The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, April 15, 2015 — 5A

‘Dark Ages’ a strong 
debut from Levad

By KARL WILLIAMS

Daily Arts Writer

Sometimes poetry is funny. It 

doesn’t always hold the gravi-
tas and severity of “The Waste-
land” or “The 
Divine 
Com-

edy.” 
Shake-

speare 
wrote 

“King 
Lear,” 

but 
he 
made 

sex jokes, too. 
In fact, poetry 
is a remarkably 
flexible 
form, 

and the first 
collection 
of 

Megan Levad’s, assistant direc-
tor of the Helen Zell Writer’s 
Program 
at 
the 
University, 

evinces the form’s flexibility.

“Why We Live in the Dark 

Ages” is a skilled exposition of 
wit. In the collection, Levad 
reflects on topics from Marcel 
Proust to transubstantiation 
to Tycho Brahe to evolution. 
At times, the poems can’t even 
decide on a topic. Where we 
start and where we end up 
never seem to add up, so that a 
poem that starts off addressing 
the French Revolution ends up 
talking about Bill Clinton and 
St. Augustine.

Taking the form of didactic 

prose poems, her verse con-
stantly undermines the authori-
tative tone that most didactic 

poetry has. Take “Gravity,” 
for example: “Oh I don’t know 
anything about gravity.” That’s 
the whole poem. According to 
Hamlet, “Brevity is the soul of 
wit,” and Levad has learned this 
lesson well. While concerned 
with science, her poetry isn’t 
concerned with discovering sci-
entific knowledge. Her poems 
never arrive at an understand-
ing of science, but the epistemo-
logical limits of science.

The poems in “Why We Live 

in the Dark Ages” are hyperac-
tive, as if they were written by a 
professor on an Adderall binge. 
In some poems, Levad over-
loads the lines with informa-
tion, too much for the reader to 
fully assimilate it all. Ostensi-
bly, her poems reflect the prob-
lems of the digital age, where 
the excess of information and 
the speed of its delivery prevent 
its full understanding. We have 
information, but we are still 
bereft of knowledge.

For this reason, Levad pur-

ports, we live in the Dark Ages. 
The advancements in every sci-
entific discipline are immense, 
but no one other than a special-
ized class of scientists under-
stand how these work. Does 
anyone really understand all of 
the capabilities of an iPhone? 
We look upon our technol-
ogy with a reverence usually 
afforded to magic and have an 

absolute faith in its ability to do 
what we want.

One of the most impressive 

accomplishments 
in 
Levad’s 

debut collection is her abil-
ity to imitate the human voice. 
She transposes sound waves 
into ink, creating a poetic voice 
that is successfully comic and 
believable. Reflecting on colo-
nialism in her poem “Polio,” she 
writes: “Wow Belgium never 
gets shit for how badly they 
fucked up their colonies.” This 
idiom is refreshingly modern: 
you might hear it while walk-
ing down the street or sitting in 
Starbucks.

Levad’s voice remains coher-

ent throughout, as well, so that 
it reads as a series of essays as 
well as a collection of poems. 
The reader gets to see the keen 
machinations of Levad’s mind 
work from topic to topic upon 
all the various concerns of con-
temporary life.

In her first collection, Levad 

has shown a sharp intelligence 
and a remarkable ability to 
imitate modern vocalities and 
invent forms that mirror the 
hyperactivity of contemporary 
life. Her poetic voice reveals 
a talent that is both classically 
satirical 
and 
invigoratingly 

original.

Megan Levad will be reading 

her poetry at Literati Bookstore on 
April 20 at 7 p.m. Admission is free.

An ode to Circus 
and Millenium

A classic night in 
two rooms full of 

townies 

By FRANCESCA KIELB

Daily Arts Writer

“This should totally be a 

thing!” The girls around me gig-
gled while carelessly shimmying 
to a live cover of Backstreet Boys. 
It was moms’ weekend. A group 
of 15 girls hauled their mothers to 
Millennium Club/Circus Bar. The 
futuristic dance club on the main 
floor and campy circus-themed 
karaoke bar above is an ideal place 
to get drunk with your mom. A 
block past Main Street, this two-
story affair gives you the chance 
to run up and down between a 
space station with live music and 
a traveling circus where you make 
your own music.

It was difficult to determine 

which club was creepier, but it was 
nice to have options. Townies were 
everywhere, and the average age 
was about 10 years older than my 
fake claims I am.

Speaking of fakes, my friends 

and I had a brief scare when we 
saw a man in full FBI uniform 
lingering in the shadows. It 
wasn’t until he took the stage 
that we noticed he was seventy-
five, double-fisting Bud Lights 
and wearing a plastic badge. But 
God, his rendition of “Walk the 
Line” was spot on.

Seven Kamikaze shots later, my 

dad was on stage in a fedora sing-
ing “Twist and Shout,” (remember 
this was mothers’ weekend) and 
he was just a little too good at it. 
Six other girls looking for respite 
from their middle-aged counter-
parts descended the stairs with me 
to check out Millennium.

The club was full, and no one 

could stand still. The female vocal-
ist exuded a contagious energy. It 
infected me. For a few minutes, I 
could have cropped pink hair too. 
I could sing Pitbull’s “Fireball” 
and actually make it sound good. 
I could rap and most importantly 
I can dance.

There were no eyes of disap-

proval when we thrashed about the 
front row. I would have rushed the 
stage if I weren’t in awe of the lead 
singer. Her presence produced an 
aura of blasé raw positivity. If only 
I could stand close enough, maybe 

it’ll rub off.

The band announced a break, 

and I sprinted back upstairs to 
perform my duet to “Love in This 
Club.” Grabbing the mic, I pre-
tended like I didn’t need to read 
the words on the screen and tried 
to channel my inner girl-with-the-
pink-pixie-cut. I may not be paid 
anytime soon, but the rap could 
have been worse.

A few celebratory shots later, 

my friend grabbed my arm 
frantically. “Look! It’s her.” 
I turned around. It was Pink 
Pixie, in all her glory, at the 
end of the bar chatting with 
the bartenders. “Can we say 
something? What do we say? 
How do we say it?” We stood 
whispering and staring for a 
while, debating the next move.

A few months ago, I went to 

an Alex G concert in Detroit and 
was thrown into a similar situa-
tion. My friend and I had been 
standing in the crowd when 
Alex G walked out from back-
stage and stood with the audi-
ence. There were a few minutes 
when he was left undisturbed. A 
similar discussion of action had 
taken place then. In the end, I 
pussied out, and before I knew 
it, a petite blonde had swooped 
in. Not now. Not again. I would 
not miss my chance to stand in 
the aura.

I manned up and touched her 

arm. she turned. “I just want-
ed to say you were amazing 
tonight,” I said sheepishly. My 
friend nodded enthusiastically.

“Do you play here often?” I 

continued, fingers crossed.

“Yeah, 
thank 
you. 
I’m 

Michelle, we actually do play 

most Saturdays.”

“How long has your group 

been playing?”

“Awhile — we’re called the 

Killer Flamingos if you want to 
look up our schedule.”

“Wow, what a cool name,” my 

friend added, equally in awe.

“Let’s face it, it’s a shitty 

name,” she laughed. Of course, 
we agreed immediately. A few 
more 
passing 
compliments, 

and the casual exchange was 
over. But when my friend and I 
walked away we knew where we 
were going to be next Saturday.

Our group closed the place. 

When we stumbled back into 
our beds, our refrain repeated, 
“We NEED to do this again. 
Let’s make this a thing, please?”

But maybe it was special 

because it wasn’t a thing. 
Because 
for 
one 
night 
we 

weren’t focused on impressing 
peers: on social status, stand-
ing or “politics”. Because our 
moms were getting hit on more 
than we were. Because when I 
danced I wasn’t trying to envi-
sion how I looked to the men 
around me, because the men 
around me were more inter-
ested in the other men around 
me than in me. Because other 
people didn’t define the success 
of the night, because happiness 
was not defined by connections 
made or opportunities lost.

The next morning, my friend 

texted me. “Let’s memorize the 
words to ‘Dilemma’ now so we 
can sing it next time.” Please, for 
my sake, don’t go this Saturday. 
Please don’t make this a thing. 
Because I’m having way too 
much fun to see anyone I know.

Captivated by Milky 
Chance’s raw ‘Dance’

By CLAIRE WOOD

Daily Arts Writer

I was lying in bed one Satur-

day evening, sipping a steaming 
Herbal Essentials — Minty Sprig 
out of a South Quad paper din-
ing hall cup and pondering all 
the homework I hadn’t gotten to, 
when it came on Spotify Radio. 
It had a distinct allure — light 
tapping, guitar chords with a 
gentle rhythmic emphasis that 
bred a peculiar intrigue. “I want 
you by my side, so that I never 
feel alone again.” It’s a sad song 
— I could hear it in the first line, 
the resigned heartbreak in each 
word. “We need to fetch back the 
time they have stolen from us.” 
His voice was rusty, like an old 
car that has been in the family 
for years. It had a comforting, 
crusty familiarity, and I knew 
his words were genuine. This 
authenticity made the content 
intensely poignant, and with 
each line I secretly hoped the 
lost love he sang of would return.

The song grew more won-

drous the more I pondered it. I 
assumed he sang of heartbreak, 
but the storyline itself was left 
hazy and ambiguous. Maybe he 
sang of a woman who had left 
him. Maybe he sang of a love 
with whom he could no longer 
be. I wondered who she was, 
why she had left and who had 
taken her. It was an elegant, 
beautiful sort of enigma that 

sucked me in headfirst.

Curiosity got the better of me: 

I googled it. “Milky Chance Sto-
len Dance lyrics meaning” blink-
ed on the screen as I searched for 
the story in the artist’s words. I 
clicked on a link to genius.com, 
and to my dismay, I was greet-
ed with a morbid explanation: 
“The song concerns the narra-
tor’s drug habit, his separation 
from taking them, and his desire 
to take them once more.” I was 
disillusioned the more I read. 
The intense romance wielded 
in the simplicity of “I want you” 
degraded into a blunt personifi-
cation of substance. The singer’s 
“pain, caused by the absence of 
you” that had burned with fiery 
heartache turned into sickly 
withdrawal. I was taken in by 
this cynical analysis, watch-

ing as dreams of tragic lost 
love melted into the sinkhole of 
addiction.

“Stolen Dance” is a beautiful 

song. The light drums, rhyth-
mic strums and genuine vocals 
still captivate me in ways most 
other pieces never have. But 
at the same time, some of the 
allure has faded. The drug inter-
pretation isn’t the only one; 
many online sources actually 
disagree with this viewpoint on 
the song’s meaning, and sport 
their own thoughts. Regardless, 
these deep analyses and explica-
tions destroy a sense of mystery 
that had hitherto intrigued me. 
I want to wonder — to ponder 
the identity of “you” and the 
story the words trace out. There 
is something magical about the 
unknown and it’s enchanting.

COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
DAILY BOOK REVIEW

Why We 
Live in the 
Dark Ages

Megan Levad

Tavern Books 

$17

‘Ongoingness’ is 88 
pages of adult life

By SOPHIA KAUFMAN

Daily Arts Writer

“Ongoingness: 
The 
End 

of a Diary” reads like Sarah 
Manguso sat down and wrote 
it in one go. 
It flows like 
88 
pages 
of 

an 
unedited 

stream 
of 

consciousness, 
but it doesn’t 
feel 
like 
88 

pages. 
It’s 

not 
a 
linear 

story; 
there’s 

no beginning 
and there’s no end. It’s not 
circular; 
her 
final 
words 

don’t neatly wrap up with a 
callback introduced in the first 
five pages. Manguso crafts a 
narrative with sparse prose that 
reads like poetry which drops 
you in the middle and leaves 
you there — lost in the same 
“ongoingness” 
she 
brilliant 

articulates between the covers.

“Ongoingness” is the story 

of Manguso’s obsession with 
creating an authentic record 
of her life, an obsession that 
culminated in an 800,000-word 
long diary spanning every day 
of the past 25 years. She writes 
about her preoccupation with 
documenting not the important 
events she experiences, but 
those precious moments in 
between them that fill up the 
vast majority of our lives.

Manguso, 
while 
writing 

about writing, captures the 
frustration of the inability to 
describe what you’re feeling, 
to be limited by language. 
Letters 
and 
syllables 
and 

words 
themselves 
create 
a 

barrier between emotion and 
communication. And even if 
you spend 25 years choosing 
your words, they’ll never be 
perfect, and that barrier will 
still stand. She has a gift for 
frankly relating truths about 
the limitations of language. 
These truths seem like they 
should be too complicated and 
bittersweet to be captured in 
staccato sentences, but they’re 
not.

Though Manguso’s sentences 

are short, they call to mind the 
vivid image of a pen running 
across a page, frantically trying 
to keep up with the thoughts 
that drive it. Her panic is 
palpable — “Even cognizant of 

the passing of time that doesn’t 
stop it from happening.” Words 
that fall from lips are already 
obsolete; sentences scribbled 
on paper ossify before the ink 
is dry.

The problem of ongoingness, 

Manguso observes, is that even 
as we contemplate time, we 
watch it run away from us. We 
grasp at and fixate on special 
moments — the glory days, 
the turning points, the game-
changers, whatever you want 
to call them — to try to keep 
ourselves grounded.

Manguso tells us she was 

fixated 
on 
every 
moment, 

terrified to lose a single one.

And then, almost exactly 

halfway 
through 
the 
book, 

Manguso writes about becoming 
pregnant and then a mother. 
During the first 18 months of 
having a son, she begins to 
“inhabit time differently.” Her 
relationship with her diary 
permanently changes: though 
she keeps writing in it, she no 
longer worries about losing 
memories. Her diary entries 
become terse, including facts 
without introspection; “Things 
were just themselves.”

Becoming a mother releases 

Manguso from her compulsive 
recording and teaches her how 
to be aware of time’s passing 
without 
being 
hopelessly 

paralyzed by it.

Are any of us more than the 

sum of our memories — both 
our own and those that others 
possess of us? What happens 
when we are the only ones 
left to carry the memory of 
someone else? Can 800,000 
words over 25 years capture the 
experiences and the emotions 
that happened in them? Which 
contain the most truth about a 
person — the things that change 
about them, or the things that 
stay the same?

Manguso 
doesn’t 
offer 

answers to these questions, 

only honest observations about 
the Herculean effort it takes 
to recognize the reality about 
human significance:

“For just a moment, with 

great effort, I could imagine 
my will as a force that would 
not disappear but redistribute 
when I died, and that all life 
contained the same force, and 
that I needn’t worry about my 
impending death because the 
great responsibility of my life 
was to contain the force for a 
while and then relinquish it. 
Then the moment would pass, 
and I’d return to brooding about 
my lost memories,” she writes.

Hackneyed 
poetic 
themes 

are refreshed in Manguso’s 
words; she describes running 
out of time as a privilege and 
forgotten moments as the price 
we pay for living a full life. She 
breaks with the writing gods — 
you know, the ones you learn 
to worship in undergraduate 
English programs — as she 
oscillates between showing and 
telling, which would feel like a 
gimmick if it weren’t for the lack 
of pretentious self-indulgence. 
Her writing is poetic, but never 
preachy. She’s not boasting 
about possessing any intimacy 
with life’s secrets.

“Ongoingness: 
The 
End 

of a Diary” isn’t spiritual or 
moralistic, though it does leave 
you in a bit of an existential 
crisis, wandering the halls in 
search of a friend to tell you 
that life is in fact worth living 
despite everything. But even if 
that friend isn’t very reassuring 
(Rebecca) you’re able to work 
through it, because you know 
now that life is ongoing, and 
we are all just inhabiting time 
for the brief amount we’ve been 
allotted. So make the best of 
it — or don’t. Manguso doesn’t 
really care either way. The book 
isn’t about you. It isn’t even 
really about her or her son or 
those 800,000 words and the 25 
years they freeze in time.

“Look 
at 
me,” 
she 
says 

towards the end, “dancing my 
little dance for a few moments 
against 
the 
background 
of 

eternity.”

“Ongoingness” 
is 
about 

that dance and how to make it 
count. And while everyone has 
to figure that out for him or 
herself, reading this book could 
guide the first few steps.

DAILY BOOK REVIEW

Ongoingness: 
The End of 
a Diary

Sarah Manguso

Greywolk Press 

$20

LICHTDICHT RECORDS

“This is our sweet, sweet son.”

MUSIC NOTEBOOK

PINK FLAMINGOS

“All eyes on me in the center of the ring, just like a circus (get it?).”

Are any of us 
more than the 

sum of our 
memories?

