Response 10: J.S. Baca

It appears that I don't have a copy of A Place to Stand so I'll need to get one and read it before Thursday. I do have two copies of Black Mesa Poems. I guess there was a mix up somewhere.

So, I've become acquainted with Baca solely through his poetry (and what a Google search turns up, which does no justice to his time in prison, based on everyone else's blogs). I'm floored.

There is something between his lines of poetry. Somehow, in the thin white spaces between one phrase and the next, I can see the West expanding. It's dark when I see it like this, with skies like blue corn flour. It's gritty, it's stormy, and the stiff yuccas are being blown by some fierce but intermittent wind. I can feel sand sticking to my elbows, hear it crunching beneath my feet, taste it, en polvo, caught in my throat. Blue sky, red earth - seen through a dark lens.

I'm simply amazed that Baca can evoke such an image, more than an image, with his words about mothers and drunks in the backseats of cop cars. I'm especially amazed because I've seen so little of the American West, in person and in film. I spent a mere ten days climbing near Tucson, nestled in the Cochise Stronghold, totally sheltered from the expansive desert aesthetic. My only experience with the famous Western vastness was watching it roll by on the hour-long drive to and from the city. I haven't seen too many Eastwood films, but they were made in Italy. My only other image of the West comes from Little Miss Sunshine, which, I would argue, only happened to be set in New Mexico. The music from this film has entered my brain as some kind of self-painting image of the desert, and sadness, and bittersweet reluctant hope. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDd05aguUD4&feature=related

Also, when I think of the West, I always think of watching that movie with my Dad for the first time. There's a lot of road-trip scenery, and Dad looked at for about five seconds before saying "They're on Rt. 10." My brother and I both said, "Whatever, Dad," but a few minutes later, a shot of a road sign confirmed it.

I think it's impossible to forget the places in which we have been deeply touched. I was shaped by the south Jersey pines and bays, and, in a way, that's what I've got to work with, though I don't think they have the capacity to be as lonely and haunting as the desert. But then, I wasn't lonely or haunted in the pines. It's the place, but also the experience associated with that place, that counts. Life survives in harsh places because of versatility - as the desert is dark and lonely, so can it be bright and cheerful. The lens rests with the author. The power is in the words; as writers, we have to learn to control the words, though it might often feel that the words control us.