THE MOUNT WHITNEY SUMMIT READING

*CALL FOR A SINGLE LINE OF WRITING*


I may be going with a friend in October to climb to the top of Mt. Whitney. Mt. Whitney is the highest peak in the 48 lower states, topping out at 14,496 ft. It is not as difficult as climbing Mt. Shasta (14,162 ft), which I did summit in June, so I am expecting to make it.

If I do make it, I would like to read a single work compiled of individual lines from any poet/writer who would like a bit of his or her writing to be read on top of Mt. Whitney. Let's keep it to one line/sentence per person (and ease up on the dependent clauses!). There will be no editing of any text. Time of response will be the editor. First person to respond: first line. And so on.

If you are interested in this, you can simply reply to this post and put your line in there, or you can email me your line at wagnerjjj (at) yahoo (dot) com. If you are leaving the note on Estherpress, please give your full name.

I plan to record the reading of the collaborative work and post it on Youtube, if all goes as planned.

All best,
James

9-15-09 Note: Thank you to those who have already emailed me lines.
9-23-09 Note: Thanks again to everyone who has sent me some lines. The climb will happen on October 24, so I'll need entries by the 22nd at the latest. Best, J

REDUCED TO CONDENSITY 8


One can continue to go to school to learn forever and ever about facts and figures and vocabularies, so one can talk about facts and figures with vocabularies, but I've learned--pretty late in life (it might be unmentioned)--that it is the abstract and emotional relationships between people that is most interesting to me now, the most worth caring about, for, on, with, because this is exactly where our wars and economies and loves and everything existent begins, and ends, or begins-ends again.

Why is not finishing something considered a failure?

In Madison, at school, taking the School of Journalism test (JUT) for the second time. Entering my fourth year of school, already 18 credits (out of 32) into my planned degree. Everything moving toward the School of Journalism. My life would be this way. I would be a journalist. I had several years invested in this. Arriving at the door of Journalism, looking at the dot-matrix printout taped to it, glancing down the list to my name to see if I had passed, so that I would be fully allowed entrance into the school. Seeing my name, scanning over, seeing the number, and then doing this over and over, in disbelief, realizing that I had failed by one point. One point. I would be entering my fourth year that Fall. I could retake the test in one year, or I could decide upon a new major this late in the game. I decided upon a new major. Considering Film, Art History, and English for quite awhile, I finally decided upon English, and my next four semesters were mostly all English courses. Shakespeare, American Poetry Before 1800, Chaucer, James Joyce, Critical Theory, etc.

CMOS means Complimentary Metal Oxide Semiconductor

If I had not failed the Journalism Usage Test by one point in the summer of 1990, I would never have gone into English. Because I went into English, I became more invested in my infrequent writing of poems. I met one of my best friends in an English course in Madison. Another through a twist of this, through a Poetry reading in Madison. I would not have applied to Creative Writing Programs in a couple of years. I would not have been accepted at Syracuse University. I wouldn't have gone if I had passed the test. In Syracuse, I would eventually get sober and meet my wife. I wouldn't have met her otherwise. Because of her, we are now in California, where I am studying about pixel dimensions and dynamic range and lossless compression.

Because of one point.

REDUCED TO CONDENSITY 7


Every deifying statement made by someone of an alcoholic writer should immediately kick up a comment from someone in that writer's immediate family.

Facebook is the dream of celebrity bestowed on the masses, with each person each other person's audience, and so on.

Suddenly, one morning, irrespective of all others, one decides to buy a white noise machine.

One cannot read the first page of the newly translated Robert Walser novel The Tanners and not keep going.

They found, the digital archivists did, a box of old media and no longer a device to play any of it on. So: no record.

Like on Facebook, and the histories of defriending.

You can listen to RAIN on the machine, and it is very difficult to notice any difference at all with real rain.