Join us for a reading and celebration of Paul Maziar’s Junebug. The evening with feature musical guests Kelli Schaefer and Drew Grow.
When asked for eight words to describe Junebug, Maziar channeled Agent Cooper: “Everyday, once a day, give yourself a present.” But did he mean the present? Either way, Junebug is a gift.
Junebug situates Paul Maziar’s latest acts of listening and attending, transmission and transcription. He’s built a modular space suggestive of both the theatre and the gallery, performance and (inter)play. The aphoristic title sequence hones sharp accessibilities — we find words available to us, for our limbs and limbics to hold, hurrumph, to slap our knees and share. A mysterious dramatis personae pervades Junebug’s expanse across the mental maps Maziar graphs as he organizes streets of words and questions what their design might reference. We encounter, among others, Toulouse-Lautrec, Agnes Martin, Eva Hesse, Jack Whitten, Colette, Robert Walser. Who are all these characters in Maziar’s parade? Maybe there’s some insight in the final serial sequence, “Hives,” which states that “The real thing is inside of what everything appears as.” The real in Junebug asks us to admire the distance between the surface and the subject. We already have the right tools.
Advance praise for Junebug:
Charles North: From short poems to prose poems to the wonderful fragments collected in its title poem, Paul Maziar’s writing revels in imaginative discontinuity. Junebug is smart, witty, surprising—and inspiring—throughout.
Merrill Gilfillan: These works step up in the name of Poetry and its heartwood, its ever-salvational “What’s on the river today?”
Tetra Balestri: Maziar manages to resurrect a conversation started sometime in the early to mid-20th century that cuts through the present-day pandemonium with polish and swagger. Junebug is a pair of pants worth trying on.
Simone Kearney: Reading Paul Maziar’s Junebug, I feel the tightrope walker’s high-wire balance between the forces of levity and gravity, the contexts of interior and exterior, the concocted and the perceived, thought and overheard speech. These poems make me wonder how it is that we move through the world, which is also a moving-through language.
I’m reminded that language bears a strange mystery. It’s always received and always being made at the same time; it’s a material we inherit and get to play with. In Maziar’s work, overheard phrases and sayings arrive solidified, brick-like things. The language resembles the fragments of familiar tunes — an echo, or memory of one — appearing as the freshest, strangest thing newly imagined.
I feel the intimacy and elusiveness of unspoken thought in the poems: words not yet uttered, still inside the mind. This makes me feel the dynamics of inside and outside that are part of the human drama. Am I looking at something the poet is looking at, or am I inside his head? Maziar lets us inhabit uncertainty. This is living language just being breathed, catapulted from lips, cemented into freshly-thought speech.
Junebug lets me delight in the way language can tend to trip over itself: “I’d rather stimulate than simulate”; “a certain vigor (or vinegar?).” Decontextualized, speech is absurd, funny, strangely moving: “I’m not going anywhere until I see a horse.”
What emerges is a tour de force composed of song, slogan, slip of the tongue, reverie, note, advertisement, fragment, nonsense, musing, hiccup, rupture, tidbit, epiphany. “The only faith he had was in the confusion of his experiences,” Maziar writes, suggesting that one thing we can do amid such confusion is continue to place words onto the page — in relation to ourselves, to others, to images, and to other words. And those words keep coming to meet us: flat, full, flowing, tired, zippy, and ready for more.
Musical guests
Kelli Schaefer's latest record, Even Still, could be the soundtrack to a modern gothic, a playlist for a trudge through a muddy forest or the accompaniment to a subconscious mantra. She demonstrates deftness in refusing to confine herself to a single genre. Schaefer excavates her past while planting herself deeper into the avant-garde, offering a fresh take on the age-old singer-songwriter trope, delivering haunting melodies over swirling woodwinds, piano, classical guitar, and upright bass.
The Pacific Northest's beloved troubadour, musician/artist Drew Grow (Slang, Modern Kin, Pastor's Wives) is back with new songs and a new stripped down method. Spotted playing solo shows around Portland this summer, he is out on his own, debuting new music and packing a wall of little guitar amps. It's new digs for the artist. Drew's solo approach, raw and exposed, is even more striking than the bands of his past. His powerful voice still ringing through as ever, magnetic and arching over the solo guitar and twisted old amps. The sound is momentous and vulnerable, seeming to come from a deeper place. What have you brought us?
A $10 ticket supports our musical guests, Kelli Schaefer and Drew Grow.