"Curbside Classic is a general interest automotive and transportation site with a special emphasis on history and documenting the older cars still on our streets."
Worth a visit for the pictures of cool vehicles — but there's also some great in-depth info on the cars, including some with old sales brochures and ads. Neat!
I used to own a great many books. More books than is reasonable for a person to own. You can see some of them in the photo above. Just under 1900 titles. In 2022 and 2023, I sold the vast majority of them, keeping just a small shelf worth.
I thought it would be interesting to occasionally do a post about one of the keepers and write a bit about how it came to be mine and why I've kept it.
The first title is Kenneth Rexroth's One Hundred Poems from the Japanese. I believe I purchased this copy from Iliad Books in North Hollywood, though it might have been The Last Bookstore in DTLA. Either way it was definitely in 2010, during my first trip to California.
I'd gone because a film director had read Chimera, a screenplay I wrote in 2008. He called and said he wanted to meet and talk about me writing a sequel to a hit film he'd made in 1990. (A film I'd seen in the theatre when it came out and that most people of my generation will have seen. Yes, I'm purposely being vague.) He told me he lived in Venice Beach and that I should head down.
I took the month of May off and flew down, staying in an AirBnB a few blocks from the director's house. To quickly answer the questions you're probably asking: nothing came of Chimera, my script that he'd read, and I never worked with him on a sequel to his film — or any other film for that matter. In short: he stiffed me. I spoke with him the day before I left Toronto — "Oh, yes, great, great. Looking forward to meeting you, Lincoln." — and then he avoided my calls for the entire month I was there.
I've been asked a number of times if I'm bitter about the experience, but the truth is that I'm thankful for him having called, as he motivated me to head to Los Angeles, something I probably should have done as a teenager or in my early 20s, instead of going to film school. I fell in love with the place and lived there for three and a half years spread out over the next ten. In all that time, I never did come face to face with that director, but I did make some great and lasting friendships.
As to the book of Japanese poetry:
For as long as I can remember, I've lived an unrequited life. This means I'm often thinking about someone from my past. I chanced upon the Rexroth book and opened to a random page:
In the empty mountains The leaves of the bamboo grass Rustle in the wind. I think of a girl Who is not there.
Nice. I flip again:
I wish I were close To you as the wet skirt of A salt girl to her body. I think of you always.
Very nice. Once more:
Others may forget you, but not I. I am haunted by your beautiful ghost.
Sold!
If memory serves, it costs me $8.
Though I have most of my favorites from the book memorized, the thin trade paperback often accompanies me when I travel. I had it with me in Spain in 2017 when I was sending my own poems out to my Burning the Days mailing list. All those miles means it's pretty beat. It was dog-eared when I got it. It's water-stained now. I'll replace it with a hardcover first edition if I ever find one in person. (They pop up all the time online but I hate paying for $30 shipping on a $20 item.)
There is a sequel with the inventive title One Hundred More Poems from the Japanese, but I can't recommend it. Rexroth also did two volumes of poems translated from Chinese. Again, they don't strike the same chord as this original Japanese collection.
One Hundred Poems From the Japanese is still in print. It's published by the stellar New Directions and you can purchase it from Bookshop.org, Abe Books, or Amazon (Canada, US, UK), or maybe get your local book store to special order you a copy.
Landays (pronounced land-eyes) are 22 syllable, two-line poems composed primarily by Pashtun women who live on the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. They are passed on orally and are anonymous, as these women are usually illiterate and poetry for women — not to mention education — is forbidden by the Taliban. The Harvard Review says, "The landay is a vibrant, clandestine, and ancient tradition."
Eliza Griswold, a Pulitzer-winning journalist, has translated many landays and collected them in a book published by FSG: I Am the Beggar of the World.
Here are a few landays from the book:
May God make you into a riverbank flower so I may smell you when I gather water.
You sold me to an old man, father. May God destroy your home, I was your daughter.
Leave your sword and fetch your gun. Away to the mountains, the Americans have come.
Your eyes aren’t eyes. They’re bees. I can find no cure for their sting.
When sisters sit together, they always praise their brothers. When brothers sit together, they sell their sisters to others.
Two years ago the Talibs favored boys and left the girls alone. A woman then was worth her weight in stone.
You can read more on landays on the Poetry Foundation's page on the form, which was written by Griswold and is excellent.
The 75-minute feature film, David Holzman's Diary, has long been a favorite of mine. The distributor, Kino Lorber, has put it on YouTube in its entirety. If you plan to watch it, I strongly discourage you from reading about it first.
I used to have a list of films that I thought should have been shown to me when I was a film student (1990 - 1994). This film was top of that list and it's even more relevant today.
Digression Alert
Those already familiar with the film may remember David quoting filmmaker Francois Truffaut about Debbie Reynolds "giving herself away" with a gesture in Singin' In the Rain. Here's what Truffaut wrote:
In the three thousand films I’ve seen, the most beautiful shot is in Singin’ in the Rain. In the middle of the film, Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, and Debbie Reynolds, after a moment of discouragement, regain their taste for life and start singing and dancing in the apartment. Their dance leads them to leap over a sofa on which all three of them have to land seated side by side. During this dancing stunt over the sofa, Debbie Reynolds makes a determined and rapid gesture, pulling her short pink skirt down over her knees with a deft hand, so that her panties can’t be seen when she lands seated. That gesture, quick as lightning, is beautiful because in the same image we have the height of cinematographic convention (people who sing and dance instead of walking and talking) and the height of truth, a little lady taking care not to show her thighs. This all happened just once, fifteen years ago, it lasted less than a second, but it was imprinted on film as definitively as the arrival of the train at La Ciotat station. These sixteen frames of Singin’ in the Rain, this beautiful gesture by Debbie Reynolds, which is almost invisible, well illustrates this second action of films, this second life, which is legible on the editing table.
Here is that gesture:
What Truffaut is suggesting here is that Reynolds is conscious of the camera's angle and is doing her best to lower her skirt, which raised during her dancing, to cover her knees, which would have been proper when the film was released in 1952. But she's not supposed to be in a film. This is supposed to be "real life" and there's no one else in the room — certainly not a man with a camera, right?
Now, allow me to ramble for a moment on why this fascinates me.
I first saw David Holzman's Diary in 1991, when I read that it had been selected for preservation in the U.S. National Film Registry by the Library of Congress. I was previously unfamiliar with the title and the Truffaut quote, but quickly became intrigued by both. I still look for actors "giving themselves away" in their performances.
Second, you'll notice that Truffaut doesn't actually use the phrase "gives herself away" at all. Holzman read the diary and reinterpreted it in his own language and his own film language, making it even more personal when he continues by saying a woman in his own film "gives herself away. To me," when she makes a certain hand gesture.
Third, you'll notice that Truffaut describes Reynolds as wearing a pink skirt when in fact she is wearing a blue dress. She does wear a pink dress in another scene, but not one in which she jumps over a couch or adjusts its length. Is Truffaut conflating these two scenes / outfits — or simply misremembering? Or is he fantasizing?
Truffaut also doesn't account for — or completely dismisses — habit. I excuse myself when I burp in an empty room. I thank my dog when she does as I ask. Habits are powerful things. Perhaps Reynolds wasn't thinking of the camera at all when she attempted to lower her dress. Perhaps it was just habit.
1. Sit. ===> 2. Lower skirt.
Of course, there's no way to know why she did it and there's no way to know if Truffaut is conflating or if the creator of Diary is aware of his misquote. But these elements just make the concept, and Holzman's observing it and making it his own, even more fascinating to me.
Since you've read this far, why not watch the scene in full. Indeed, it's wonderful:
Michael Madden is an artist and designer based in Elora, Ontario, with an MA from Yale University. I met him today at the Toronto Outdoor Art Fest. He takes slabs of birch and draws on them with colored pencils, aka pencil crayons. I don't think these pictures do them justice. The texture is so inviting.
