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28/06/2009

Mike Tyler

 

Texte inédit

 

WRITING:

 

A FUNNY THING THAT HAPPENS ON THE WAY TO NOT-WRITING


It’s a funny thing ‘bout writing. It’s almost a not-writing, or as I see it, a compression. We are actually writing all the time. We are. All of us. What is language but writing not written down. The trick to writing when you are actually writing something down is to stop writing. That is to stop the easy flow of language spoken, language thought, language used to order a sandwich. Suddenly, language must be something else. The best way to get there is to stop. 

It is not nothinc. There is noise everywhere. You are chattering away constantly, and so is everybody else around you. The computer screen, what used to be called the blank page, is quiet. That’s how it should be. I know barely anything, but I do know this. Art begins because you are bored.

If you get bored enough you will begin to write; not talk captured. It can become talk after it is written. In one of those weird contradictions that I like to thought-skateboard in, if it is to sound right, alive, real, peopleish, not lugubrious, heavy, and “written” it must be bottled-up, almost destroyed, starved of its joy (but not yours), at its point of contact with page or screen, so that when it is read, it basks in being, its found freedom. 

I’ve always had an interesting experience with the poetry reading (my gawd this is a dullsounding sentence, but stay with me please). Let’s be honest, can we, can we all be honest. Uh, not so easy. But I’ll try, er, um. The poetry reading, when it is bad, and it is almost always bad, is probably the most horrible experience you can have. I don’t just mean in “entertainment.” I mean in general. Why is that so, I wondered, as I suffered, “listening,” to poetry read, if that is the word for what I was doing. (It wasn’t really; it was trying not to listen.) Why is a poetry reading so bad. Then I figured it out. It’s a strange circus where the animals come out and the “act” is to inject them with sedatives.

The poem is not-writing at its not-writingness-ness. It’s not about writing. I’d like to say it’s about feeling, but feeling is a writing. It’s about, who knows what it’s about. Exactly. (Although the poems themselves are about somethinc.) But when poets read their poems, they act like they do know, and to watch this lie unfold is like watching a snake eat something three times its size. Actually not that interesting. 

If I am proud of one thing, and I am proud of one thing, but I’m not telling you what it is. No, I’m not, but you might be able to guess. Hmm, where was I. Oh yeah, this is something I do think I do that is something I think I do that’s um, good. When I read my poems, I am surprised by what they say. 

They were not written; that’s because I wrote them down.

© Mike Tyler

16:13 Publié dans Mike Tyler | Lien permanent

16/04/2009

Mike Tyler

 

        Hotel Stories       


At 30 you already have past lives. In some ways 30 is the age of past lives, when you suddenly realize (is there any way to realize in any other way) that you have them, er, past lives. Not of course the past lives like a Princess of Egypt or somethinc (how come in those kinda past lives you’re never a slave or a victim of the plague) but just the acknowledgement that in other parts of your life you seemed to be different than you are now. Saying this simply it seems pretty simple, but it’s really kinda weird. Nucleus was stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. He was. Stuck. The stickiness that he was stuck in had to do not just with the existence of his past lives but with what having past lives meant. It was, yes forgive me, a philosophical problem. Having your parents lecture you at 30 is hard ‘nuff, but sittin’ in front of their full-frontal authority with your own material nakedness naked for all to see (you’re stuck and everyone knows it) and your only defense, the impossible to express or to get anyone to believe or more improbably understand, that you have a philosophical problem and that’s why you seem to be so, um, stuck, is really a nightmare of Poe-like proportion.

 

© Mike Tyler, extrait du livre Hotel Stories, 

 

 

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© Photo Nathalie Daoust


J’ai rencontré Mike dans un hôtel à New York. Pas n’importe quel hôtel de New York. Un Hôtel new yorkais. Il y a de la mort au rat dans les couloirs et les chambres. Une poudre "anti-je-ne-sais-pas-quoi" blanche à la surface des tapis. Quelques pas et elle tournoie dans les rayons du soleil d'une journée froide de printemps. Une poupée nue sur la porte de la salle de bain, tuyau d’arrosage pour douche, vitre brisée pour l'aération. Plus tard il y a des chats, qui remplacent, qui sont là pour les rats……et toujours de la poudre blanche...les chambres, chaque chambre est décorée par un artiste. Mike n’est pas peintre, il est poète….il réside là,  dans cet hôtel, permanent comme résident. Au début, c’était pour quelques jours, seulement...il y est reste huit ans. 

Christine Bauer

 

Those things. What are they. Like, ruffles. Ruffles have r-r-r-r-r-ridges. Hee, ehe, ha, ha, hee,hee. No. Around their necks. No. You know!! Yeah, in the movies. Whatever century queen whatever whatever. Whatever. No! Not the guillotine again. That meant something else. That was quite poetic when I sait it. Why'd you have to spoil it. Oh, you're jokin'. Oops, Sorry. Um. But actually, ya know think 'bout it, I am making, what's that word, illustrative, allusions, comparisons, no not, connotations, shut up, about queenliness, regalness, beagleness. Snoopy. Hee, hee, hee. She was nothinc like Snoopy.

 

© Mike Tyler, extrait du livre Hotel Stories

 

 

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14:08 Publié dans Mike Tyler | Lien permanent