American Street Showcase #2

16th/St Mission RIngleader/Poet Gardener Charlie Getter

Sunday, June 27 10 was another day full of art in a week full of penniless moments, tears, and potentially life-changing revelations. First, the second installment of Alan Kaufman’s and Charlie Getter’s (read: Charlie Kaufman’s) American Street Showcase, and then the always-fulfilling Portugese Artists Colony.

But before both of those: waking up in San Anselmo after a night of recording our own conversations, talk spiraling in excited ideas and personal breakthroughs like the smoke we released into valley air before returning from the porch to a recorder still recording … Offering casual caches of gold offhandedly to one another, writing down what we say like it could change our respective lives because it can … We write blurbs for one another.

Hi everyone, remember this?

San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run … but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. …

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket … booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) … but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. …

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

I think Dr. Thompson would have been blown by the 16th Street/Mission poets. In part, we have won. The parade marched more successfuly than ever, with more and more diverse people; the festivities were widespread and resounding. But meanwhile, in Cafe Royale, we did what we do every week. We have won but we're still fighting.

Looking around to see who else has come in the door; what other strengths we can claim; what other tongues in our arsenal. Waking up in Fruitvale, Glen Park, Petaluma. The Mission is everywhere.

Four Inch Pony starting us off: “Suicide is painless. It brings about so many changes. And I can take or leave it as I please.” Bedecked in all black and sweet as a 12-yr old valentine. We leave it, thank you. There are people all over this city who thrive on our poetry. There are people all over the world who dream of the righteous, bohemian lifestyle to be found in the corners of their minds and, in their hearts, in the very deepness of their own muddled complexities. Whether they know it yet or not—whether they ever meet us, or not—they dream of us, and we are happy to be who we are.

Who are we? Ask Alan Kaufman. He has more to say:

Four Inch Pony

M.G. Martin

Mike Skott

Kirsten Gallagher

Nic Burrose

James Zealous

Wilby

Amber Bouman

Kate Abarbanel

Monica Storss

The Secret Secretaries

Miguel Pierrera

Stellar Cassidy

EK Keith

Sheyanne Powers

Julie Indelicato

Charlie Getter

Guinevere Q

Joe Donahoe

Tom

Evan Karp

Maureen Blennerhassett

Sam Sax

Alan Kaufman

Jess Silva + Emily Haltom

I would like to take this moment to make an announcement, and one that confirms what I've just said: from here on out, M.G. Martin, Charles Kruger—his blog is about to be up today you guys! He'll probably be mad at me for linking to it right now, but I know you've all been waiting for it and it's such an incredible idea!), and Tess Patalano will be my assistants. Let's think of them as satellites. When I started this column, I didn't know what I was doing. We have developed into a team. Thank you all for your love and support. Keep doing what you're doing.

« calendar for the end of june and early july | lots of good events coming up!! »

« Announcements, etc. »

Have you heard about the Rumpus Book Club? It's the best idea. Footage from The June Rumpus coming up next!
If you don't love Alia Volz, we have some differences! Read The Inn & Out.
Read Ian Tuttle's story The Submersible.
If you haven't read We're Getting On yet, you really should. Here's another excerpt. July 16. Update: look who's now on the cover of Poets & Writers!
Quiet Lightning reader Roger Porter has just published The Souls of Hood Folk. It's a m a z i n g.