mean that it is poetry? Or is it just a trendy label intended to encourage consumers to purchase wares, like yogurt bars and jello shots?
We encourage all our writers to take serious risks, to ride in cars without wearing seat belts and to talk on their cellphones when they drive in heavy, 80 mph urban traffic (just kidding); to hang-glide to work on offshore oil rigs and to vote democrat no matter how long ago the party became the little sweeping-up-the-moral-conscience janitor for the military-corporate feudalist oligarchs. But somebody, please, tell us what POSTMODERN METAFICTION is!! Its making me feel like a grumpy old fart to not know.
and we also ask: WHAT STAR IS THAT?
July 1, 2008
Current mood:busyHave to rewind back to the "bee" days. I used to post a lot about bees and bees as metaphor for all sorts of things. I still use my slogan, tho: pollination for every nation!
I had a depressing conversation with bee keepers and honey merchants last saturday. First fact: the brown bee, native to the North American continent, was driven to extinction by imported European bees. Second fact: as far as we know, bees are suffering from a kind of dysentery brought on by travel stress. Third fact: delicious Asian pears are all grown on a specific island (unnamed) on which all the bees recently died. So the trees had to be pollinated by hand using tiny paint brushes.
Finally, in literary terms, there is a wild archive of goodies at the Beehive.
August 16, 2008
Today, some weird homeless guy handed me a crumpled piece of paper:
"they were advocates of violence in the age when North American avant-gardes were cleverly re-writing the Greco-Roman & European classics, suitable for software everywhere, all the soft wars up against the black liquid bursting in tight round cylinders in long caterpillar strands across the asphalt, inching, straining in the blindest last age of isolation and the sense of ownership. The tempo of the times purely lost as the blood and eyes tuned in, every head with hand plastered to ear confirming their being alive but it was only the signals and waves meeting the various mechanisms, eventually these outer shells of motion would fully swallow up the supposed hominids within them, just as mitochondria became the central molecular processors of the cell between the codings of the nucleus and materials and energies arriving to sell their wares at the plasma door. Great blood-buses would bring the oxygen down into their homes. Everything else was swirl, debates about some larger corporeal entity irrelevant in the day to day negotiations with bills and soccer games and the length of the grass outside the front door."
we're going back to NYC, I do believe we've had enough--
Dear friends of the little scratch pad,
We would like to invite everyone and everyone in the world to come to the Boog City Festival in New York City this September 18-21. little scratch pad authors Jaye Bartell, Kristi Meal, and Douglas Manson will be there, reading their works. There will be a small press book fair where all our books will be for sale. Other Buffalo ex-pats from House Press like Damian Weber and Eric Gelsinger will intone. And Eileen Myles, Bob Holman, Lee Ann Brown, and many many others, including a performance of Lou Reed's album New York City by hot new sound-benders. I'll be posting more details about this event in upcoming blogs, but until then, don't forget to order thousands of copies of our books so we can eat at French restaurants and get room service at our swanky hotels. Kristi's book is $8, Jaye's is $6, and there's Basinski for $10 and Manson for $8. Send a buck for postage: little scratch pad, 82 livingston st. 2 bufffalo NY 14213 or email inksaudible at gmail dot com.
luv luv luv