July 2007
Geoffrey Young
Great Barrington, MA
Poet
Residency:
Spring 2007Except for the speeding ticket I got crossing the desert from Palm Springs to Tucson (the magnetic attraction of the Casa was perhaps too strong?), everything worked well. Comfortable rooms, perfect pale blue light at dawn, palpable quiet, wi-fi, no social obligations—the place is designed to nourish immersion in language and self. After hitting the local super-market for a basket of food, I turned in the rented Impala. I didn’t want to be tempted to drive away from the Casa, when what I needed was to stay chained to its transcendental desktop.
I brought lots of old things to work on, to get started, and went through piles of them, rewriting what deserved further effort, and ditching most of it. Along the way, of course, new things popped up, and I had nothing but time and the hunger to get them realized. Two weeks passed slowly, deliberately, deliciously (when things were going well).
In the absence of mail, the phone, and the fragmenting interruptions of life at home, the time at the Casa stretched out. Email became even more important (contact!), and afternoon bike rides on Tucson’s flat gridded streets a great diversion. 4th Avenue is filled with funky shops I never went in, good enough food, a local gallery scene, and the ancient sound of trolleys moving in their tracks. On successive Saturday afternoons I biked to the nearby University and watched a match of the Division 1 women’s tennis team, then came home, brewed a cup of tea, ate a Fig Newton, and worked till eight or nine. No strict routine is my dream. Then I’d prepare a meal in the kitchen, listening to the local jazz station, sipping tequila, a little surprised, but not unhappy, to be sitting alone.
Each afternoon, at some point, I’d soak in the Jacuzzi (the pool in late February was still too cold to swim in), looking at the bright array of low-relief artifacts attached to the walls of the patio. Sun bursts, plants, border finds, whatever. I liked the way the furniture was situated everywhere, to encourage relaxation and conviviality (even though there was rarely anyone sitting in them to talk with). Kristen and Ann were in and out, friendly, informative, yet unobtrusive. I’d look at the bougainvillea, the potted cactuses, the running vines, then get back to work.
Due to a scheduling miscue, I was able to stay a few extra days in my apartment, as was Rick Moody, who missed his flight east due to bad weather.
Scrolling, I’m still finding things on this computer that I wrote at Casa Libre, works that will take their place in one manuscript or another. It’s always a pleasant surprise, and a reminder of what those two weeks still mean to me.Geoffrey's Bio:
Geoffrey Young edited and published The Figures for 30 years, and now teaches a class at University at Albany in Art Criticism. For the last 15 years he has curated shows at his contemporary art gallery in Great Barrington, MA. He is the author of the following books of poetry: Pockets of Wheat, Cerulean Embankments, Lights Out, and Fickle Sonnets. Born in Los Angeles, he has lived in the east since 1982.
Geoffrey's Links:
Geoffrey's Website and Figures Press
Interview in E-X-C-H-A-N-G-E-V-A-L-U-E-S with Thomas Fink
Closing the Joint with Geoffrey Young, A Review in The Brooklyn Rail by Gary Counsil
Last updated July 8, 2007
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