Just so everyone knows, as in the few people who may read this, I'm going to Squamish for the music festival :D and some Vernon talent will be there...who just so happens to be a rapper. SO Here's a Sonreal video. I think it's pretty neat that he's getting recognized more and more...kind of gives the rest of us small town artists (writers, singers, painters, etc) some hope.
Now here is my review of Disclosure:
I was excited when I bought this book...it's cover was shiny and interesting and all wrapped up in terrible plastic. I thought it was maybe going to be confessional poetry–which I love–and that Kevin has chosen something I could really enjoy.
Of course, Kevin had to do it again.
I don't think this is a terrible piece of work...I think it's a really interesting idea and I did enjoy the voyerism factor that let's us see her as the many different pieces of paper that are supposed to describe her. I just don't know if this is what I'd call poetry. It's art, I believe, but maybe not in the medium of creative written words. Why, Kevin, do you insist on us reading work that tries to defy all rules and say fuck it to the conventional styles of poetry?! Can't we just enjoy the norms for a second?
Dana Teen Lomax has a life like most mid-life aged people I'd believe. There's records from her job, her past, and even her google search results for her name. I liked this to be honest, the weird way she shows us her life but not really. I love the concept–not the placement of genre she's published it to. I mean, it's interesting, yes. It has written words. Pictures. But what makes it poetry instead of a neat art project???!! I don't know. I mean, photocopying isn't a talent. Arranging pages takes somewhat of a skill and an eye for placement but it's still not comparable to the great poets out there that slaved over there work, died, and still live on through their words. Maybe that's the saddest part of this whole 'book'; that this is an account of a life. A life that doesn't matter to me, or probably you. I get the feeling that Dana knows she isn't the next Shakespeare, or even next Dr. Seuss. This is an outside-view account of a life, and it's out there in print but still, she doesn't become anymore real to me than most strangers we read about from afar.
It leaves me questioning what it takes for one to connect to another being? Why can someone with a real talent for singing die, and we not feel the impact? Yet when Zayn leaves one direction, thousands of teenage girls swear they feel as if someone had ripped their hearts out and ate it whole? How can we, as writers, imitate that odd sense of connection people have to their idols with our writing? Can we make a character of value? Why is it that looking through a book of intimate details about one's health and work and life not bring us a sense of connection even though it's shockingly relatable?
I don't know...maybe I'm just bonkers.
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