Other Words 2009

November 6 – 8, I attended the Other Words Conference sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition and Flagler College (http://www.floridarts.org/). This literary seminar and writer’s workshop is held over a long weekend in ambient St. Augustine, Florida.
St. Augustine, continental North America’s oldest city, is a charming, if asymmetric, collage of colonial Spanish, French and English buildings, set amongst monuments to Victorian robber barons, mid-century modern Florida, and sad1970s attempts at urban planning. Bridges soar, lighthouses haunt, museums punctuate, Formica proliferates, and tourists wander like beasts off the Serengeti (belching, running, wailing, and circling the crumbling Castillo de San Marco).
Flagler College is a gem in the diadem of Florida’s Victorian heritage. The juxtaposition of sandy coquina walls and dark russet terracotta ornamentation is striking. The dining hall was replete with Tiffany windows, and the faux filigree of a different age. The atmosphere of these hallowed halls lends an air of academic dignity to the conference dialogue.
Highpoints of the conference included:
- Frank Overview of the Biases and Assumptions of Literary Editors
- Discussion of the Long Poem
- Introductions to Breakout Poets
- Community Outreach by the Poetry Society and Crazyhorse to their respective communities
- Side by Side comparisons of Literary products from the Florida Review, Tampa Review, Anhinga Press, Miami Poetry Collective, Greensboro Review, Crazyhorse
- Collaborative work with other artists and media.
Best Speakers Included:

Elena Karina Byrne, Regional Director of the Poetry Society of America in Los Angeles, and Carol Ann Davis, Co-editor of Crazyhorse, spoke about fostering a literary community in Charleston and Los Angeles. Both have done so much for specific communities in their respective literary capitals. I was inspired to make a larger effort in Central Florida.

Ira Sukrungruang, co-editor of University of South Florida's Sweet, read an excerpts of his writing on being overweight in different genres. He is a powerful and articulate speaker, and his discussion of presentation and genre was very insightful.

Rhett Iseman Trull read from her collection, The Real Warnings. Wow! So young, and such a confident voice. She is a rising literary star, as is Ken Hart with his collection Uh Oh Time. Both won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry . . . and it leads me to look to this publisher for more great work.

Meghan Brinson spoke on the long poem in contemporary literature, and her efforts to coordinate and link found long poems on the Internet.

It had been a long time, since I felt so integrated into a community of like-minded, creative and genuinely good people. Other Words positively reinforces all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a literary life.

Ghosts of Color

Last weekend I flew to New Hampshire. It was the apex of autumn. Villages of white clapboard stood watch over slate cemetaries, pumpkin patches and wreaths of corn.

The pretense of my trip was the wedding of a lifelong friend, Charlotte, to her beau and (now husband) Dwayne. The wedding was moving and relaxed, punctuated with excellent food, the brilliance of a hardwood deciduous forest aflame with color, and two families uniting through their children. Wonderful.

Icing on the cake, was wandering with lifelong friend, Joy, into the trails of the White Mountains, the farmstands of Hollis. The beauty and happiness that is New Hampshire washed over me like a memory.

On Columbus Day, I set off alone to haunt the places where I had once laughed, and loved. I set off down remote trails, photographing the trees, streams, and lakes south of the Franconia Notch. My subconscious percolated the past into the present, using the timeless consistency of the autumn woods as a bridge.

Here, once upon a time, I had been fully present. I loved life deeply . . . forgot that I was vulnerable . . . and then suddenly was vulnerable. I had wanted to reclaim the colors, the granite, the trails, the mountains. I had wanted their sensation to belong to me in a new context. However, everywhere that I went the past presented itself.

I realized that in everything, every day, one must choose to live fully present and completely vulnerable, regardless of the consequences. The option is to spend your life sheltering yourself, mitigating risk and pursuing control. This option might be safer, but the memories would be of fears and strategies, instead of experiences and offerings. In any case, it was too late for me. New Hampshire is a place I poured myself out, and there I was on fire in the trees.

The Fallen

by William Drew Weinbrenner

In careful folds

on rounded mounds

stand forest clouds

of ruby red.

Through and under

circling ceilings,

brittle brown

and dead.

Shuffled feet

crush and crunch.

The puzzle plowed

to mossy bed.

We're m i l e s a p a r t.

Our hearts resound.

But not a word

was really said.

Beauty pulls

a vacancy,

wrapped in wool,

a single thread.

Three years distance

I put between

unravels

in my head.

For Immediate Release!

Central Florida Poet Wins Gold Medal at FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards

Florida Publishers Association awards Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner gold medal for anthology EAST OF POURING during 2009 President’s Book Awards

Sarasota, Florida USA (Ahewlu Productions, LLC) September 26, 2009 – The Florida Publishers Association awarded Central Florida poet William Drew Weinbrenner a gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards banquet at the Helmsley Sandcastle Hotel this evening. Weinbrenner received the medal for his 27-year anthology EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007.

EAST OF POURING is a collection of eight chapbooks developed between 1980 and 2007. Its author, William Drew Weinbrenner hails from Ormond Beach, Florida, where his early work is situated. But the poetry, like Weinbrenner, eventually circles the earth, describing all seven continents and his search for love and peace during the advent of the 21st century.

With the help of his father, W. D. WEINBRENNER wrote his first story at the age of six. He was introduced to poetry, drama, music, and design through the United States public education system. In 1981 Drew won the Florida Council of Teachers of English (FCTE) Contest for the autobiographical short story "He’ll Get Over It," and then consecutively won the FCTE Contest for poetry in 1983 and 1984. He is a University of Florida, Florida Player, and received his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Filmic Writing from the University of Southern California, Lucas School of Cinema-Television. By the time he was forty, he had visited all seven continents, lived abroad, and forged a career as a technical writer. Throughout his life, he continued to write about his eccentric, dramatic, and often comic experiences around the world. East of Pouring, his first book, is a retrospective of twenty-seven years of poetry, written from ages fifteen to forty-one. Drew is a musician, writer, poet, screenwriter, photographer and designer who lives and works in Orlando, Florida.

EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007 is available at Urban Think! Bookstore in Downtown Orlando and can be ordered online from Barnes and Nobles:
ISNB-13: 978-0-9817880-0-5
Title: EAST OF POURING, Collected Poetry 1980 – 2007
Author: William Drew Weinbrenner
Illustrator: David Hunter
Pages: 360
Price: $22 USD Hardcover
Publisher: Ahewlu Productions, LLC
Publication Date: November 2008

Contact via: dweinbre at ja who daught calm (spelled this way to foil a spate of spam)

This Blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/
Florida Publishers Association: http://www.flbookpub.org/

###

Auld Langs, Bitte (or is it Old and Bitter)

Last weekend was my . . . cough . . . 25th high school reunion. . . . Wheez . . . I cannot believe that 25 years has passed. I remember 1984 as though it were yesterday.

Returning to Ormond Beach, I was in awe. What a beautiful place I'd grown up in. The town is truly beautiful - an oaky jungle that spans three peninsulas, backed up to the Atlantic Ocean.

The favorite thing I did all weekend, was to swim in the 72 degree water, and get a sun burn on my vampire technical writer skin. It was a thrill to be alive, in the rolling summer saltwater, to feel the sand, and smell the ocean. I was invigorated.

Ironically, during my youth in Ormond Beach, I couldn't wait to escape. I believed that the outside world held adventure and wisdom for me . . . and I'm sad to admit that I never appreciated who I was and where I was when I was young.

Knowing who I am now may have helped me to steele myself and enjoy the class reunion. Although most of my very closest high school friends could not make it to the reunion (... and as an aside, I'm still in touch with most of them and visit them regularly...), it was nice to re-meet familiar faces 25 years later.

The children who were my peers, were now the adults who were my peers. They had spouses and children - some who were now in high school (ouch!). I forgave the bullys, admired the cheerleaders, laughed with the generous of spirit, and simply was who I was, where I was. I think, along with the book, that I have come to peace with my past. It has closure and structure. I have brought order out of the chaos of random teenage experiences.

I'm also glad to believe that my best days lie ahead of me, instead of behind me. I hope to find a spouse, to live more adventures and make a difference. Auld Lang signe, indeed.

My Red Chair Affair

For the purposes of promoting the artistic efforts of Ahewlu Productions, we decided to participate in the Red Chair Project's silent auction. Participants in this silent auction decorate a small childrens chair from IKEA and provide an artistic experience for the auction winner.

At first it would seem obvious, that I should do a poetry reading from East of Pouring as my artistic offering . . . until it occured to me that few people in Orlando, Florida are going to want me to come to their house and read poetry from my "head in the oven" period. Slightly more, may enjoy erotic gay poetry . . . but I've sworn of Bridal Showers . . . since "the incident." (joking)

What could I do to make poetry . . . sexier?

Looking in the mirror, it was clear that I probably would not be able to lose 25 pounds before September 19th, so the whole stripper pole, hot oil rubdown and elaborate puppet show idea will have to wait for next year (yeah, that's the ticket).

I finally decided that I make killer sangria . . . and that if I was successful in getting my patrons drunk they, sedated, would be more likely to sit through a poetry reading . . . and if the heckling got to bad, I could at least outrun them. If the event became superlatively bad, then I could as a last resort . . . join them in inebriation - and care a lot less about how I've suffered for my art.

I submitted my idea, and wonder of wonders I was invited to join the silent auction. I was given three weeks to decorate a red chair. No problem right? No. Problem.

My red chair took every minute of three weeks, and was scaled back twice to adhere to the laws of the space-time continuum.

First I had thought that I would cover the chair with text from my book, and then have the elements of sangria orbiting the chair on very thin wire. My chair would be the magical chair of fruits with poetry by fruits. Heck, maybe Carmen Miranda would buy the chair, and I could read her her rights.

The first reality check was painting a white chair red. The chair absorbed red paint like a sponge, so that many coats were necessary. And have you ever considered how many surfaces there are on a chair. It's a cubist nightmare. Painting the chair red took two weeks. I realized it was going to take every fiber of my being to get text on the chair, so I jettisoned the flying fruit and committed to high quality text alone.

The second reality check was decal transferring text to the chair. Oy, veh. The text had to be printed as a mirror reflection, so that when it was applied to the chair it ended up right-side out. Microsoft Word does not enable mirror text. So I had to type all poems in Paintbrush and invert the text as graphic. Once printed on the decal material, the double adhesive text had to be surgically removed from wax paper and placed on the chair with tweezers.

One poem and I was out! I had two days to finish, and had only covered half of the seat with text. . . The book title was inadvertently glued to the newspaper on the coffee table.

I retreated to Plan 3: The white paint pen. This for the most part worked . . . but imbued the chair with the atmosphere of a subway train, instead of the throne of poetry and fruit I'd previously envisioned. Sigh.

But art is about manifesting ideals as physical, tangible objects. Successful artists respond with pragmatism to the pitfalls of the physical world. So, in the end the chair is more than a compromise . . . it was a learning experience. Stay tuned, to hear who the final winner of my Poetry and Sangria event is . . . and what the chair "went" for.

Except in Hurricane Season . . .

These things just come to me out of the ether. I post them. I alter them once in awhile. But let's face it. I'm a magnet for funny stuff:

Exhibit 1: Disney Solicitations.

*altered for context.

Before anyone protests, if you know me . . . you have a fairy godbrother . . . and let's leave it at that. :-)

I'm having a bad day . . . all week.

I'm having a very bad day . . . all week.

On Tuesday, I thought I was coming down with something. I started coughing while at work. Once at work though, you're in. My company's attitude is, if you could drag your self in in the first place, you are probably not sick. So in short, employees become sick during their own time. At work, your germs should be doing something constructive . . . or my team lead will find something for them to do.

But after a bit of hacking in contiguous cubeland (or is it contagious cubeland) . . . my co-workers, on the brink of their summer vacations, kindly suggested I take my collapsing respiratory system out to the parking lot. I headed home . . . thinking to myself . . . well this will be nice: Finally, an afternoon to catch up on all the things I'm running behind on!

As I commuted home unicorns ate puffy cloud pudding and whinnied 'til they wet themselves. Silly rabbit, they said!

Within seconds of reaching my sanctuary, the respiratory virus hit will full karmic velocity. Not only will I *not* be doing anything productive this afternoon . . . but I will spend most of the next four days trying to cough my back out my left nostril.

Where I could have picked this illness up? I had just returned from South America, via Miami Airport. I was in the Amazon rain forest and climbing at altitude in the Andes. Hmmm. I work with people from all over the world . . . but no, neither environment seemed connected to the cough. Then I remembered: Disney World. I had been there the first weekend in June, and was very likely exposed to disease carrying midgets from planet "Petry Dish Memorial Elementary School." There it was. I had the D1SN1Y virus!

Hey Imagineers, I have a new idea for a ride at Disney world called "Bleach Mountain" (sponsored by Dupont). It's a roller coaster where Disney characters in Hazmat suits hose you down with sterilizing agents before you leave. They even give you a souvenir goofy surgical mask!

But wait there's more . . .

After two days, work was convinced that I was faking it, so they scheduled a meeting for Friday morning, and over the phone let me know they expected me to be there. Ever Pollyanna, I assured them that I am *never* sick for very long, and fully expected to be better by Friday.

Friday morning, still sick, I dragged myself into the office. I was informed that the morning meeting would be a conference call held in a teeny tiny utility closet near my department of open cubes. In I went, channeling Brenda Vaccarro during her chain smoking days, and sealed the door behind me. In the utility room were my boss and team lead, cowering behind cupped hands. I thought to myself: this is what justice feels like.

After four hours at work, I went home half day . . . for the second time that week. But it was Friday, and now I'd have the weekend to rest, relax and recover. It would be good to return to work Monday restored . . .

But wait there's more . . .

Friday afternoon, water began draining out of my air conditioner. It was very very hot and humid, and the A/C was pulling buckets of condensate out of the air every hour or so. The draining water would fill a catch basin, trigger a water sensor, and automatically turn off the air conditioning. So sick and covered in flop-sweat, I'd have to crawl out of bed, waddle across the house, empty the bucket, and return to bed . . . every 45 minutes or so . . . through the night.

Saturday morning I called the A/C repairman. I was told he could not see me until after noon. I decided I wanted A/C over the weekend, more than I wanted to go to the doctor. So I canceled my doctor visit and waited for the repair man.

He arrived and told me, for $113, that it was a simply drain clog. He blew high pressure air down the hose, handed me the bill, and was on his way (Let it go. It's not that funny). Ah. Air conditioning. The catch basin continued to fill with water, but I did not have to dump it as often. Things must be improving, right?

But wait there's more . . .

Returning from lunch with my mother and sister on Sunday, I entered my house to find the center of it flooded with water. The kitchen, laundry room, Hall and A/C unit were all standing in an inch of water. The dry wall and cabinets had soaked up the water and wrinkled. They looked like I felt: old - sick - and bitter.

Before you could say "Poor Slob" I was on all fours with a wet vac, sucking the life out of my floorboards. (Let it go. It's not that funny). I turned off the A/C and called the repair company. Now, it's a Sunday afternoon at 3:30. I also have no voice. So wheezing, I call and say "My house is being flooded by the air conditioner!" The first operator, Charlie, hung up on me.

I called back, now furious - - but unable to shout at him. I got operator number two . . . who would be willing to try to leave a message for somebody.

The story is more excrutiating, but I'll cut to the end. At 9:45pm a repair man finally shows up. He actually blows out my hose, instead of just saying that he will (yes, I hear you snickering).

But wait there's more . . .

This morning, before I can leave for work, I push the washer and dryer, and the oven back against the wall. I put down the carpets and arrange the wet shoes to dry. I empty the wet vac and put the towels in the washer. I'm standing in the kitchen, dressed for work . . . . tired from the drama of the weekend . . . but literally thinking to myself "There. That's better."

AT THAT VERY MOMENT, a bottle of Champagne (really Spanish Cava) that had been on the kitchen counter explodes. The cork shoots across the kitchen knocking over the dish rack, and profuse bubbles of champagne shower the kitchen I'd just cleaned the night before.

That is when I lost it. I LOOOOOOOOSSSST IT. Though I have absolutely no voice, I said the "F-word" 8 bajillion times, cursed, broke a commandment, and a small cow came out of me. I named the cow Frederico, and then flogged his little brains out with a champagne saturated dish towell. Then a roll of paper towells. I stripped off my work clothes, and again on all fours (yes, doggy style dam mit), I cleaned the freaking kitchen again!

I'm hoping there is no more. I can't take it. I am full up.