Beautiful Destruction


We were in the United Illuminating section of Connecticut, and so we only lost power for three days, but the rest of the state had a tough time of it this year. We have a decent sized property, though, almost all trees, and I've spent the last week clipping, cutting, and sawing the broken beeches and maples. I'm not even close to finished, and my body aches, and so does my heart. Unfortunately, they were the healthiest trees, rather than the old and infirm; the ones with the most leaves suffered most.

Return to Gouveia Vineyard


Gouveia Vineyards in Wallingford is one of the prime destinations in the state, and they don't need me telling you so. Every weekend it is jammed with wine aficianados, picnicking at the dozens of tables inside the stone building (an architectural wonder) on top of Whirlwind Hill. If you haven't been there, you're missing out. Even if you don't like wine.

Inveroran Hotel


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The hotel is very small, only seven rooms, but has hosted visitors like Charles Dickens and the Comte de Paris, both of who passed without comment. Poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge stopped on his way south from Glencoe, and waited an hour and a half here for a dish of tea. Dorothy and William Wordsworth complained of a terrible breakfast, with inedible butter, hard oat cakes, and eggs boiled hard as stones. Robert Southey couldn’t get milk. Charles Darwin had better luck, and used the nearby birch trees as an example in his writings on natural selection. The hotel proudly displayed these questionable comments in its publicity materials, with a humor that came from these sorts of places, which have seen hard times and lived to tell about them. We had a fantastic time there.


 

Poutine

If you've never had poutine, you're missing out. A French Canadian treat with fries, gravy, and cheese curds, this is comfort food at its most primitive. Above is a wonderful 'fast food' poutine Amy and I had at a famous Montreal establishment. However, recently it has made its way onto gourmet menus in the states. I get my fix at Mikro in Hamden right now. Let's hope it becomes more popular.

Vanity of Duluoz Review


When Vanity of Duluoz was written in 1967, an overweight and severely alcoholic Jack Kerouac had only two years to live. Chronicling the years just before his adventures with Neal Cassady, his last complete volume takes Jack from the football fields of high school, to the dangerous seas of World War II, and finally to a New York City brimming with the Beat movement. Although the substance is youthful and energetic, and the witty tone addressed to his last wife is entertaining, a clear and strong resentment of the human condition pervades the book. "Nothing came of it. All is vanity" is the acidic conclusion.

As we read, it becomes clear that the days of satori and mythic revelation in On the Road are long over. There is something uncompromising about this book, and though it looks back to an earlier time, it is full of death: Kerouac's doomed shipmates on the Dorchester, the murdered David Kammerer, and the author's broken father. His friend Sabby Savakis dies during the war, and when Kerouac sees "flowers of death" in his eyes at the Boston dock as they say farewell, we sense perhaps the author is seeing them in the mirror twenty five years later.

A version of similar events appeared in Kerouac's more clearly fictional first novel, The Town and the City. So, why bother rehashing these years? For the author, it became a question of truth. He states, "Everybody'd begun to lie and because they lie they assume that I lie, too....but I do believe lying is a sin." The project of Vanity of Duluoz is to set records straight, to complete the great "Duluoz legend" in its memorial entirety. We can hope that someday a future scholar will put all these books together in one great Proustian novel, as was Kerouac's dream.

Appraising this final piece of autobiography, the reader almost believes Kerouac sensed his own impending doom, and valiantly attempted to complete this ambitious narration. He mentions a woman's letter written to him recently that stated: "You are not Jack Kerouac. There is no Jack Kerouac. His books were not even written." It is against this great nihilistic denial that the author fights, swinging his great fists of prose. And against his own feeling of bitter defeat he places another, greater feeling: I am.


You can find the original article, and others, at Empty Mirror Books.

Donald Hall Birthday Celebration




I was honored to speak about the history of Hamden when former U.S. Poet Laureate Donald Hall returned to his hometown for his 83rd birthday. I wrote about his life here in my book, Hamden: Tales from the Sleeping Giant. Sharing the event with the mayor Scott Jackson and Connecticut Poet Laureate Dick Allen was the icing on the cake.

Poetry Reading at the Dickerman House


This photo of my wife, poet Amy Nawrocki, reading at the historic Jonathan Dickerman House in Hamden, looks a little bit like a sorceress incanting a spell. That could not be more appropriate. Poetry is magic, only, those who do not fall under its spell are cursed.