By T.R. Hummer
In Available Surfaces , T. R. Hummer explores the artwork of creating either poetry and track, and of the concept that of "making" itself. He attracts on early life stories and studies as an grownup, as a poet, and as an explorer of unworldly areas to envision that "something ineffable concerning the technique of making of which the poem is the exemplary artifact."
Hummer grew up within the deep South, and spent a lot of his highschool years taking part in saxophone in numerous rock and roll bands sooner than he met poetry. This musical impact is noticeable in his paintings: he usually discusses poetry including song, or track with poetry, and his occupation has integrated either writing and performance.
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Additional resources for Available surfaces : essays on poesis
Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada.
I was in for a routine exam, to see whether I needed a new prescription. And as I was relatively new in town, I had sought out a new doctor. The office was one of the infinite series—we have some new information, said the diplomas in gilt frames on the wall—and so I felt immediately at home. I went through the usual routine— insurance card, medical history, a delay for the evident purpose of reading magazines on gourmet cooking and the Super Bowl; then a preliminary examination conducted by a technician concluding with the administering of the magic Drops of Dilation that made one Allergic to the Light, another wait while the drops’ spell matured, and then at last the arrival of The Doctor.
Others were fully occupied, almost as if they had been tended for the six or seven years that had passed since anyone had paid attention to them. It was toward one of these that my cousin steered me. “That’s the one right there,” he said, suddenly at some distance behind me. ” The hive in question was illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight that slipped in through the canopy of leaves high above me (a perfect cinematic set-up, O Muse of Memory). Its old white paint seemed suddenly blinding. I stood before it utterly strange to myself, like an image of a diver from my Classics Comics version of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.