Ian Belknap loves to hate James Franco.

I recently noted that James Franco was in town to read from his new book of poems.  Immediately I wondered, “Does Ian Belknap know about this?”

You see, Belknap is a sometime comedian, actor, writer, and recurring element in Chicago’s cultural milieu lately known for his one-man show, Bring Me the Head of James Franco, That I May Prepare a Savory Goulash in the Narrow and Misshapen Pot of His Skull. His involvement in such noteworthy goings-on as Write Club, Paper Machete, and Live Lit are now overshadowed by his Franco-fueled vitriol.

That’s Ian Belnknap. Look. Right there. It’s him.

I cannot blame Mr. Belknap. I watched this video and became nearly apoplectic. I didn’t make it all the way through Actors Anonymous and agreed with the reviewer who stated that it “would be best read as a work-in-progress in a creative writing class.” I am not sure, however, that I would have the boldness required to call for somebody’s head, much less threaten to use it as a cooking vessel, in a public forum. Bravo, Ian Belknap. Bravo.

For the record, Belknap knows what the hell he’s talking about when it comes to writing. I mean, the man can write. Here’s a recent passage from his blog I found particularly striking:

The surest fucking way to become exactly like the parent you hate is to make elaborate, repeated claims that you’ll never, ever, ever be anything like them – it is the perverse joke of the human heart, which may have greatness in it, but also can be a huge dumb-ass.

So when you are an alcoholic, and you remove the alcohol, you are left with the feelings. Which you must experience. In all their un-minimized fury.

Which, for a person like myself, is a fully horrifying prospect. Most of the time, I’d sooner pound a tent stake into my own thigh than feel the feelings. But this is not an option. The emotional life of an alcoholic without alcohol is a gunfight – either the smoke and fire and blood-letting, which at least has the a grisly kind of clarity – or the anguish of standing in the dusty street, twitching hands poised over your gun, waiting.

Ian Belknap has been writing a lot longer than I have, and I’ve accumulated enough rejection notices to wallpaper a small room. Many of us take them as a badge of honor. The rare occasions when my name makes it into print above something I created, I feel I’ve earned the fleeting pleasure it gives me through patiently undergoing the emotional turmoil of repeatedly being shot down as a writer, if not as a person. I don’t know how Belknap feels about his rejections, but I’m sure he has a few, whereas James Franco got published because he’s a famous actor. The time between his first short story collection and his second one (referred to often as his novel) was brief enough that many writers would not have had time to write and prepare a manuscript and have it back from an editor, let alone see it accepted and in print. Of this “Hollywood people can do anything they damn well please” phenomenon, Belknap says:

Franco is the biggest distillation of this tendency, because he is doing so any things simultaneously, then has the feverish insistence we pay attention to his every move. I just zeroed in on the worst practitioner. His “body of work” — air quotes so vigorous my knuckles are breaking — occupies this annoying place where he is making unimaginative work in every discipline even as he is insulating himself rhetorically from any criticism by saying he is “working in forms,” “not speaking literally” — all hollow art-speak justifications.

I think a lot of writers (and readers) are deeply annoyed by this aspect of James Franco’s writing career, regardless of however much they (or I) respect his acting or laughed riotously during Pineapple Express. Few of us, however, express that annoyance as well as Ian Belknap.

I love Sandburg’s Chicago Poems.

Everybody knows the famous “city of the big shoulders” poem. What you may not know is that Carl Sandburg wrote not just a poem, but an entire book of poems, about this city. A defining work of the Chicago Renaissance, the book is a perfect example of what literary scholars now call modern poetry. Concerned with the people and places he saw every day rather than mythology and other classical topics, Sandburg and other poets of the Chicago Renaissance wrote about the particular scenery, dialects, smells, and characters they encountered on the city streets. Chicago Poems is more than a pleasure to read as a book of poetry; it is a document of what Chicago was like in 1916. The poems have a delightfully populist bent to them, and some are even political, but there are also poems that are just plain fun.

Rather than overrun this blog with poetry, I’ll just post two that I think are often overlooked and that are particular favorites of mine.

The first, “To Beachey, 1912,” describes a flight of Lincoln Beachey, widely considered America’s first great stunt pilot. Beachey set an altitude record in Grant Park during August of 1911, according to The Chicago Daily News Almanac and Year Book. About 75,000 people sat in bleachers along the lakeshore to watch him (and others) at the  1911 Chicago International Aviation Meet, and Sandburg may have been among them. Sandburg may have also watched Beachey fly at the 1912 International Aviation Meet, where Beachey dressed in comical drag and performed numerous stunts as “Madam Lavasseur.”

Source: aerodacious.com

Enough exposition! Here is the poem:

RIDING against the east,
A veering, steady shadow
Purrs the motor-call
Of the man-bird
Ready with the death-laughter
In his throat
And in his heart always
The love of the big blue beyond.

Only a man,
A far fleck of shadow on the east
Sitting at ease
With his hands on a wheel
And around him the large gray wings.
Hold him, great soft wings,
Keep and deal kindly, O wings,
With the cool, calm shadow at the wheel.

The other poem is “Clark Street Bridge.” In it, Sandburg describes the site of the  Eastland disaster. Beautiful and haunting, its lyricism is as striking as its imagery. Interestingly, the bridge Sandburg would have crossed while going from River North to the Loop was the second bridge at this location–the bridge there today was completed in 1929, and the first one saw Chicago’s first civil disturbance, a beer riot, unfold. Still, I think these evocative words can yet catch in the hearts of those walking through the city on a misty, lonesome night.

DUST of the feet
And dust of the wheels,
Wagons and people going,
All day feet and wheels.

Now. . .
. . Only stars and mist
A lonely policeman,
Two cabaret dancers,
Stars and mist again,
No more feet or wheels,
No more dust and wagons.

     Voices of dollars
And drops of blood
. . . . .
Voices of broken hearts,
. . Voices singing, singing,
. . Silver voices, singing,
Softer than the stars,
Softer than the mist.

You can read the rest of Sandburg’s Chicago Poems right here, if you like.

I love Joe Meno’s writing.

This Chicago writer and playwright (also, lately, maker of short films) is, in my opinion, one of the greatest living short story authors. His novels and non-fiction are pretty swell, too. You may have read him in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, The New York Times, or Punk Planet. His work ranges from straightforward prose grounded with naturalistic dialog to magical realism interspersed with poetic language.

Image

If you are looking for a contemporary novel set in Chicago, you can’t do much better than The Great Perhaps. It follows a Chicago family, the Caspers, as the parents struggle with their marriage and careers. The grandfather, Henry, reacts to facing death. One daughter embraces Christianity while the other flirts with anarcho-terrorism. Ordinary problems unfold into extraordinary events. There is also a political element, as it is set during the 2004 election season, and the novel also explores the limits of science and faith, with quite a bit of emphasis on the significance of science, as the parents of the family are research scientists and academics at the University of Chicago.

There are some great lines in here, like, “Madeline decides Jonathan is an immature, selfish asshole and that she is never talking to him again,” and, “Please tear my limbs from their sockets and let the backseat and my older sister be totally covered with blood.” There are parts that make you laugh, parts that make you cry, and parts that make you want to break shit. Since I prefer a novel that makes me feel something, that’s all good to me. I am not the only fan, either. Critics liked it, too–The Great Perhaps won the Great Lakes Book Award for Fiction in 2009 and a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice award.

With six novels, three plays, and two short story collections to his name, you can start reading Joe Meno’s work now and finish just in time for 2014 Story Week, a writing festival where he often reads, or if you’re a very fast reader,  the Printer’s Row Lit Fest, where you can buy his work and where he has read in past years.

For a taste of Meno’s writing, check out the short story Homo Sapiens in Tri-Quarterly. Check Sandmeyer’s Bookstore or your favorite place to get books In July for his latest book, Office Girl.

Image