I just came back
from NYC where I heard the first draft reading of my play “Anna
Nicole,” a reading by professional actor s with the Xoregos
Performing Company. This was just for the purpose of rewriting and is
the only way I know to see what moves forward, who loses character,
all those issues that you never get when you’re rereading your own
type font over and over. 150 answered the casting call. There are no
lack of big blondes in New York.
I’m writing today to answer the
question that always comes up: “Why her?” The question
surprised me initially. It started coming at me after my book of
poems came out, Anna Ni cole: poems (Goss 183:: Casa Menendez,
2008.) My good friend, Merrill Leffler , had it on his coffee table.
Another literate person, house guest, picked it up and said “Why
her?” and dismissed it out of hand. I started to see that this had
no audience but the closest of my bosom buddies. The glitterati did
not think it seriously worthy. Even my girlfriends from Trenton High
who support everything I do, did not want it. Actually that was
understandable: 1) they do not read poetry 2) this does not qualify
as poetry to them. Forget the Trenton High crowd.
My affection (obsession) started while
watching trash TV. What I saw was that Anna had less of a network
than any other celebrity of tragic proportions. Marilyn Monroe, Judy
Garland, Jayne Mansfield all/each had more dependable people close at
hand. Anna, growing up, had no love, no education, no philosophical
underpinning, no self knowledge, and no way to order experience. As
an adult, she was fed pills and propped up. Her life was epic,
certainly as any Greek tragedy or Italian opera. Did you see her in
the hospital bed after she had given birth to her baby girl? The
cheekbones.? Without the makeup? — the beauty, the vulnerability,
fragility, all evident.
Last month she was in the news again, while they indicted the pill merchants. I kept
looking at her on TV and feeling that what we saw was fiction and that my imagined stories of her were emotionally factual. Her
wonderment, confusion, blandishments, plus a bad case of body
custody. Sometimes I exhausted myself worrying about her. I keep
remembering Sterling Brown in a poem talking about Ma Rainey, “She
jes got ahold a me somekindaway.” Anna just gets ahold of me
somekindaway.
Critic Geoff Himes talks about trying
to give consciousness where there is none. That’s a pretty interesting observation. Another aspect of writing Anna is to understand that to be manipulated you have to
be manipulative as well. It’s a shuttlecock, one pundit says, like
so many other human tricks, like fame itself that has to be kept up
at both ends. My basic research was to ask people what they
remembered about Anna. Overwhelmingly, the answers boiled down to 5
slags on the heap: she was a model, she married the old rich guy, she
had a son, she gave birth to a baby girl, she died of an overdose.
But fiction and poetry are not naturalism. (Well I did get one order from a porno collector so some are still trying.) We can’t cast a
value and judgment on Anna Nicole’s real life and apply it to Anna Nicole’s imagined life. A bad algorithm. So If you try to take apart my song, all you’ll get is what you break. (However ,this may be the only book of poetry in A porno collection so that’s
something.)
Who isn’t interested in
“FAME?” But why are we all so interested? Maybe because the root
word for HUNGER is FAMA (Latin.). The answer to the
vexed question “Why Her” is a desire to understand aspects and
consequences of Hunger. Some people are unequal to their hunger.
Even some smart people. So really, Anna Nicole is alarmingly not
all that unique. Here is a poem of Hafiz.
Two Bears
Once
After a hard day's forage
Two bears sat together in silence
On a beautiful vista
Watching the sun go down
And feeling deeply grateful
For life.
Though, after a while
A thought-provoking conversation began
Which turned to the topic of
Fame.
The one bear said,
"Did you hear about Rustam?
He has become famous
And travels from city to city
In a golden cage;
He performs to hundreds of people
Who laugh and applaud
His carnival
Stunts."
The other bear thought for
A few seconds
Then started
Weeping.
– – Hafiz
(The Gift – versions of
Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)
Portrait by Holly Picano-Rogers
And here is a photo from my friend Dan Murano:
Elephant Ride