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?