MANIFESTO & SUPERMANIFESTO 2024

 Manifesto & Supermanifesto 2024 begins with the most unexpected development of my career. On November 27, University Press of Mississippi released my nonfiction book Poor Gal: The Cultural History of Little Liza Jane. This capped an intensive six-year research process into the most important folk song in American history. Aside from all the stunning historical information I absorbed as well as learning so many “Liza Jane” songs that now regularly dance inside my head, I developed quite a bit as a writer. It was important to step out of my “creative writing voice” and into a realm that was far more important than “me.” For once, I did not find myself trying to write poetry or fiction by depending upon “my own legend.” Instead, I functioned as a conduit for “Liza Jane” to tell its estimable story, one that reminds us of our shared humanity.

I could not have written Poor Gal without significant mentorship by a bloke named David Evans. A two-time Grammy winner, musician, professor emeritus, author, and blues ambassador, David provided patient, old-school guidance from the darkest days of the pandemic all the way to the book’s production. I had read his legendary book Big Road Blues when I lived in Arcata, but I should like to note the appearance of Going Up the Country, a 2023 work David co-wrote with Marina Bokelman. Going Up the Country blends an adventure narrative with detailed notes about making field recordings and, at its heart, relays an edgy investigation into American folk and blues music.

I enter 2024 with an ambitious creative agenda. I am hoping to step back to the microphone once again as a lyricist-vocalist with a band. Together with my colleague Emily Cohen, I am / we are still cranking away on a documentary film about “Little Liza Jane.” Emily and I feel a renewed sense of momentum regarding this endeavour (sic). Having seen Poor Gal hit the bookshelves, I have returned (buoyantly) to my “creative writing practice” or rather my “roots” as a writer. On the one hand, this would involve dealing with some shocking experiences—such as the long-ago murder of my friend Warren—as well as rendering myself more “vulnerable” in the presence of my own foibles. 

This too, of course. Not long after my friend (and his girlfriend) were murdered, my brother David Gutstein passed away. He had just turned 27. Over the last twelve months, I have really reflected upon the gift of life. One that I have been fortunate enough to enjoy but my brother was not fully able to: he has been gone, by now, for more years than he lived. He had not really gotten started. I visited his grave earlier this year and it really f****** hurt. Yet this well of emotion cannot simply smolder. It must lead to creativity, community—and earthly love. 

“I hate spending a lot of time in graveyards / We’re all gonna spend a lot of time in graveyards.” I meant these lyrics with both acidic and ironic properties alike. (Obviously, they follow from my admission above.) This music video from Joy on Fire’s 2022 album States of America is certainly titled for the season. The song features a medium burn and a more lyrical presentation than some of the hard-charging songs we fashioned together. Too, John Paul Carillo (bass, guitar) and Anna Meadors (saxophones) visited some fabulous production values on the effort. They filmed half of it in Trenton and the other half here, with me, in the Rockville, Md. area. “Show interest / Show interest / I show interest you” is aimed at you, my friend. Reach out. Let’s talk.

Let us not end the year without some serious geese and gosling action. Have a gander at this here gaggle as they comply with local traffic signage. They do not run afoul of going the wrong way down a one-way, so you can relax, the giant yellow arrow tells said waddlers where to waddle. These fowls are headed to the creek, where they can duck back onto the water. Even as they disappear around the bend, it is not their swan song. These here gooses can be seen regularly in the air as a plump wedge. In fact, they live in the same habitat (where their habit is at) as my best animal friend forever, the mischievous scoundrel known as The Fox.

People ask me have you seen The Fox? Well, yes I have. She is quite robust. Rusty red. Full of mischief. A true scoundrel of the finest calibre (sic). This summer, I spent some time with her before I went to live downtown in a friend’s apartment. Perhaps she sensed that I might be departing for a bit, so we chilled in the shallow woods, enjoying each other’s company. For some reason, the fake Australian accent emerges—“You’re a good lookin’ fox, man”—but she’s a vixen, not a reynard (sic). When she sees me, she has this way of darting a short distance away and then abruptly sitting down. She slays me pretty good with her wily shenanigans!

I’ll never forget the day The Fox let me sit at the edge of the den, where her seven kits flounced about, clearly inheritors of the same vulpine mischief. She brought seven rascally souls into the world!

Notably, in 2023, I vanquished my first chess-bot rated 2000—even as I played the black pieces! I am usually too chicken to sacrifice my queen, but I did so because an opportunity presented itself. And lo, the chess-bot was check-mated. Heh heh heh.

Happy New Year, Everyone! My very best wishes to you and your loved ones.

It would not be a true Blood And Gutstein post without a thumping R&B shaker. You may know Booker T. and the MGs for their hit “Green Onions” but I will take “MG Party” any day. The addition of horns to the classic lineup really clinches this song as a romping dance-floor instrumental from 1964. The infectious, propulsive beat will overcome the proceedings. To wit, let us flounce like kits, let us sacrifice our queens, let us croon at the microphone, let us be mentored, let us tell the kinds of tales that exemplify our connections to one another. Above all else, let us strive for peace and love. This is aimed at you, my friend. Reach out. Let’s talk.


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discographical information for “MG Party”
Booker T. and the MG’s. “MG Party” B-side b/w “Soul Dressing” A-side. Stax S-153, Memphis, Tennessee, 1964. Likely personnel: Booker T. Jones (organ); Steve Cropper (guitar); Donald Dunn (bass guitar); Al Jackson, Jr. (drums); Wayne Jackson (trumpet); Floyd Newman (baritone saxophone); Charles “Packy” Axton (tenor saxophone). Compositional credit: Jones, Cropper, Jackson, Dunn.

CUB LIFE: THE RED FOX KITS ENGAGE IN NUTTY MAYHEM & WE HAVE THE FOOTAGE.

My fondness for foxes knoweth no boundaries. In fact, I have befriended a wild red fox and these are her cubs. Some days, I count seven of them. Some days, eight. It’s like, one day, there’s an extra kit, somehow. They leap, do the kits. They tussle. They careen ahead. On the nuttiness scale, I give them a 10 out of 10. Their nutty mayhem exceeds the norms, by several standard deviations! My friend, the mother fox, must shake her head at all this mayhem. She has more kits than the woman who lived in that funky old shoe. Clearly, the mother fox digs all of these offsprings, because all of them look good. At the end of the clip, you can see that I’ve made a new buddy. Li’l fella. Li’l critter. Oh yeah. 

Yes, I know about the flamingoes. Please don’t tell me that a wild red fox (allegedly) broke into the zoo and ate two dozen flamingoes. (And one duck.) I concede this alleged mal-pheasants (sic). Some of you eat meat. Some of you, like me, are vegetarians. (Or okay, they cook me a fish once in a while, where “they” equals salmon canneries.) Did the squash ask to be harvested? Did the salmon leap willingly into the net? Did the flamingo hanker to see the wild red fox (purportedly) squeezing through some kind of preposterous hole in the fence? We all want to eat. Nobody wants to be eaten. These geese seem to be gradually reaching a state of awareness concerning such matters. As do the kits. 

The shadows of the little ears in late day sun motes. The pouncing! I mean, with seven (or eight) siblings, that means seven (or eight) pouncings, daily, hourly, momentarily. Lo, the pouncings. The game of tag around the tree. The chases. The tail-bitings. Lo, the tail-bitings. Occasionally, you’ll view the solitary kit, the introspective kit, the sensitive soul, the tortured artist! But not for long. Because they pounceth anew. They tail-biteth anew. Lo, the little ears in late day shadows. I think it is a perfectly defensible position in life to want, to be, one of these kits. I know I want, to be, one of these nutty cubs.

Further Reading: 

For more information on the chapbook that chronicles my relationship with the mother of these kits, please see this here post, and thanks again to Phyllis Rosenzweig at Primary Writing Books, for publishing said chapbook.

Moreover, this is the post that started it all. 

The videos are titled: (1) Red Fox Kits Nuttiness! (2) Fox Kits Organize a Delegation to Meet the Geese. (3) Cub Life -- The Red Fox Kits. Oi. 

MY BEST MATE FROM THE ANIMAL KINGDOM: A WILD RED FOX PHOTO ESSAY

By now, many of you know my best mate from the animal kingdom. These photos were all taken in March and April 2022, about 24 to 30 months after I first met this wild red fox. Many thanks again to Phyllis Rosenzweig at Primary Writing Books, who published a book of poetry and photography about this unlikely friendship. Lo, my fox friend has given birth to three or four fluffy kits. They bounce around happily in the undergrowth and shrubberies. My stunning rusty red friend, pictured above, took some time to visit with me, before returning to motherly duties. A key to the photos follows.

1. Classic blogger / fox eye contact.
2. Drinking water from a puddle.
3. Checking on the kits.
4. A good looking fox. I melt every time.
5. Whoa! What was that?
6. Foxy activities.
7. The whole fox. What a tail!
8. Healthy, alert, jokester, rusty red, fierceness.

THE FOX WHO LOVES ME: NEW CHAPBOOK AVAILABLE.

You may recall, Dear Reader, I have befriended a wild red fox, and in the course of this endeavor, I have snapped photographs and composed some snappy prose pieces. Lo and behold, The Fox Who Loves Me has appeared as a perfect-bound chapbook. It features said photography and said prose. Masterfully published by Primary Writing Books, an imprint directed by the estimable Phyllis Rosenzweig of Washington, D.C., The Fox Who Loves Me chronicles my many encounters with this vulpine soul, in summer and winter, light and dark, dry and snow.

The fox herself, a rusty-red vibrant young critter, continues to orbit me. (Or vice versa: I continue to orbit her.) I see her virtually every day, typically around sunset. In addition to her striking colors, she also radiates mischief and intelligence. An opportunistic omnivore, she chows down on rodents and watermelon wedges alike. When I trot, she trots, we trot; we have jogged together several times. Lo and behold, as springtime has blossomed-forth, she has started to keep company with a bloke-fox. I attempt to conquer my heartbreak sensibly: with sessionable stouts and ales.

Let us sing the praises of Phyllis Rosenzweig. Her press has published authors from two generations of the “D.C. Poetry” crowd. Collectively, these Primary Writing Books—penned by the likes of Doug Lang, Ken Jacobs, Lynne Dreyer, Cathy Eisenhower, Chris Mason, Lorraine Graham, and Phyllis herself—explore the boundaries of poetry, prose, and image. Both a writer and curator, Phyllis has garnered MVP honors more than once: I’m recalling, in particular, the pre-pandemic chaos of an Adams Morgan Day street festival, when she joined me and Rod Smith for outdoor-indoor poetry readings at Libertine and the Black Squirrel. The three of us made a formidable team.

The Fox Who Loves Me checks in at 32 pages, with color photographs. Design by Bob Allen. Author illustration by Emily Cohen. To order a copy of this limited-edition chapbook, reach out to Phyllis [email: phyllisrosenzweig at comcast dot net] and she will give you ordering instructions. This would be a perfect gift for fox lovers and poetry lovers alike.  

Please consider supporting the vital work done by small presses. Without them, we would never witness the evolution of language and story. 

THE FOX WHO LOVES ME + OTHER DEVELOPMENTS IN THE FAUNAL AND FLORAL KINGDOMS: A PHOTO ESSAY.

Key to the photographs: 

1. Deep, deep in the shrubberies: behold the beaver. Being human and smart-alecky, one ponders the paddle. We’re told that the paddle is for dam building, but that can’t be all. The beaver, for example, knows love. What doeth the paddle during the love-making of the beaver? People paddle each other, although the paddle is not — organically — attached to them. You might think “furry, cute little critter” but I think not. I see a varmint that can chew through a tree. Knowing not what might aggravate the beaver, I keep moving along.

2. This massive heron floats down to earth. It is equal parts dinosaur, goose, and 747. A comedian. Slender and plump. Where are the myths about this fine specimen? How come no Leda and the Great Blue? It is a stoic. Perhaps it thinks me a stoic, as well. The two of us, trudging along in the miserable murk that defines our lives. Me ‘n’ the heron, we complaineth not.

3. Thank you for inquiring about the Early Girl tomato plant. Given the absence of bees on the balcony, Dear Reader, I hand-pollinated every single flower. Lo, the plant begat many dozen tomatoes! We had a terrific affair. As for the fruits themselves, well, they were quite tasty, as it works out. This bit of gardening provided me with an essential activity as my skeleton reeled from an injury.

4. During my convalescence from said injury (which continues at present) I watched some reruns of Law & Order. I would like to say that Claire Kincaid, played by Jill Hennessey, is my favorite character. Dunno how the show continued on without her.

5. I got bitten! Not only that, but the venom (of whatever bit me) tried to slay me. But I endured.

6. Given the seriousness of the injury, I hadn’t seen my BFF from the faunal kingdom in several months. But one day, as part of my rehabilitation walk, I thought I saw the little ears sticking up, out of the sand trap. So I says, “Hey mate,” in my silly Australian accent. “Hey mate, you’re a good-looking fox.” This is how all the animals in my orbit know it’s me. The silly accent. She sits bolt upright, curling the big brush of the tail behind her. I think she even whined a little bit. That really broke me up!

7. The fox, stirring.

8. The fox, running. She looks hale and hearty. She’s a good-looking fox, mate.

 

THE FOX IN MY LIFE + CRITTER EXTRAVAGANZA: PHOTO ESSAY.

Key to the images: 

1. I’ve been seeing this hawk up in the greenery, no not that greenery, I mean the greenery! For months. Here, she fluttered down to engage in some scrutiny with me, her only human friend. It was a lengthy, calm, formal visit. I spoke English. She listened. That is our dynamic. 

2. This is my favorite deer. “You’re a good-looking deer,” I tell her. Now, before you wicked people start with your quips, I am already involved with a fox. The other deer are like bounding here, bounding there. Whatevs. I need dependability in a deer. Like a newspaper: she’s waiting, daily. 

3. Behold the mole kingsnake! I nearly jogged on this fella. It’s a perfectly good snake, only you don’t lay eyes on it very often, so you’re like “copperhead?” but no, that’s not a copperhead. To be clear, I don’t like snakes: most of them can go f*** off. But I like this one. 

4. Here we see a renegade member of Brood X reclining comfortably on a stalk of grass. I remember when everybody was like “Where’s Brood X?” blah blah blah (impatiently) but not anymore. Cicadas everywhere: mating on my car tires, ffs. Good thing I’ve got all-weather radials. 

5. The Fox in My Life. (a) She jumps the creek but looks back to see where I am. (b) She appears suddenly in the grassy grassy lea. (c) She jogs with me at a remove, on the edge of the woods. (d) She checks on me in the snow, after I had slipped! (e) This is just heartbreaking, I will confess. Here she is, waiting for me, sitting as a dog might sit. I have been pandemic-isolated from so many people and places but this fox has been my friend.

 

LATE OCTOBER UPDATE 2020: A PHOTO ESSAY.

 

key to photographs:

1. Joy on Fire poster for our music video, “Uh Huh,” which has been an official selection at the Prisma Rome Independent Film Awards (2020), London Rocks Film Festival (2020), and L.A. Rocks Film Festival (2021). Many other submissions are pending. You can check out the video through this link.

2. I got my flu shot this year!

3. While the image quality isn’t the greatest, this does represent the reunion between me and the fox. By reunion, I mean that we jogged together for the first time since she raised her cubs. As per usual, the fox was more agile.

4. The “Li’l Liza Jane” project goes onward. Once it’s safe, I will go to Emory University in Atlanta, via a Rose Library Fellowship, to research the song in greater depth. We have learned so much about America’s favorite poor gal, including the fact that the tune has been absorbed internationally (and nationally) by a great number of cultures. Pictured above is the song translated into the Chinook language.

5. I voted. Well all right, then.

 

too updated? see “dark valley” by the holidays

FOX, BEARD, ANNIVERSARY: A PHOTO-ESSAY DESPATCH (SIC) FROM CORONAVIRUS LOCKDOWN.

key to the images (click on them to enlarge)

1 and 2. The fox and I have bridged the vulpine-person divide and become friends. However, she is feeding her cubs these days and has little time to shoot the baloney. Here, she is pictured galloping toward the den with unlucky prey (a squirrel?) in her mouth.

3. Beard / Beered. That would be, of course, a stout. 

4. I made a mask! (Out of an old t-shirt.)

5. My parents, Ruth and Marty, getting married, 60 years ago. I am “embedded” with them, in order to help them survive the pandemic.

6. My parents today, sharing a nice moment at the kitchen table, having been married for 60 years. Many more happy returns to them!

The days ahead: Soon, there will be a video release by Joy on Fire, the band I collaborate with, and eventually I hope to “re-launch” my latest book release, which got swallowed up by the early days of the nationwide lockdown. Thanks for visiting this blog—I hope that you and your loved ones are safe and healthy. —Dan

THE NEW FOX IN MY LIFE: A DESPATCH (SIC) FROM CORONAVIRUS LOCKDOWN.

recognition

Behold, the vixen assembles herself for devotion. Yes, we believe this fine creature to be a female of the species. Our relationship started this way. She presents herself and I devote myself to her presentation. She’s in no hurry to be foxy; she’s quite foxy as it is. She encounters tens of twenties of twos of persons, while I typically encounter but one vulpine soul. Yes, we are socially distancing ourselves properly in the Coronavirus era, but we always begin with this moment of recognition on the grassy, grassy lea.

aloofness

In this stage of the vixen-human devotional, the fox asserts her aloofness. A person could outfox another person, a fox could outfox a person, a fox could outfox another fox, but a person will never outfox a fox, how could he? He is not the fox. She is the fox, and she is, oh yes, fundamentally aloof. She knows the damage that a pelt-monger could cause, and she won’t become fodder for a pre-barbaric line in a Tennessee Williams play. [In Brando nasal voice:] “Where are your fox-pieces, Stella?” Lo, she will endure.

the chase is on

The fox is low to the ground. Why does this matter? Because there are roots and limbs, god dammit, there are creeks and banks. Have I taken a tumble? Yes, I have tumbled into the freaking creek! Would you believe me if I said that the fox waited for me? A fellow can grow quite emotional in such a moment. Sitting there, in the chilly muck, wondering just what in the Jiminy Cricket he is doing with his life, but there sitteth the vixen, beautiful and vigilant. Would you believe me if I said that we ran through the foxgloves together? Well, you shouldn’t. I have no idea what foxgloves look like. But we have run together side by side, the fox and I.

coda
There may be more foxes before long. I know this because I’ve seen a second fox: le renard. He looked as if he were wearing silk pajamas, and he is, and he deserves every single bit of that glorious feeling, the lucky guy.