new from above/ground press: Scroggins, Casteels + Papaxanthos, Yang-Thompson + Harvey, Robinson, Mohammadi + the Black Lives Matter chapbook give-away,

Elegiac Verses
Mark Scroggins
$5
See link here for more information

ALL WE’VE LEARNED, WHICH ISN’T MUCH
Michael e. Casteels and Nicholas Papaxanthos
$5
See link here for more information

G U E S T [a journal of guest editors] #11
edited by Elizabeth Robinson
with new work by Susanne Dyckman, Alice Jones, Mia Ayumi Malhotra, Monica Mody, Ginny Threefoot, Jamie Townsend, Hazel White, Maw Shein Win + Kelleen Zubick
$6
See link here for more information

SkyMall
Ashley Yang-Thompson & Mikko Harvey
$5
See link here for more information

Dept. of Continuous Improvement
Ben Robinson
$5
See link here for more information

Solitude is an Acrobatic Act
Khashayar Mohammadi
$4
See link here for more information

Black Lives Matter : the above/ground press chapbook give-away
See link here for more information

keep an eye on the above/ground press blog for author interviews, new writing, reviews, upcoming readings and tons of other material;

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
June 2020
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy of each

To order, send cheques (add $1 for postage; in US, add $2; outside North America, add $5) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9. E-transfer or PayPal at at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com or the PayPal button (above). Scroll down here to see various backlist titles, or click on any of the extensive list of names on the sidebar (many, many things are still in print).

Review copies of any title (while supplies last) also available, upon request.

Here at above/ground press WORLD HEADQUARTERS, we are attempting to work through the backlog as safely and as carefully as possible. with forthcoming titles by Orchid Tierney, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, Julia Drescher, derek beaulieu, Jérôme Melançon, ryan fitzpatrick, Dani Spinosa, Rose Maloukis, Sarah Burgoyne, Buck Downs, Paul Perry, Misha Solomon, Franco Cortese, Andrew Cantrell, Zane Koss, Dennis Cooley, Barry McKinnon + Kemeny Babineau etcetera, as well as a new Touch the Donkey in July, and new issues of G U E S T [a journal of guest editors] edited by Jim Johnstone and Michael Sikkema (SEE HIS CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS HERE)!

And don't forget our summer/pandemic sale! And can you believe the press turns TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD in July?

And I am totally willing to backdate 2020 above/ground press subscriptions, if anyone is so inclined.

PLEASE BE SAFE AND HEALTHY OUT THERE!
 

Boca Raton: trilogy,

Our third annual Boca Raton visit, at father-in-law’s condo. We spent a week in sunny Florida, arriving in April instead of our usual February [see last year’s reports parts one and two, and the year prior here, as well as a link to the recent chapbook that appeared with poems composed during that first visit], given some of Christine’s recent work-stuffs. Easter in Florida was interesting, although it flummoxed some of the plans that mother-in-law and dear sister might have had for us (Easter lunch/dinner), heading here on the immediate heels of Washington D.C. [see that report here]. Given that Washington was a work-trip, we of course had to return home before flying out again the following day. By the time we arrived on the Florida ground, I was so done with airplanes.

Upon arriving, we spent a few days with father-in-law and his wife, Teri, doing things such as going to lunch on the beach, going to the beach, and simply lounging about. We even found a park with a carousel [a park that, once Rose is a bit bigger, I imagine we’ll be spending plenty more time at]. Rose enjoyed the carousel and the running, the running, the running. She marvelled at the other children, as she does (somewhat confused and intrigued by them). And the running.

I poked at some poems, read some of the books [top photo: Susan Howe's Frame Structures: Early Poems 1974-1979] picked up on our Washington trip (among others), and generally tried not to move around too much. Worn out after an extended period of intense work (see my thirty Jacket2 commentaries, for example) and rather intense few days in Washington (again, see here). Once home, I plan to hit the ground running on poems and fiction and possibly some other schemes, both new and old, but for now, I am deliberately moving at a rather slow speed.

I move through Susan Howe, and Damian Rogers' second poetry collection. I had the wee lass colour upon a variety of postcards with crayon, to send to folk back home. Including a couple to big sister Kate.

We spent time on the beach. Rose, with her beach toys. Me, with my book(s).

Over the past week-plus, Rose was completely thrown off her nap and sleep schedule. Had a meltdown through the Ottawa airport coming here (which really never happens). Full-blown meltdown. At least they shoved us through security super-fast (an unexpected benefit, I suppose). Washington was what it was, so attempting to get her at least closer to her proper schedule while we’re down here. Hoping. Nearing the end of the week, we were starting to return to almost-normal. A couple of wee meltdowns. Hoping we can calm her within a day or so of home.

And then, of course, on Tuesday, we drove down into the bowels of Disneything.

I could have lived without Disneything, and had to be convinced. We spent the entire day there on Wednesday, with the morning at the Magic Kingdom and the afternoon into the evening at Epcot, and I enjoyed it far more than expected. Rose, of course, loved it; she eventually managed to sleep in her stroller, but didn't really let us sit down at all. At all. After ten hours of walking and wandering, rides, feeling overloaded by park and/or attempts to wander through gift shops, we were bone-tired. Sore upon sore.

Rose, who slept during the period between Magic Kingdom and Epcot.

The "Small World" ride was rather iconic, admittedly (I'm one of those who believes it was all 'better before Walt died,' and have good associations with some of the older films, productions, etcetera). I may be aware of some of the newer characters, but could really care less. 

The gift shop overwhelmed. Every time I entered one, I felt as though I was beginning to shut down. Too much, too much, too much.

Don Quixote in the "Small World" ride, tilting. Ever tilting.

I saw Quixote references in Washington the week prior, also. Is this a push that I should be working to re-enter that novel-in-progress? Finally?

I admired the efficiencies of the Disney landscape. The workmanship and the cleanliness. They must employ a million billion people.

I felt overwhelmed by the range and the scope of their reach. Too much, too much. An American version of the city-state, much like the Vatican. Too much.

We wandered the park and rode the monorail (singing, "monorail. monorail. monorail..."). We ignored the characters, given that Rose doesn't know who any of them are anyway. She was happy to run, and sit on the occasional ride. She enjoyed eating.

She enjoyed looking at the fish in the "Finding Nemo" ride. 

She enjoyed running. Running. Running.

And in the German Pavillion, where Christine had booked us dinner: misreading the menu and discovering we'd ordered MASSIVE MAGICAL BEERS. The food was incredible, as was the space and the music. I could have ignored the rest, and simply spent the day there.

Back, to hotel: where we almost immediately crashed. Removed footwear as in a cartoon, peeling back layers like a banana, hot steam rising from our sore, red toes and feet. Wooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooooshhhh.

 

Three-plus hour drive each way from the condo. Two nights. Rose and Christine some time in the kid-pool before we got into the car. Aiming the drive each way to her afternoon nap (which mostly worked).

Thursday night, upon home, hosting Mark Scroggins and his lovely family for dinner. Given we'd been hosted by them the past two years, we only figured it fair we'd offer our turn. And apparently not everyone else is at AWP (as facebook has suggested). Looking forward to this new critical book he's got forthcoming soon, which I recall him discussing last year.

Our final two days: as little as possible. Sleeping, occasional walks, quietly existing in the condo, aiming to get the wee babe back to some kind of schedule. Slow,

slow, so very slow.

And to Ottawa: to hit the ground running, perhaps. See about re-entering some of those fiction projects...

Snowbirding in South Florida: Boca Raton (and Key West), part two:

We recently spent ten days is South Florida, spending time at Christine’s father’s condo [see my report on the first part of our trip, here], now back in Canada since Wednesday, late late late; back to the snow and the rain and god knows what else was waiting for us (along with ten days of exciting mail).

We spent days floating around doing lots of little things, lots of little nothings. I managed to get some tricklings of work done, but mostly attempting not to do much of anything. Once Christine’s father returned to Toronto, we managed quiet days with a single daily outing that usually wore us completely out.

We made for the Barnes and Noble for magazines, hit a used bookstore for a couple of finds, went to lunch a few times. The Cheesecake Factory, for example (the restaurant I really thought The Big Bang Theory had invented, until we were here last year), or that place on the beach with the yummy drinks.

We made for the pool, so Christine could swim. We attempted and re-attempted the beach.

Baby Rose with her feet in the ocean.

Baby means having few outings, and outings predominantly outside of the 10am-2pm range of mid-day massive heat (we didn’t want her to have heatstroke, obviously). And she usually begins settling in for the evening around 5pm. The windows of opportunity for outings are small, and we must aim ourselves very precisely.

We managed to watch the entire first season of Arrow on Netflix. Not nearly as bad as I had suspected (and better, in many ways, than the entire second half of Smallville).

On Sunday, we drove down to the Keys, for the sake of (among other things) Ernest Hemingway’s house, and the great-great-great (etcetera) grandchildren of his infamous polydactyl cats. But be aware: when MapQuest tells you that it’s roughly a four-and-a-half hour drive from Boca Raton to Key West, Florida along Highway I-95, know that it lies terribly (add about two hours to their math), which made for a tremendously long day.

We were too late into the Keys to make for the Hemingway House, but wandered downtown through our hotel shuttle to see what we could see, including the sun sinking slowly into the ocean. We also made it to Sloppy Joe’s (on the recommendation of James Missen), where we took baby for loud drinks and a deeply inappropriate musical duo. The food was pretty good, and the baby didn’t even complain that much (we didn’t stay long).

And of course, Key Lime Pie. And a tourist t-shirt for the baby as well.

After such a long day, the three of us in bed and out well before 9:30pm (which never, ever happens).

First thing the next morning, we made for the beach outside our hotel, so we could stare south towards Cuba. The sand looked unnaturally clean, and we suspected a constructed beach, the ocean water slowly eroding away until trucks might arrive to replenish.

The cormorants, and the pelicans. Not a human in sight.

At the Hemingway House, we learned he lived there only during the 1930s, until the marriage with his second wife broke (she lived there for the rest of her life), and his years in Cuba meant that he lost his home, property and manuscripts once Castro came through (manuscripts that are said to remain in Cuba). I wonder, just what have we missed?

At his Key West home, Hemingway’s enviable and uncomplicated writing studio (which reminded me of the one Brian Fawcett had in his previous home on Palmerston, writing out in the coach house), where he wrote all but the first and last of his novels, which is quite astounding to think about. A room of his own, above where the bookstore now stands. When Papa lived here, the railing he rigged out on the roof so he could commute every morning from the master bedroom straight over to his writing studio, without having to once touch the ground.

Until noon or so, when one of his fishing buddies might arrive.

Imagine: winning the Nobel Prize, most of which was composed in that house, over the space of a single decade.

So now I've been to The Margaret Laurence House in Neepawa, and Hemingway's house in the Keys (I've not yet been to the Burton House). Might they ever open one for Alice Munro?

We saw the polydactyl cats, the great-great-great-great (etc) grandchildren of Hemingway’s originals, all distant cousins of our Lemonade. We saw how the cats Clark Gable and Cary Grant didn’t care for each other, and needed to remain separated. We saw the feline Liz Taylor [pictured], who apparently was allowed to have two litters as opposed to the single litter all the other female cats there were allowed (even her namesake in cat form required more than everyone else).

We saw the first swimming pool in the Key, built for Hemingway’s wife, which apparently Ottawa writer Richard Taylor jumped in when he came to visit, years ago (according to Lise Rochefort).

Navigating the toll road (which, again, MapQuest claimed would be four hours) back north, we did make the trip in about five hours, just in time to freshen up and get over to Mark Scroggins’ house to have dinner with he and his wife Jennifer, and their two lovely daughters [as we did last year].

Another six or seven hour drive in two days might have killed us.

Both ways, into and out of the Keys, the local radio station plays songs by The Tragically Hip. Huh.

While there, we had a lovely dinner with the family, as his wife Jen played with Rose for a while (until Rose started to notice she couldn't see us), and their two daughter took turns entertaining her (the younger one played with puppets, which Rose loved, and the elder sang her songs to quiet her town near the end of the evening). I also discovered that Scroggins has a collection of essays and longer reviews appearing later this year, which I’m very looking forward to.

The following day and a half, in comparison, were quite tame: we were all exhausted, and Rose, especially so. We rested, and rested, until we made for the plane.

And then two days in Ottawa before we head out again, for readings we're doing in Hamilton,Toronto and Waterloo (what were we thinking?).

Snowbirding in South Florida: Boca Raton,

Then our eyes clear and the emptiness within is the same as the emptiness without, and the glass is transparent.

            Rosmarie Waldrop, Driven to abstraction

We woke one morning and the ocean was gone. Some of us

were relieved. Who can blame it if it had been our audience?

            Sue Goyette, Ocean

We’ve already been here for days. Since Saturday, in Boca Raton, Florida at Christine’s father’s condo, quietly hanging out with Emperor Rose.

The weather only delayed our flight by two hours, most of which was sitting on the tarmac at the Ottawa Airport. Ugh. But Rose was a good passenger, sleeping soundly through most of it, cooing gently throughout most of the rest.

We are outside slightly less than we were last year. Baby Rose can’t be out in direct sunlight between 10am and 2pm, and she’s too young for sunscreen, so our beach time is shortened, slightly later in the afternoon.

We enjoy all the nothing we’re doing (between bouts of work—Christine, a book review due, and myself, pieces for Open Book: Ontario and judging a youth poetry contest). We enjoy all the not-snow.

We go for walks, go for lunch with Christine’s father and his wife. We head to the beach, watch the cruise ships skim the horizon. We engage in that uniquely foreign state of rest.

The baby exists outside for the first time in warm weather; for the first time without layers upon layers. We utilize the stroller. We forego socks.

We engage with Netflix, so much more powerful in America than the one we have at home.

On February 20^th, she turned three months old. Madness.

Plans exist to have dinner (again) with Mark Scroggins and his family on Monday; plans exist to get down to the Keys to see Hemingway’s house (and the great-great-great etc grandchildren of his infamous cats) and what else we can discover.

I’ve been working on fragments of a longer poem, “Standing on a beach in South Florida, February,” sketching out a series of accumulations; extending a short sequence of poems composed during our trip down here last year around this time [see my report on such here]. The first creative work I’ve managed since Rose was born (focusing instead on reviews and other such works during my severely shortened work day), this is what I’ve been focusing on since arrival.

I’ve also been rereading Rosmarie Waldrop, who has become one of my favourites, her Driven to abstraction (New York NY: New Directions, 2010) [pictured]. After hearing Phil Hall [in a review essay at seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics] and Rhonda Douglas repeat the positive qualities of such, I’ve also been engaging with Sue Goyette’s Ocean (Wolfville NS: Gaspereau Press, 2013).

We sit at the edge of the same ocean, but with a far different perspective. A fragment of the work-in-progress reads:

Recreate, a place of comfort. Return. Aware of all the possibilities. Distract, an ecosystem. An emptiness of sugar. Pop tarts. This was once all swamp.

As far as the eye can see. But eyes can’t see so far. We imagine: Portugal, the Ivory Coast. We imagine Key West. Next table coos, proclaims: what a beautiful baby. Monsoon, a snow globe shape.

I am drainage. Strip-mine. Inlays, handicap. Tear away the flesh. Do they know how to make beautiful.

I imagine the water. A measure of silence. Revolved, oversimplified. A celebration, branded. The heart is an index of first lines. Christine presses the palm of her foot into wet sand.

Expresses only the plural: water. Measures sound, a figure. Cut into swaths, sand. Triangulate airspace, the cover of night. The pith and the pitch of full moon. A beachy front.