Friends,
Up here, “up the country,” it went from jacket to shorts weather in 48 hrs. Chuck and my mom say we’re two grow zones north— 5B as opposed to 7—of Hopewell Jct., Poughkeepsie, etc. So, we put the garden in late, lest the frost kill the tomatoes, and the world exploded in green, heralding that point in the year when I become 10% healthier, mentally. Then, as I got ready to head to Vermont and begin my second term at Bennington, New York was covered in a weird sepia haze, and we east coasters learned all about the air quality index. I wrote a lot over there, played music at their graduation ceremony, and transitioned from one incredible writer to another, mentor-wise. I highly recommend you find and read everything David Gates has written; he basically doubled awareness and appreciation for the “language arts” in six months.
I came back inspired but scared of the world, a new feeling for me. I started writing on Twitter years ago and learned lately that I can do it one-handed as I hold my nose. Thank God I’m not solely at the mercy of rich, coddled tech babies and have other outlets now. The world is on fire, the politicians are really old and more insane sounding than ever, and the quality of life feels like it rachets down a tick each day. People I love are dying. Cancer rates are up in the young. If you were to ask me, “Are capable people holding the world together?” I would have said, “Of course not.” But maybe, deep down, a part of me thought they did. It could mean my generation is ascending to its seat of power, that we’re the adults now. Or, it could mean that the world is turning into a giant Dollar General. Either way, I don’t feel all that safe.
Meanwhile, Jeff Goldblum was right: black flies and mosquitos are biting, and the box elder bugs have evolved to be the color of our barn. Besides us and Rosie, there are woodchucks, coyotes, rabbits, robins, voles, mice, blue jays, sparrows, chick-a-dees, cardinals, swallows, turtles, toads, hawks, chipmunks, buzzards, a pileated woodpecker, two snake families, frogs, squirrels, deer, fox, my neighbor Dave and his grandson, and even, Dave swears, a bobcat. Dave misses his wife terribly. He built a replica of a 1950s-era diner booth behind his woodpile but didn’t finish it in time for her to sit there with him. We have his number on an envelope on the fridge in case of emergencies, and he has ours. Similarly, the woodpeckers have learned to communicate by pecking our metal roofs. His bobcat news made me feel less crazy too. I swore I saw a larger-than-should-have-been cat from our bedroom window the day we moved in, and we occasionally hear louder-than-should-be yowls at night. There are no bears in the immediate vicinity, but there are plenty in the county. I can see the Adirondacks when the green is gone; I think mega-fauna migrate south to eat garbage in the summer.
The wet spring (and pre-spring mud season) turned into a wet hot summer like the movie, and it’s bringing weird shit up in the yard’s slow-motion churn. The house was built four years after the Revolutionary War, so there are centuries of lord knows what just under the surface. I can’t stick a shovel in the ground without turning up an old nail or piece of pottery. My collections are starting to take over every available flat surface. I’m 100% sure there are bodies down there. I even thought I saw a human face in the dirt, but what I’d actually done was find my glasses. I’ve been looking for them for almost a year.
I’m near or far-sighted, or what have you. “I see too much,” I used to say to doctors, proud of my 20/20 until, as my mother foretold, my vision fell off a cliff. The glasses were a gift from my family, who pooled their money a couple of birthdays ago. I’ve been searching for them for almost a year. They were under what became giant raspberry bushes and must have fallen out of my pocket while I reached for the big fat ones in the back. I ran to the house to tell Chuck, waving them, trying to spin it poetic, like, “Typical me, head in the clouds/raspberry bushes, probably musing on life’s great mysteries and dropped my glasses,” etc., but the response I got was more, “Typical you, trying to get a free snack in the woods with compromised executive function.” Which, fair.
Speaking of elation, I couldn’t be more stoked that Southwest Review published my huffing camera lens cleaner story in their Spring issue. With an epic illustration by Erre Erre, no less. Big thanks to Bobby Rae and Mary Klein for their editorial prowess and Bud Smith and Travis Alexander for helping me whip it into shape in the first place. It’s yet another installment in whatever the hell I’m writing, which, at this point, are the memoirs of a kid named Jackson Dominic Rizzolo.
Also, Pete International Airport’s It Felt Like the End of the World came out and features a song with lyrics and singing by yours truly. It’s sort of a precursor to the eventual Retsoor record, sonically, like the junk drawer on the Space Station or something, and features a twelve-string (!) bass by Tom Petersson from Cheap Trick, among others. The whole record is beautiful; I’m proud of Peter for pulling it together. It takes years of work to manifest something like it into the world. Support independent art, friends; your only other option will be whatever Elon Zuckerguy and crew think good music is. Trust me.
Speaking of, two of my favorite literary zines suffered tragic losses, and it’s heartening to see them carry on. One of them, the punks over at Versification, returned and published a bit of micro prose I submitted last year. It takes thirty seconds to read, and while you’re there, cheer them on. They deserve it.
Speaking of, speaking of, I’m on the masthead as Spiritual Advisor for the brand new Farewell Transmission Journal. Founded and led by the incredibly talented and soulful Rob Kaniuk, staffed by similarly bright lights, the first issue is launching soon, and Issue 0 is up now. You know the drill: follow on social media and keep your eyes peeled for the next time submissions open; we want your “Weird and brutally honest pieces. Your sufferings.” I published an in-depth interview/Brooklyn memoir with one of my oldest pals, big Bill Whitten, on there. You can read all about our misadventures/attempts at redemption/my Godfathering his first son/SXSW 1999 etc. I’ve got something similar cooking that I’m super excited about, but I’ll save that for the next Substack. If you’ve read this far, I love you. Be kind to one another; we’re all we have.
XO, Retsoor aka Jason Sebastian Russo
Totally Digging: J Mae Barizo’s Tender Machines,
Never Hush, John West’s Lessons & Carols, Travis Alexander’s SIRENS, Nice Try, Vladimir Nabokov Speak, Memory, Andre Dubus We Don’t Live Here Any More, Deidre McNamer Aviary.
love all of these meanderings; wholeheartedly agree, ostensibly so, as DFW would say, &c, &c, ALSO i did not know you were a composer, listening to all of these arrangements now, and i very clearly remember hearing that incredible song on "Suits", what a crazy show!