What is everyone's problem with Abramson Leslie Consulting (ALC)?

Having thrown myself, as I do, into the blogosphere (oh how I detest that word), I have found myself caught up in the trending topics of that world, or at least, as the pertain to blogs that deal in any way with poetry, writing, MFA programs, or literature.

And the current shit storm being stirred about seems to be directed toward Abramson Leslie Consulting (ALC) a consultation firm for MFA applicants. Or, more specifically, the blog entry announcing the birth of this never-before-seen venture.

The comments, which range from supportive to what can best be described as disgusted, are really pretty tame if you've ever looked through comments made by upset readers anywhere else on the web. But the general tenacity of what are often (presumably) college educated, or at least fairly well-read, writers is kind of astonishing.

And if you look through some of the comments on other people's blogs, it only gets worse.

I know, from the comments, that I am not alone in being completely dumbfounded about what the big deal is. How can a person find reviewing an application as being a scam, but then also see the MFA program itself as some sort of virtuous and sacrosanct institution?

You guys realize that for many people out there, those of us who go to school for art are the ones foolishly throwing our money away, right? And who can blame them? How many of the truly great writers didn't go to college at all? What exactly does a college offer you that you shouldn't be able to achieve yourself for a fraction of the price?

And isn't there some beauty in what it is we have? Is if you feel as if there is something that you need, and there is a business that offers a service purporting to supply that, then what's the problem? Conversely, if you think the business is erroneous, nobody expects you to pay for it anyway.

I guess I'm missing the point that someone is trying to make by raging in the sidelines about the ethics or honor of MFA programs, of all things. The ALC, and MFA programs in general, are not 'targeting' those mentally incapable of making rational decisions. To the contrary, they are aimed at adults who have had considerably more education than the average person.

They aren't taking advantage of minors or those in their down and out, because those hoping to go to graduate school either have enough money to comfortably do so, or are deciding that they will sacrifice the financial security of say, accounting or engineering, for what it is they love to do.

And they aren't tricking anyone. I would be shocked to find out that someone who has read ALC's FAQ would be surprised at what they are offered when they pay for the service. This is a FAQ, people. It's not like reading the convoluted verbiage of a legal contract (although I'm sure something like it exists somewhere along the line, since Americans are like bloodhounds when it comes to lawsuits).

Either you want the service, or you don't. What exactly is the problem?

I'm finally free from my self assigned Kentucky poetry

I finished, today, a 7 day series of poems based on Kentucky. It became progressively more difficult to think of a new way to approach the subject, but I think a few of them turned out pretty well. I started the series because I find myself, fairly often, in places wanting to rep my state, and while I have some Kentucky poems, they never feel ‘right.’

In other news, I am still unemployed (8 months now. My debt is ridiculous, and my savings destroyed). This is essentially, of course, my own stupid fault, but a part of me revels in the freedom it grants me to write, every single day.

And I have; every day since April I've written at least one poem. Also on my schedule:

• Reading a certain number of blogs.
• Reading a certain amount of poems from a list of online publications, to get a sense of the market.
• Learning a certain number of new words (hey, that GRE is coming up).
• Writing, about every other day, an article for Examiner or a blog entry.
• Doing all the house work for Regan that I can.

But this very involved schedule drains me quite a bit each day, and it doesn't help any that my spirits are in a constant state of depression from being unemployed. I need a job, any job, and soon, or barring that, to remove some of the things from my heavy schedule.

I will admit I am not the most focused person in the best of times, but I haven't really been able to read regular (see: print) books, or write short stories.

Here's the last poem in my series, inspired by Third Street Stuff, an Affrilachian hangout in Lexington, KY:

An Escape to Third Street Stuff

The walls are brushed in ocean-water pigments
and copper-red paint, dried grape sheen
and sunflower-liquor rouge. And there, set
in the creases, are seashells removed from some
far away sea, each of them deliberately laid.

We walk through the doors, past
the benches, and notice how they bow
a bit for the weight of artists. They
express interest in the newest display:
framed photographs of dangerously
attractive men; a drag show in wide-
shouldered glory, set unabashedly to film.

We are met with apothecary bottles of loose
leaf teas at the counter, order coffee and
bottled drinks. Then we walk—holding our
hot and cold stories—past the makeshift
poems on the wall, to a set of seats resting
on the black checkered tile. We silently watch
a wavering white ghost escape from its bleak
espresso, and hold softly these tables,

or absently grip a gently kissed bottle
of Ale-8, which is sweating sweetly in the air.
Ensnared by the atmosphere, we've forgotten
about the traps that hold to us outside, those
obese clouds rolling this earth, the world
that awaits darkly at the end of our rides,
back at whatever we choose to call regular.

Isn't this some slice of Kentucky?

Stop wasting time trying to live. Just live. And write.

As much as people want to claim life experience as a necessity for truly being able to express deepness of perception and emotion, I've always, and secretly at times, believed that this notion is a crock of shit. I was reminded of this recently after having read a blog entry from The MFA Chronicles.

But I was dwelling on this even before that, during the Michael Jackson memorial when it first aired. I took particular interest in Smokey Robinson's take on 10 year-old Michael Jackson's performance of his own song, "Who's Loving You." He basically heralded him as wise beyond his years. Said Robinson:

"I thought to myself: Now they have pulled a fast one on us. Because This boy can not possibly be 10 years-old. This song is about somebody who has somebody, who loved them but they treated them bad. They treated them so bad, till they lost them. And now they are paying the price of wanting somebody back that they treated bad and lost. How could he possibly know these things?"

Now, I don't want anyone to believe that I am attacking Smokey Robinson, especially for praising at their own memorial. I am not attacking him for what he said, but rather, trying to focus on an idea we seem all to have heard over and over again. That it takes great heartbreak to express great heartbreak, great sorrow to express great sorrow. And what is there to argue? It makes sense. Robinson went on to say:

"I did not believe that someone that young could have that much feeling and soul and know. He had a lot of 'know.' You had to know something to sing a song like that."

Perhaps Robinson is right. Maybe Jackson, even at age 10, had the 'know' to sing that song. Lord knows that MJ was forced to grow up much faster than any child should have to in an environment that doesn't absolutely require it.

But maybe, instead, an artist is sometimes able to adequately put themselves in the life experiences of another person through empathetic outreach, and not because they need to have lived through tragic heartbreak, feelings of desperation, or any of the other things we so love to read and hear about.

Drug use, too, is often seen as a gateway to something like this life experience we writers feel we are required to have lived through. How can we really open up our minds if we haven't gotten trashed a couple dozen (or hundred) times? How can we really SEE colors for what they are if we haven't tripped acid?

The fundamental truth that we are all alike is one that anyone who claims any sense of egalitarianism must believe in, in some part, and which Americans should be familiar with even if they don't always practice it. If this is true, then it is not impossible to surmise that given enough thought, one might guess what it feels like to feel heartbreak, or to be addicted to drugs, or to be suicidal, even having never been in those situations.

Perhaps I have never been chained to a drug, but I have watched people who are victims to substance abuse. I have spoken to them about addiction, and I know what some of the things they feel are like; helplessness, gnawing desire, despair. And the other emotions too, the ones that have nothing to do with their drug dependency.

There are writers too afraid to write about things they haven't lived, and I'm telling you: Yes, there is some kind of universal truth to be found in human suffering. In deep depression, for instance. I know. I have been depressed, though I don't always choose to write about it. In fact, I rarely do. But I don't expect or wish for anyone to reach that dismal state. And it would be a shame to lock up a truth that another writer is fully capable of expressing, just because they haven't lost everything yet.

Keep writing. If the experiences on your page ring false, question the validity of what it is you're basing your words on. But don't hold yourself to some imaginary life gauge that your elders have used to justify their own past suffering.

Where does the time go?

So many things have happened, and yet I'm positive I'll forget the majority of them.

I read at GSA. It was awesome, the kids were so enthusiastic. It's amazing how high school was so horrible for me that I forget that it's possible to be an unmiserable teenager. I love what the people at GSA are doing, and you can tell every kid there loves it too.

I also got to meet both Kelly Norman Ellis and Ellen Hagan yesterday. AND got to hear them perform. Damn. Maybe when an Affrilachian Poet gets too good, they have to move to another state and hold that state down.

Got fourth place in the Covington City Lights poetry slam which my friend Sam put together single-handedly (as far as organizing goes).

I got published in Appalachian Heritage. I won the Danny Miller award for essay writing. Which is awesome, and I can't wait for it. It was one of those things where you feel like you just HAVE to win. I would have loved to have won for my poetry, but someone else beat me. Guess I'll have to wait until the event to see who.

I have been writing at least one poem every day since April. Recently, a second, Twitter poem. 140 characters or less. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but it's quite a challenge, and that's good. Studying vocab regularly too. I want to ace the GRE and get myself into exactly the school I want. Or exactly one of my top 5 choices. haha.

And I've gone jobless. For far too long. Next thing on my ever-growing to-do list. Anyone got anything literature or writing related?

[Tour] Berea

Not a whole lot happened yesterday, which is why I didn't blog about it. Let me run it down real fast: Woke up, Bernard and I went to this cool restaurant in a strip mall area that sold sandwiches and fresh food, then to the theatre and watched the Watchmen. I really liked it and he thought it was so-so. He drove back home and from there I drove back to Northern Kentucky and dropped Frank's car off, and Regan drove me to a liquor store to cash my check. Day over.

Today, is a whole different story. I left at 9 toward Berea, a 2 hour drive in my own car, which was both comforting and enervating at the same time. I stopped at Cracker Barrel almost the exact same time as Hendrick and Bianca, and we went in and got some seats, next to a giant photo of a raccoon and a set of traps hanging from chains on the wall. You be the judge. Ricardo, Michaele, Frank, Hendrick, Bianca all ordered our food and talked. I got French toast and country ham, and got clowned for eating ham again. Well, it was more like a look from my big-sis Bianca, but you shoulda seen the look. hahaha. Turns out that Bernard got almost there and realized he had forgotten the money he had been the treasurer for, and had to turn around, and it wouldn't be for another couple of hours that we would see him.

We all met at the Kentucky Artisan Center, a giant (and awesome as hell) store, of sorts. It is filled with Kentucky art for sale, but with found art, statues, wood carvings, and other big pieces of art, it looks very much like a museum. There is jewelry, DVDs, music, candles, all kinds of things, and little cards describing the artists. They sold some Affrilachian work there too. Oh, and a girl with great giddiness asked Frank to sign her book. She recognized him. haha.

We sat at a table near the cafeteria, and work shopped, Hendrick taping us and Michaele reading, while the rest of us discussed our works. We finished up and I drove Frank, and we all met at the Appalachian Center in Berea. My parents arrived soon after and were introduced, or otherwise met, Frank, Michaele, Bernard, Bianca, Norman, Mitch, and Ricardo. It's weird to think they have never met Frank, but it's good that they finally were able to. Regan was with them too, which was great. Today, we were to read the poetry we had written on the road. I ran out to my car and got what I could, and then read it, along with a poem in honor of Danny, who had attended Berea. It was really great to be able to do that. We each went through a round of our poetry from on the road, and Norman read his works, and showed a full page newspaper page with our photos on it. It was awesome.

Then, upon second go, we read some of our other works, I read 6:30 P.M., one of my mom's favorite works, and my poem with the best general reception I've gotten throughout the tour, a poem about levels of racism that exist in America. There were many kind words said by Frank about me and us as a group, and all in all, the location, the audience, my family being there, the words, were all perfect in ending this tour. It was amazing. Hendrick said Frank has the energy or general vibe of Langston Hughes. Hendrick is a good, and honest man. We took group photos and spoke with the audience. One very memorable moment was speaking to a woman who knew Danny, and who cried hearing my poem about him. I gave her my copy, and the whole experience really completed a loop that started the moment I met Danny. Or I should say ended, but came full circle, ready to spin again.

We handled business, figuring out what we'd make back from mileage and discussing the plans for our money (including making is a non-profit organization and hiring a tour manager and getting a bus next tour. Plus we are working on that video. My family left and Regan and I walked around a bit before running back into Frank, his wife, Bernard, and Ricardo. We went to a pizza place down the street, ate some damn good pizza, and then Regan and I drove down to the Kentucky Artisan Center where we looked around more, and I got my mom a birthday present and a copy of Coal Black Voices for myself.

We drove the two hours back talking about the tour, and how awesome certain people from the tour were and are, and listening a CD of black Appalachian (Affrilachian) musicians. And here I sit now. Spent, like Bianca's afro after it ate Kentucky, Tomorrow will be a much calmer day, but one with new colors of lights and new shades of shadow; a whole world digitally restored, or in high-def for the first time.

And now it is time to write.

[Tour] Marshall, West Virginia

Woke up bright and early today (with coaxing from Bernard who has been keeping me on point with getting up for things) and headed down for work shopping. We all ate breakfast first (I had some very old crunchy biscuits with gravy). We stayed in the lobby and critiqued one another’s works, which we had printed out. Crystal came after the first critique, and had a Facebook poem that was really novel, something I’ve never seen done before. The strangest part about the critique was when it was Frank’s turn, because I refuse to back down from anything this tour, but critiquing my own former professor/mentor was a strange thing. Not uncomfortable, just interesting. The poem I had critiqued was the Mulatto Robotto.
We got on the road then and drove toward Marshall University in West Virginia. It was a relatively short drive, just about an hour. We went into a comic book place, then ate at a Chinese food place that was decent. Crystal came with her two kids and after we were done eating, we went to Marshall.

Marshall was by far the smallest crowd of any place we went just a handful. We were in the basement, and there were no flairs anywhere, and all kinds of other things gone awry, but I won’t focus on any of that. We were all exhausted anyway. I was interviewed for a student media thing, and I think it went fairly well. We answered questions at the end, Ricardo arrested the attention of a small group of students, and eventually we were able to pull ourselves out of there so we could get on the next leg of our trip, which was to get to a place called The Rudyard Kipling in Louisville where Mitch was reading to promote his new book.
On the road. It was awesome to listen to and speak with Bernard and Frank. Frank was his own name sake today, because he was up front and honest the entire way. This isn’t really unusual, but he was very forthcoming with critique and general observations which was all really helpful and enlightening. I mean, I learned a ton of things, not just about poetry, so many things and so valuable that I am afraid (almost certain) I will forget much of it. Haha.

Bernard and I reflected a little about how fewer people came and spoke with us after we read at any place, and Frank critiqued our presentation abilities. I think I’m fairly good at taking critique, but this one was particularly easy to take because he was so honest and non-judgmental about it that it just seemed obvious. I won’t go into all the details (not because I am ashamed, but because there were a LOT of details. Haha) but some of the things he mentioned were that I read all my poems exactly the same (which is true), that I seem to think my work should stand on its own and therefore might not necessarily devote enough energy, or the right kind of energy, into my reading (which is true), and that I need to know how to read and work a crowd.

Also, I don’t know what the top 5 pieces I have are, and that’s a hindrance for me, and I see this now. I’ve never had to ‘work’ a crowd before; in Kentucky I just read all my new pieces with no real concern over presentation or cohesion because I am testing the waters and getting used to being in front of a crowd. But here, on this tour, I can tell that even when a crowd is digging what I’m putting down, that it’s on a lesser level than Frank or Bianca. I mean, our material is different and there will always be varying qualities of the material itself, but there is clearly something gained from knowing the audience, knowing what poems you can pull out to regain their attention, and reading what they may like to begin with, as well as mixing up the poems so that they don’t get nothing but race poems like I’ve been doing pretty heavily.

I think a part of my problem on this tour was my mindset which was as much about having the other poets hear the variety in my work, or the strength of my political pieces (Which I think are tighter or more finished than many of my other pieces) as with the audience. A rookie mistake, and one I never need to make again, for sure, but now that I’m surrounded by veterans I felt the need for a validation I don’t often get in Northern Kentucky. We have some poets, but I don’t get to spend much time with them.

We arrived at The Rudyard Kipling, which was a very shwanky (as Bernard would say) restaurant and poetry house. Apparently it’s booked for an entire year it’s so popular with readers. We stood at the doorway (Bernard, Frank, and I. Ricardo and Bianca were in another car which had made a couple of stops along the way). When Mitch finally looked up, the look on his face was hilarious, and he stopped a moment to explain who we were before moving on with his poetry. I bought his book and had him sign it afterward, and Frank’s wife took him home, while Ricardo drove back to Georgetown and Bianca went back with her husband Hendrick. Oh. I had a sausage pizza which was the size of a Totino’s party pizza and was delicious as hell. So delicious, in fact, that it coming super late because they ran out of cheese and didn’t even tell me what the holdup was? Forgiven.

Frank left us the car keys, so we did donuts in parking lots and taunted cops into high-speed chases. That, or Bernard called his girlfriend who found us a hotel about 15 minutes away at a super nice hotel. It’s got the biggest TV I’ve ever seen in a hotel room, a big open space, and modern furniture. I’m sleeping on the couch, but it’s a huge couch. Haha.

I have a lot to reflect upon. I learned more on this trip about what it is college should have prepared me for than college did, and more this day than any other. I even asked Frank his opinion about going to school far away, and he said that after this fall, I will have learned all he can teach me. And strangely, I think he’s right, because at that point, I’ll know everything, it’s just a matter of practicing it. I’m tired. But I also have two writing prompts to write.

Who knows what we’ll do tomorrow, Bernard and me. We shall see.

[Tour] Charleston - West Virginia

We had to wake up way earlier than felt natural to get on the road toward West Virginia. I think it was all just one big blur. Before too long we were on the road, and for the first time two APs fell asleep while in the car. I’ll give you a hit who they were. Frank was driving, and I didn’t fall asleep.

We stopped to get gas and I got some Arbys (sausage biscuit) then we drove for 5 hours to West Virginia. The mountains are interesting. You might think “oh, mountains, just like hills but bigger” but there’s something very different than that, because this is not like Kentucky Hills times two. Saw a lot of factories (I assumed coal, but apparently they have a lot of chemical factories? Even the children here know that. More on that later).

We arrived at Capitol Market right before we were up. Capitol market is a big market that sells all kinds of fresh fruit and foods, including crocodile meet. We set up all our books and chapbooks, and then Frank and Bianca were interviewed by a local radio station. We all read our poetry and it was exactly what I needed. I read Ricardo’s blog on Charleston and he said he felt like he was at home here, and that’s exactly what this felt like. Like I was reading at the BeanHaus in Covington, complete with people who don’t give a fuck about poetry walking by during reading. That’s fine. It’s sort of refreshing for the audience you have to be there solely for the benefit of your poetry and not because they are being forced to.

Bianca ordered a tuna sandwich and I ate half so she wouldn’t carry it around. That’s what I’m telling myself.

We left from there and went to a middle school. The room filled up with 6th, 7th, and 8^th graders. I had been telling myself: Regular reading, but they are children instead of adults. Just tone down the language. Frank went up and went first and I instantly became terrified. That is 100 percent the correct word for what I felt. These were not small stature-adults, this was an entirely different animal.

Frank was inspiring; I saw in him something I have only ever heard him talk about and never seen, which is a deep concern with giving back and communicating with the community, but what made it really affecting to me was that they were children and he was catering to that. He spoke the way I remember people speaking when I was that age (because those who didn’t? I don’t remember). I have a fear of high school, because it was the worst time of my entire life, and middle school was alright but in my head, it’s hard to separate the two because there is only a year between 8^th and 9^th grade, between childhood and hell. Frank gets done and Bianca goes up, and she kills it. I had been watching her a little when we first arrived, as the film crew for the news set up cameras. I saw that she was circling things and writing notes; she was coming up with a lesson plan right there on the fly. She read her Constella series, and got 7 volunteers come up and do actions and sounds when she got to a certain part, and then also got total class participation by having them shout out a response when she got to that part of the poem. It was amazing. During this time though, I was pretty well zoned out looking through poetry and about having a cardiac arrest. But there are things I committed myself to when I decided to really become a writer and not just talk about it, so there wasn’t the inkling of a chance that I was going to duck out of this or anything. I was just trying to stop myself from even thinking about it. It was very out of body experience. Frank came over and gave me a way out, a book with a poem by a child from West Virginia I could use to call up a volunteer to read the poem. I said thanks and sat staring at the space in between space. Then, it was my turn.

I went up with 6:30 p.m., one of my poems. I very much appreciated the gesture from Frank, but I felt as if that was my whole life, choosing the easier thing over the thing I could really learn from. So I explained each stanza, asked questions, got responses, and then read the stanza. At the very end, with the suggestion of Crystal, I read the entire thing as a whole. I had done it. (And let me point out that Crystal, who was there, as a central part of each of the experiences in West Virginia, will get her very own paragraph.) I tried to relate everything to why I wrote it in the first place, and especially how things that you might think are every day occurrence are suitable for poetry. I think so many people think their lives are too boring to write, and that’s just not true.

The rush of it all coupled with the fact I didn’t want to admit to myself how hard it was meant that I didn’t really say anything at the time. But that was some real but shit for me. Real big. I’m torn between wondering if I could have done it if I would have known before the tour I’d have to, and whether there is anything that could have stopped me from doing this.

Crystal read poetry that had to do with the area, which was awesome. Bernard read a poem about shoes, which was also nice, because it was definitely something the kids could relate to. Ricardo read an entire poem in Spanish, then took a lot of listener’s responses to create a poem (about bread) based on those results. But the best part about his choice, was that he told the kids that if they wanted to find out about the poem he read (he did quickly explain it) they had to learn a second language. It was impressive and admirable. I respect every one of the poets I have gone on this trip with even more now than when it started, and that’s saying something.

We went on to an after school program in a black neighborhood. They didn’t know we were coming, and we were so damn tired that we said we’d just go back to the hotel and sleep on it. The woman freaked out (in a good way) when she realized we were poets and said “Oh no. I’ll get the kids together for this. I am not letting you guys go.” It was awesome. I mean, she spends so much time with these children and that she cares so much that she would not let an opportunity for them slip by was really refreshing.

The kids at this room were ages 7-9. This was a rowdy bunch and I was again very nervous, this time because I couldn’t relate to them. I didn’t know what they were thinking, what words they’d understand of my poetry. Frank lead with an exercise he had done in my poetry class at NKU where he draws a line on the board and asks us to say what it is (toothpick, a tree with the top cut off, etc) and keeps adding lines. The kids were better than we were; Frank says it’s because children have unlimited creativity and we stifle our own. He’s right. I read a poem about playing on the asphalt (they thought this was a cuss word, and didn’t know what blacktop was) when I was a kid. It went okay. Bernard read about the po-po, Bianca read about her afro eating Kentucky, Crystal read about the factories in West Virginia, and at the moment I’m blanking on what Ricardo did because I seriously feel like I’m falling asleep at the keyboard. Insert here when I remember. Hahaha.

We went from there to the hotel, Crystal didn’t know he hadn’t already gotten a place to stay. We sat down and relaxed for a little while, then out to the Tricky Fish. It was a really awesome restaurant, and let me tell you. If you need a slice of Appalachia that goes against the grain of the stereotypes, go to Charleston, and if you REALLY want to go against the grain, go the to Tricky Fish. They gave us free food and we all read our poetry in front of an extremely receptive crowd. We mingled at the end, and move on to the other building that the owner was in possession of. A bar.

The bar was as close to being a rock star as I will ever be. We drank (well, everyone else did), I ate pineapple upside down cake, and we had some of the best discussions we have had. It was the definition of brother and sisterhood. I have never said that about anyone.

Now Crystal. She gets her own paragraph, because she commandeered all this like a pro. Affrilachian woman can hold their own, I swear to God. Crystal set all this up, this entire day of life changing experiences. I had never done any of the community things I have done today, for instance. And she did all this, on her own essentially, because she is our West Virginia rep (other than Norman, but he lives in Tennessee now). She packed our day full, which was hectic at first, but I am all about it. Her poetry is also great (I may be seconds away from emailing her to ask her for some of it to read on my own, and to thank her) and she was so welcoming. Plus, I think she’s a local celebrity. Everyone knows her. Haha.

We drove back and now Bernard, Frank, and Ricardo are hanging out while I finish this up. We wake up bright and early tomorrow for hardcore work shopping. The past three days are like children. I keep thinking I have met my capacity for love of them, until the next is born. Man, listen to those metaphors, this trip is better than college. No offense NKU. Although I did pay you, and this trip is paying me. And I am actually speaking about literal dollars.

Prompt: "What secrets do the mountains guard?"

ascending accent

i've been through enough of the mountains
to have seen cadence defy tepid television portraits.
I've caught glimpses of good ol voices
saunter off through a curtain of trees
holding hands with philosophy
only to return an hour later with a smirk
and a good story.
I have born witness to drawls
that gave birth to lightning
heard twangs that make violins blush
and a memory kicks in
narrated by the overly boiled voice of a news anchor
lampooning lexicon
dragging down what the mountains hold
and then almost hear that misty response
"that's y'alls problem"