A note of thanks
The back page of the New York Times Sunday Magazine section from December 28th said farewell to the poet, Jason Shinder, who died in 2008 from cancer.
Among many other poetry-related things, Jason was the founder of the YMCA's National Writer's Voice. When I knew him, his office was in the West Side Y. He had a crush on my girlfriend, Stephany, who was also a writer in those days.
My life did not intersect with Jason's for very long but it was an astounding interaction, never-the-less. He was the one who'd read my writing samples and accepted me in the Jim Carroll writing workshop back in the spring of 1984; an absolute highlight of my literary life.
I moved to NYC in 1980, the year that Jim Carroll's song "People Who Died" was a hit on FM radio. I absolutely worshipped Jim Carroll. I was one of those writers who'd read The Basketball Diaries from cover to cover countless times. I still own my original copy (now brown & brittle) of Living at the Movies, and I waited breathlessly for the long anticipated Book of Nods to finally make it into print. And after all that waiting, it's hard to believe, really, that it happened decades ago already. I have all of Jim's records/CDs, all of his books. Though they're stored away, I still cherish the writing assignments I'd turned in during the workshop that have his bright-red-pencilled comments on them; including song lyrics I wrote (a song about Iggy Pop), where Jim wrote across the top in red, "A+++ Very good!!"
I absolutely hungered for input from Jim on my writing, but he never had any criticisms for me; he would always basically say, "that was really good." I was a professional singer/songwriter in those days so it's not like I was obscurely struggling away in some dark room, or anything, without any input at all. But I really wanted his input on my work because I idolized him. I once brought a really rough 4-track demo tape to class of a song I wrote called, "She Ain't No Virgin At All" -- a very haunting minor-key kind of thing, a type of songwriting that I was notorious for. I so wanted his feedback, his criticism: how can I make it better? He listened to the tape and then said, "Wow. That was really good. I have nothing to add."
Okay. That's flattering. But I was only 23; I didn't know yet that it was flattering. I wanted him to add something. He always had criticisms for everyone else's projects. I had no clue that I was already inherently complete & should just embrace that about myself. I was always yearning for more & more feedback. So what if it's good? I thought. How can I make it stupefyingly great?
In those days, I absolutely loved rock & roll; the Stones in particular. I worshipped Keith Richards. I wore torn Keith Richards tee shirts and little silver skull necklaces, skull earrings. Buttons pinned to my jacket with pictures of Keith on them. One evening as class was letting out, Jim tried to strike up a conversation with me. "So you're a songwriter?"
Me, barely audibly because I was painfully shy: "Yes."
"Do you have a band?"
"Yes."
"You do? Do you play out a lot?"
"Yes."
He noticed one of my Keith Richards buttons pinned to the lapel of my jacket. "Keith!" he said enthusiasticially. He touched the lapel of my jacket, looking at the pin. "You like Keith?" However, in touching the lapel of my jacket, he also touched me; his hand actually grazed against my person. I really thought I would faint dead away; I was so in awe of him and so shy. All I could say was "yes" to everything he asked until he just stood there and stared at me and had nothing left to say.
If you have never seen Jim Carroll or aren't familiar with him at all, he is very tall (i.e., he used to play basketball). Once in awhile I would arrive at the West Side Y right when he did and we would have to ride up in the very old, creaky elevator together. Not only did he tower over me (and I'm over 5'9" and not many people have actually "towered" over me), but the poetry of his soul to me seemed enormous. And he knew all the famous modern poets. He knew, intimately it seemed, all the living poets that I adored. The enormity of all that poetry sucked the air right out of that confining elevator and I thought I would suffocate & disappear, standing that close to him.
As a teenager, like me, he, too, had been mesmerized by the poetry of Frank O'Hara and sometimes in class, Jim would read O'Hara's poems aloud. For me, that was one definition of heaven -- to be that close to your favorite living poet as he reads aloud -- and with absolute unbridled joy -- the works of your favorite dead poet...
Anyway. I have Jason Shinder to thank for that great gift; for setting it in motion, so thank you, Jason. Hugely. Vaya con dios, amigo. You can read Jason's memorial piece here.
Jason Shinder 1955 - 2008
Among many other poetry-related things, Jason was the founder of the YMCA's National Writer's Voice. When I knew him, his office was in the West Side Y. He had a crush on my girlfriend, Stephany, who was also a writer in those days.
My life did not intersect with Jason's for very long but it was an astounding interaction, never-the-less. He was the one who'd read my writing samples and accepted me in the Jim Carroll writing workshop back in the spring of 1984; an absolute highlight of my literary life.
I moved to NYC in 1980, the year that Jim Carroll's song "People Who Died" was a hit on FM radio. I absolutely worshipped Jim Carroll. I was one of those writers who'd read The Basketball Diaries from cover to cover countless times. I still own my original copy (now brown & brittle) of Living at the Movies, and I waited breathlessly for the long anticipated Book of Nods to finally make it into print. And after all that waiting, it's hard to believe, really, that it happened decades ago already. I have all of Jim's records/CDs, all of his books. Though they're stored away, I still cherish the writing assignments I'd turned in during the workshop that have his bright-red-pencilled comments on them; including song lyrics I wrote (a song about Iggy Pop), where Jim wrote across the top in red, "A+++ Very good!!"
I absolutely hungered for input from Jim on my writing, but he never had any criticisms for me; he would always basically say, "that was really good." I was a professional singer/songwriter in those days so it's not like I was obscurely struggling away in some dark room, or anything, without any input at all. But I really wanted his input on my work because I idolized him. I once brought a really rough 4-track demo tape to class of a song I wrote called, "She Ain't No Virgin At All" -- a very haunting minor-key kind of thing, a type of songwriting that I was notorious for. I so wanted his feedback, his criticism: how can I make it better? He listened to the tape and then said, "Wow. That was really good. I have nothing to add."
Okay. That's flattering. But I was only 23; I didn't know yet that it was flattering. I wanted him to add something. He always had criticisms for everyone else's projects. I had no clue that I was already inherently complete & should just embrace that about myself. I was always yearning for more & more feedback. So what if it's good? I thought. How can I make it stupefyingly great?
In those days, I absolutely loved rock & roll; the Stones in particular. I worshipped Keith Richards. I wore torn Keith Richards tee shirts and little silver skull necklaces, skull earrings. Buttons pinned to my jacket with pictures of Keith on them. One evening as class was letting out, Jim tried to strike up a conversation with me. "So you're a songwriter?"
Me, barely audibly because I was painfully shy: "Yes."
"Do you have a band?"
"Yes."
"You do? Do you play out a lot?"
"Yes."
He noticed one of my Keith Richards buttons pinned to the lapel of my jacket. "Keith!" he said enthusiasticially. He touched the lapel of my jacket, looking at the pin. "You like Keith?" However, in touching the lapel of my jacket, he also touched me; his hand actually grazed against my person. I really thought I would faint dead away; I was so in awe of him and so shy. All I could say was "yes" to everything he asked until he just stood there and stared at me and had nothing left to say.
If you have never seen Jim Carroll or aren't familiar with him at all, he is very tall (i.e., he used to play basketball). Once in awhile I would arrive at the West Side Y right when he did and we would have to ride up in the very old, creaky elevator together. Not only did he tower over me (and I'm over 5'9" and not many people have actually "towered" over me), but the poetry of his soul to me seemed enormous. And he knew all the famous modern poets. He knew, intimately it seemed, all the living poets that I adored. The enormity of all that poetry sucked the air right out of that confining elevator and I thought I would suffocate & disappear, standing that close to him.
As a teenager, like me, he, too, had been mesmerized by the poetry of Frank O'Hara and sometimes in class, Jim would read O'Hara's poems aloud. For me, that was one definition of heaven -- to be that close to your favorite living poet as he reads aloud -- and with absolute unbridled joy -- the works of your favorite dead poet...
Anyway. I have Jason Shinder to thank for that great gift; for setting it in motion, so thank you, Jason. Hugely. Vaya con dios, amigo. You can read Jason's memorial piece here.
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