Daniel Adler's Survival Project

The smell of campfires is pleasant and if I were a woman, Matthew said, I'd be attracted to that natural smell. I agree.

Last night we went to 3rd Ward for Steven Brahms' The Survival Project. My favorites, and the centerpiece of the show were the 21 interesting photographs of all different long haired Asian men running away. I met Masa, Steven's friend, whose favorite was the one of him.

Fire is elemental to our survival. We watch it and we focus and appreciate it. Like a drug it acts on us. Immediate and instinctual, atavistic.

In the vein of the avant garde art theme, fire is survival and the warmth it provides is part of what allows humans to live, so we watch it and feel that it is a part of us and we a part of it. And toss in some corned beef with mustard and cabbage and boiled carrots and turnips and Italian sausage with red peppers over pasta with St. Andre cheese and spinach. And Jameson 12 year.  

London and Avant Garde Art

Yesterday was our first full day in London. We took the Tube, which is very convenient and indeed rivals its New York counterpart to the South Bank. One thing about Londoners is that momentary subterranean delays don't seem to cause as much agitation as for New Yorkers.

Bourough Market gave us lunch: we shared Thai seafood green curry from one stand  and fresh arugula salad, prosciutto, tomato and bufalo muzzarella for our greens. Down the South Bank the Tate Modern holds representative works from most of the famous avant garde artists of the 20th century, including the $106 million Picasso Nude, Green Leaves, and Bust, Braque, Twombly, Bacon, Serra and many more.

We rode bikes to the hep Shoreditch neighborhood after crossing the Thames on the Millennium Bridge. Our country is late on adopting this program of park and ride, unfortunately. At Brick Lane I had lamb vindaloo and almond cream naan (pleasure shudder). Then we walked and drank, walked and drank.

Thing is London sleeps. And that changes the energy of the city slightly. But today after the National Gallery, Friday night will be crazy.

Metamodernism in Literature

My friend Thomas Gibney knows the meaning of post postmodernism. He's living in Hong Kong right now, and has just launched his website. He has written four short stories that allow you, the reader, to guide him to the story's ends.

This example of avant-garde art, especially the interactivity, is what our moment is all about. The internet allows us to access a much vaster amount of information than we ever previously have. Not to make our moment sound so important, but it shares many similarities to the time when the printing press changed the world. The repercussions from this groundswell are just beginning to be felt, mostly in the business world (Facebook's alignment with Goldman Sachs) but also in the poliltical arena (the Obama grassroots youth movement that helped him win office two years ago).

We are all so preoccupied with updates and ways to stay connected that literature has inevitably begun to feel it too. The blog, for one, is a great example. The best blogs are pitstops on the internet highway. Jump here, answer some idiot's response about global warming; go here, drop a link to this funny site you found; retweet it and like it on Facebook, check out your friend's post of a viral video, etc.

So the metamodernism is everywhere. Thomas' work is a good way to understand it.

A Disquisition on Tradition and Post Postmodernism

It occurred to me while riding my bike this morning that ever since the 20th century, artists have had an additional level of self-consciousness. What I mean is that at the crux of postmodernism was the notion of breaking from tradition because it had all been done before. And while artists have always viewed themselves as successors to a tradition, the naming of the era in which they live is a relatively modern development. John Keats wasn’t aspiring to define Romanticism with “To Autumn.” Especially in the fine arts, movements like Bauhaus and Fluxus offered manifestoes that differentiated their artistic practices from the norm. That never happened before Modernism.  

In Ancient Rome, there was no artistic movement called originalism. They simply referred to the art of the Greeks as their precursors, and the Greeks referred to the Etruscans. Today, my very attempt at using post postmodernism as one of the keywords for my blog is an example of the way artists deal directly with tradition. Today we are increasingly aware of the tradition. Paradoxically, however, tradition has become increasingly hazy as the canon has been restructured over the past 30 years. Also, contemporary writers who have received approbation may view themselves as inheritors to the writings of Mailer, Roth and Updike. That’s okay, but only time will decide the best of the best.

For our current era of what is not yet named, but which I think of as Millenialism (using post postmodernism because that’s what people search for, and that’s why it’s in all the titles of my posts) it is about striking a balance of new and old. We must remember the best works of yesterday and read the best authors of today, of whom I cannot yet fairly inventory.  Let’s not get all James Joyce avant garde art on the readers, but don’t make it Dan Brown easy. It’s all about striking a balance.

Stink Bugs and Apartments

The new home of Daniel Adler and family is 105 Grattan St. The area teems with young, individually minded people, and awaits imminent gentrification. Instead of the condescending, measuring looks people give when you're on Bedford Ave., the people here nod and, if you do, smile. They are locals, and because you know about this scene, they assume you are too.

Our apartment is exactly where I wanted to be. It's a quiet tree-and-brick-apartment-lined street that is in the middle of an industrial zone. There is lots of barbed wire, and caught, shredded plastic bags. Graffitti is the avant garde art, but there are a few local galleries too. Today, Roberta's had an Oktoberfest party with live music and brats.

A five step stoop leads you into the hallway and our front door, marked 1R in black lettering on gold tape. Julie will have the front well-lit room, off the cozy kitchen.  A long hallway leads past Matthew's dark middle room and through my room to the private backyard, equipped with lawn accessories (which the current tenants are kind enough to leave us). There are no stink bugs.

Julie, my cuz, was unsure at first, but one of the tenants reassured her about the neighborhood when he told her about "the best bar in America." And so the harvest begins.

The Meaning of September: Post Postmodernism and Change

September is the most popular birthday month. Surprised? You shoudn’t be. During those cold winter holidays, everyone couples up and huddles close.

Anyway, with all these babies being born, school starting again, and the beginning of the end of the year, you may feel that vague fear that comes before impending change, especially if you’re having a baby.

That’s the beginning of a post I wrote for Net Kids Wear. The best thing about my job is the free association and philosophizing. Like most writers, I incorporate my own sentiments into a translated version of what I’m paid for. Just before Little Matthew arrived, I often felt that vague fear – like I’m overlooking a precipitous drop. Not that the vertiginous view is  negative, it just happens that when you try to look into the future, you begin to get a little woozy. Better to just let it wash over you.  

So I’ll continue to let you know how this change affects the life of Daniel Adler, in a very post postmodern (bloggy) way. In the meanwhile, read some high literature, view some avant garde art, and watch the seasons change.

When Will Post Postmodernism Start Already???

 It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Dickens’ famous first sentence still resounds so clearly because of its universality – every age can apply it to their own. But that doesn’t mean we’re all vain; it means that we all need to focus on what makes our moment special.

Jonathan Franzen has won rave reviews for his new book Freedom, inspiring a new word – Franzenfreude – to describe the feelings of anger from mass entertainment writers as they deplore his Time cover and title of “Great American Novelist.” The book came out yesterday, but it seems to be special not for what it attempts to do, but for what it does. That is, there are no attempts toward a post postmodernism, or a stylistic avant garde art as he admitted there were in The Corrections, but instead, he depicts a culture through a novelistic lens.

That doesn’t mean that avant garde art doesn’t have a place in today’s society. The reason Franzen has been so widely lauded is that he has reverted to expressing human psychology simply – the way many of the best novels do. That doesn’t mean there’s not room for innovation. And while the specialization of last decade’s novels – the delving into ethnic family histories, the intricate layers of narrative and information – was arguably the end of postmodernism, the fact that Facebook Places has just been released as a way to update your exact physical presence means that we are still in the end of that movement, according to Frederic Jameson.

Everyone is in a tizzy, but we have still yet to fully embrace a new era, at least artistically. It seems that political revolution breeds artistic revolution. Modernism took at least the first 20 years of the 20th century to begin, and was a response  to a catastrophic war. Postmodernism was a response to JFK’s assassination and the race riots of the 60’s. Let’s hope that post postmodernism, or whatever they will call it, won’t need the same kind of catalyst.

It's My Birthday and I'll Party If I Want To.

Daniel Adler : 21st Bday Pic.

I know some of you may be resentful of people like me, but I get what I want on my birthday. Not presents. I don't care anymore about material shit like that. But little things, like the music on the radio. What kind of wine we're having for dinner, etc.

I share the president's birthday, which is cool, because when I'm famous, Aug. 4th will be a birthday associated with great men.

And now that I'm 22, I'll be able to press on in life, and as a writer. When you're 21, you go into the bar and you're the youngest person there. People can still call you a baby. Same goes with 22, but for one, it's even; you feel a little more grounded during even years. And secondly, you' re a little bit older, closer to being at an age when you can make a splash. That means that you can expect more from my work, since I'm not a baby, and I have the extra experience that a year brings.

Anyway, I appreciate you following my thoughts on post postmodernism,  avant garde art, and high literature, and I look forward to getting better. Till next time.

Facebook in Post Postmodernism

He signed onto Facebook, one of the earliest and most powerful social mapping sites that existed online. He was friends with both Daphne and Dela, in the same way he was friends with Tatiana; it was common for acquaintances to keep online tabs on each other. The key was to alert the former’s attention to the latter. His wall, an area where friends left comments, was relatively stagnant, with about one comment every four days. He needed to incite Daphne to recognize Dela’s existence. He clicked to Dela’s profile, to see a picture of her with Buckley and her parents at a nice dinner. Buckley’s cheesy grin and Dela’s sexy smile…there’s a good reason she was your first love…

“Hey hope you had fun at the concert. Let’s get some espresso soon :P Emoticon? Or no emoticon? No emoticon. Exclamation point? Ellipsis? No punctuation. It's just more for her more to interpret. It should be sporadic, a reminder, an apology, an acknowledgement. Halloween was in 2 weeks. He had to find out where the party was. He could take Dela, and then see Daphne there. Daphne would see him and be stunned. He would win.

21st Century Avant Garde Art

For those of you who haven't seen this, I think it's pretty characteristic of our post postmodernism. We love pure emotion - we laugh at it, mock it, parody it; I almost cried when I watched this for the first time.




Watch the above first.



Perfect. Not only can everyone relate to this, but even if you haven't seen the original you can appreciate the sound editing. Post postmodernism. This is funny. These people did a good job editing this. Now we can laugh at it and not feel embarrassed for him. Talk about self-conscious.

Sea of Consciousness

Why do we love the sea? Because we have absolutely no way of controlling it. Land we can build on, but unlike moutains - which even with great difficulty we can build on - the sea is wholly sublime.  The men who brace the ocean know that they have no chance of taming it - it's always in flux. Land is sturdy, water is not. The sea life - living on the ocean, sailing, boating - is a reminder of ubi sunt. Always changing - you can't build on it  - it will eat you, devour you, like it did the Titanic. The beginning of the 20th century was so proud. But after the war they realized their error, those late teen years make it clear.
As in adolesence, as in every century's adolescence. I'll live to see 2030 definitely. Will I see 2070? 2080? Do I want to live to see 2080? Meh. World's just getting nicer - more gentrification, now health care, less poverty. Leaning towards socialism, when Indians are all rich and happy and bodies don't float in the Ganges.
The sun sparkles on the diamondy water. Sailboats are like flags on the horizon. Muddled and in the vague distance, stray cumulus clouds hover in place. And the sun always fracturing into a hundred million gems, dissolving in the vast waste of distance.
Dayboats plough the ocean with jets of spray on their sides. I taste the salt on my lips.
Sea birds swoop. Barges truck. Faucets cry. Loose cirrus strands expand like a nebula.
Everywhere the sea does the same things, bobs and floats cresting; but nowhere is it the same. Like humanity. That's why we love the sea: because it reminds us of us.

That Big City Feeling

    
On a summer morning, when you walk along the street and people are beginning their days, you get the big city feel. It's inspired by sirens, or by the smiling face of another stroller, and it says to you, welcome, welcome to life, this hot day is another of many that you have been blessed with, and not just you, but millions of you, all beginning their days to do different things, in different ways, tens of millions, in areas and neighborhoods, commuting, relaxing, this is another day in life. It's the sense of volume that's distinct in the feel, it's the large apartment buildings and the early sun that do it, they let you know that this is another day, and that there are even other cities like this one around the world. There are billions of us, and we all cogitate and breathe alive, winter or summer, continents around the world, there are us.

The big city feel is different from the small town feel. The former makes you smaller because of your relation to the people living with you in the urbanscape. The small town makes you feel smaller because you see the landscape, and you realize that you're a creature inhabiting God's land, and that is different from a creature inhabiting a land that man has constructed on God's land. In the city, you have greater corporeal scope, you realize the body's relation to other bodies, as per Whitman and it can minimize your place, or enlighten you as you think of your relation to the multitudes.  In the country you have greater ethereal scope, you understand the futility of your place with relation to the passage of time, and it can make you appreciative or feel puny.

Bach and the Waterbottle Fugue

Johann Sebastian Bach loved his god. He dedicated every Sunday to him, and every Sunday for three years wrote a cantata. A cantata is a medium length narrative piece of music with vocals and orchestral suites. He was a master, logged in his 10,000 hours, and could sit down and write a three hour piece of music as if he were taking a shit. Not in any way to reduce his cantatas; I use that metaphor to compare the excretion of his soul to the excretion of the body, a regulated overflowing of emotion and passion. But it is his fugues that are really spectacular. And what is most spectacular is the self-referencing nature of his fugues - for in the composition, he became literally inspired, as his soul took refuge in the music and he became dissociated from his environment, his personality, wholly subject to the nature of his creation, so that his soul became interwoven with his music with a slight pause in between. Then, on the level of the music itself, the weaving nature of those contrapuntal lines is so mathematically perfect that it is impossible to doubt his genius.

As I sit here writing these lines, trying to create a fugue of my own, it is summertime, and though it is not humid today, I have my fan blowing so that the wind washes over my face while asleep - it blows at my bed, and next to my bed is a sidetable. On the sidetable is an empty water bottle, that, amazingly enough, continues to rock back and forth from the way the fan blows. This rocking has not ceased for hours, it lasted all through the night while I dreamed of horses and nightingales and subways. It is incredible that the water bottle does not roll around in its rocking, to move away from the wind, that it does not circle like a top and fall over eventually, but instead rocks on its center, situated in a contrapuntal position, in balance with itself and the wind from the fan. And this to me is spectacular. I've come to notice that the rocking increases in amplitude in a cyclical way, like a sine graph, so that it rocks faster and harder, then slows almost to a standstill, rocking the while, then speeds up again,  rocking more violently, following the rules of nature, in its valleys and its troughs.

Lamentation for the Semicolon

  Poor semicolon; Dr. Johnson ushered in the golden age for it, and after that it was all downhill. It's a very Ciceronian piece of punctuation; a method of concomitance that allows the speaker to continue on without stopping; the perfect punctuation for a speech, or a long digression. There's no need for conjunctions with Semicolon, but the hoi polloi refuse to understand that; they think that you can just use a comma instead -- and in many instances, you can.  But using Semicolon is more than just a sign that you went to college. Here's a grade school maxim: if a period is a red light, then Semicolon is a yellow light, and the comma is a green light.
      We love the comma. The comma shares the place of lamentable semicolon, in part because it's easier. When they see a ; they aren't really sure what to do. You can use the , for everything nowadays. Watch: I went to the bodega to get some beer, they were out of 40's. That comma takes the place of Semicolon. Why wouldn't I use Semicolon ? Oh, but it's so pretentious. It's like using the word convalesce, when I could just say healing, or getting better. I want to resurrect it. Semicolon has intrinsic value for linking phrases of differing content, and it isn't as abrubt as the dash. The dash is effective and is now often the favorite over Semicolon.  Don't get me wrong, I love the dash, but it's choppy, and Semicolon allows for relative fluidity, even if it does involve a slight pause. The Semicolon; now there's a piece of punctuation.
    Here's a nice example: “And as it was borne in on him that he would never see her again, that it was all over, that she was irrevocably lost, he felt his whole being torn apart; his tears, which had been gathering all day, overflowed.” Here, the commas serve as modifying clauses. Semicolon signals a break from, and entry into a new clause that supports the meaning of the sentence with plot furtherance  -- we are told after all the commas, a new piece of information, that he cried. The commas are steps in a sentence; Semicolon is a landing.
      I really want to start using more parentheses. They are nice because when you insert a clause into a sentence by bordering it with dashes, the emphasis can disorient the reader and he may have to reread it, which may or may not be a good thing.  This post postmodernist part of the blog will have more commas and parentheses and fewer dashes and Semicolons.
      This reduction of English grammar, I don't know exactly what I think about it. On one hand, it's nice because it's becoming simpler, which allows the lay to enjoy it. Not that I'm writing for the lay, believe me, I want this to be read in college classrooms one day. But I believe that Hemingway, for example, was so successful because his prose was simple, like the Bible. In a way it's him I have to thank for throwing the first fistful of dirt on Semicolon's coffin. It's the interpretation that gives meaning anyway, so why cloud my writing with excessive punctuation? Use it occasionally, and when I do, it becomes important for its relativity. 

Chakra Daze

There was a creative mood for us. In the 60's they went to Woodstock and listened to Bob Dylan, danced in the nude. Henry Miller played piano and jammed out with his friends. We do the same things, but differently.
    I remember one afternoon, when the artistic vibrations of a weekend grounded in open festival art were resonant. Sarah, Anthony's girlfriend came over while Anthony and Gio and Chris were selling art at the subway stop. We gardened and built up an appetite playing catch with her softball and her soft leather mitt. When we went to the store and bought food, we felt so exuberant – there was such abundance with a ripe canteloupe, prosciutto, red tomatoes, black bean hummus, a rosemary baguette, lemonade, gouda, and corn chips. We prepared a gorgeous spread and when everyone arrived, we fed leisurely, like a court of aristocrats, or European peasants. This feeling was the kind that inspired happiness and contentment.
    Full, I put on a pot of coffee and we rolled cigarettes, thick and conic, with a little bit of tobacco that dangled out the end to make it easy to light and looked like crazy hair. We stood on the deck, feeling the breeze, and talked about Yoga. Gio told us about how when he was younger, he was diagnosed with ADD. They put him on Ritalin, you know how kids sleep when they're on Ritalin? They jerk their heads and twitch. His mother didn't feel comfortable with that at all, with her little boy already on drugs. Drugs create dependence, especially when they're prescribed. When you switch from one to the other, it's easy to want to commit suicide. Someone told her about yoga. When she put him in a class, and he found his center, she eventually was able to quiet him simply by saying “Gio, ohm.” And he balanced. This was when Gio was just thinking about opening up a yoga studio on the roof of his loft, asking for suggested donations only – 7 dollars, which was perfect because no one has exactly 7 dollars, so they'll be tempted to either tip up or down based on whichever bill they have, and can feel good about it either way.
    He led us in the yard, which had just accepted a light rain, and was moist. The clouds were unfolding, curling and spinning in wisps, the leaves of the trees were buzzing. We did the motions, pulling the flesh away from our sitting bones, downward dog, hinyasa, warrior one, he demonstrated crow, where you put your knees on your elbows. Afterwards, we felt balanced, and everyone left, peeling off like layers, going where they needed to.

Mega Laundromat

In the laundromat I always have the most intimate experiences with children (no homo). Today a young Hispanic boy jumped onto a wobbly end table next to two red seats. The table was at the same level as the chairs and was connected by a black bar underneath. He treated the seats like an obstacle course or a hopscotch square, planting one foot on each then jumping onto the floor. He looked at me. I jolted my eyebrows in affected awe. He smiled; he was pleased.

He wore black Jordan III's, orange and brown boardshorts, and had his hair in that subtle fauxhawk that's popular right now, so that it was a little longer in back and hung down in a short spike on his neck. His two front teeth were missing. He was 5, I could tell.

I sat down after using the restroom and opened my book. He was running around, playing on the floor. I wanted to tell him as I saw his forearms rest on the ground, "Get up - it's dirty!"Clearly he did not understand the concept of a dirty ground, that you shouldn't play on it. His tall heavyset sister tried dragging him up. He was stubborn and yelled.

The matron slowly walked over - thick calves, hair in a bun on the crown of her head, a small purse slung across her body. She had big brown eyes and a frowning sullen mouth. She shook her head. The boy stopped, the sister let go. He knew what was coming. The mother took his ear. She walked with him in tow. He looked at me ashamedly, embarrassed, and as he moved his head the pain set in, he mouthed ow, but he didn't say anything to save some pride.

Oh, how I remember the ear tweak! It was a mild pain that lingered. And how degrading it was. I sat with my naked feet on my slip ons, unabashed, and was glad to be an adult.

Yes Poetry (and Prose)

 A poem that I wrote while in New Orleans a month ago is online in the latest issue of Yes, Poetry. Based out of New York, this collection has poets from all over the world, and is my first publication.

In the meanwhile, I’ve been working fiendishly on my book, Hot Love on the Wing. Its dualities are continually expanding and concretizing, and I’ve had some important revelations recently.  Remember that it is a kunstleroman, so this excerpt involves the narrator dealing with his critics:

If I weren’t a writer, then I would write a book later. But ever since that day in first grade when I realized that being a reader is only half of the equation, that if you can’t write you’re just as powerless as not knowing how to read, I knew what I had to do; even if it was an unconscious stirring in my soul, it was there.

And then when I was eight, finding an old journal entry, my first, and being delighted at my ability to record the past accurately. I remember sitting on the floor cross legged, holding a single sheet of looseleaf paper that was wrinkled and scrawled over in pencil, and being ensnared in the power of my history, standing up and being inspired to write again, and eventually come back to it in another few years and have a repetition of that delightful feeling we recognize as aging, learning.

 In actuality, I could have been disgusted at how poor my writing style was, how inaccurate were the events, and how naïve I was as a mere six year old to attempt to write. You see, I don’t really know. The first way was nicer, it could have been true. But then again, it was so long ago that to remember exactly how I felt at the time is impossible. To try to give it to you, I glorified it the way I would glorify my youth if I wrote a coming of age story as an old man. It’s nice and sweet, sure, makes for good reading, but when you come down to it, it’s the dualities that are worth exploring. My feelings of how I wrote it or read it are untenable, and honestly isn’t it more fun to wonder? To make your own decision based on how well you know me, or rather how well you don’t know me? So my true goal is to allow you to understand my psychology, so that you can see how I might have interpreted my history, whether it was 20 years ago, or last night. We’re in it together, trying to find our way through the recesses of my memory, and interpret the light shining through the corridors as an exit, or maybe as a way to get lost deeper in the labyrinth. And who knows? Maybe we want to get lost. As long as we’re not alone, right?

4 am blog post.

I just watched a cool xx video that I wasn't really sure what to make of. I actually fast forwarded to the 2 minute mark, to see what would happen without having to understand the sadistic decay of motion. That's part of our digital age I guess, take it or leave it. And what else, we had this paella tonite for dinner that was called Soccoran which means the bottom layer in a paella that soaks up all of the delicious juices from the baked ingredients, among which were shrimp, scallops, mussels, clams, scuttlefish and pistachio colored lima beans. To drink we had a Ondarre wine from the Rioja region of Spain. Even with the seafood, it was a classic comparable to Tuscany's Chianti.
After a night on the L.E.S., I skated to the J train and whipped out my mouth harp while waiting. I'm learning "John Wesley Harding" (just wait through the German ad - it's 4:23 and I'm not about to sift through YouTube covers and that shitty band with the same name). Flushing St. Down many stairs and onto Humboldt, smooth skating, minimal pieces of glass, and undulations in the road that keep my bearings happy. Teeth brush. Wat drank. Bloggy wog. Sleepybie.

Flarf

Flarf: a kind of corrosive, cute, or cloying awfulness. This is a strain of avant garde poetry that began around 2001, in which Gary Sullivan, the coiner of the phrase, intentionally submitted bad poetry to Poetry.com to see if their standards held any ground. This is where poetry is headed in our digital age. Now I’m all for post postmodernism and the suggestiveness of Internet speak, but I don’t know where to put my finger on this one. I guess I’ll have to try.

If Yzerman and Kwame Kilpatrick
Don’t launch me to Google’s top spot,
Lindsey Lohan ankle bracelet is a searcher
that’s hot, and it might. Babelfish can help me translate this line of verse I wrote into… fuhgeddid.
Animals strike curious poses observed the heat between me and you.
Oh, but when they saw my penis strike a lampcatcher,
they wanted more. So I gave it to them, right up the Ace.
Hotels with coffee bars
make my jiggly wiggle, figglety figgle. Spigglety spiggle.
It was just for jizz and giggles that I did it. No I like girlz, as long as dey HOT. Hot, hot.
Lost series finale, n korea, safina, us soccer, ronald defeo jr, maybach 57s…

Not bad right? I kind of like this flarf movement.

Daniel The Writer

I have a website! It features some of my favorite writings, some compiled from this here blog, and others previously unreleased. It includes a short biography of my life, some of my favorite quotes, and some really nice scroll bars.So check it out, and browse through the goodies. There may still be a couple of writings that haven't been filled in, but you can now officially call me Daniel The Writer.