Monday, May 14, 2018

Chiwan Choi

I have spent most of my adult life living in Los Angeles. I identify as a Los Angeles writer.   Because of this, it is particularly fulfilling to be able to feature artists whose work I feel strongly reflect the character of this city.  Chiwan Choi's work does just that...and then goes beyond.  As a writer and publisher Chiwan has become a fixture in the LA writing scene, through his own powerful work and by putting forth and the work of others through his press Writ Large.  I asked him to write a brief reflection after the photo shoot we did.  


"I will be 48 this year, in 2018. I left Korea when I was 5. It’s weird because when people ask, I tell them Los Angeles is home to me. And I think I mean it when I say this. I really do. But not a day goes by where something or someone, a memory or a movement, a building or a person or the sound of voices or music, a taste of a food, there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t lose track of where I am and my body braces for the relocation to come. I used to say how moving was just tiring. I also say how fun it is to travel back and forth from coast to coast. But the truth is—I will be 48 this year and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered—no, scratch that. I don’t think I’ve ever recognized, therefore ever reconciled with, what leaving Seoul at 5 did to me."

Chiwan Choi is the author of 3 books of poetry, The Flood, Abductions, and The Yellow House. He wrote, presented, and destroyed the novel Ghostmaker throughout the course of 2015. His poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including The New York Times Magazine, ONTHEBUS, Esquire.com, and The Nervous Breakdown.


Chiwan splits his time between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles.  A poem of his appears below.










untitled (work in progress)

today

i cried

for me
because

this thing
of mine
named Body
is broken
and i can’t

remember
when it began                        the first fracture
that gave
birth
to the life
that followed

today

i cried

for the me
in between

strangers on
another
cross country flight
thinking of
father                                     and mother

pointing outside
the small windows
of a pan am
flight
into darkness
telling me

to be happy
of the uncertainty
to come
beyond boundaries
i was too young

to even know
existed.

Monday, May 7, 2018

Kevin Ridgeway


Kevin Ridgeway is a writer with whom I’ve had the honor of sharing a stage with.  He is incredibly talented, prolific and has become a rather recognizable face in the Southern California poetry community.  I was really excited when he agreed to be part of this project.  We agreed that shooting in Whittier, a city he considered a sort of “home town” and part of his essence as a writer would be a good choice.  I asked him to reflect a bit on the experience. 

"I was born in Bellflower and raised in Whittier, CA, at the southern most end of Colima Road.  My life in South Whittier growing up came without kids my age, and I mostly isolated in my own little imaginative world with my mother working, my father in prison, my older brother at a different age than one I'd understand and a great-grandmother as my constant companion.  I watched movies and read obsessively, also pacing back and forth with great intensity as I daydreamed my own works of art.  I left when my mother died and we sold the house in 2015.  My uncle is leaving in the summer for Boise.  My family is no longer in Whittier.  I never belonged here.  Maybe on its theater stage, in its record and bookstore aisles and over at St. Matthias with the misfits, a place Fred Voss wrote about in his poem "Toy Trains & God".  I grew up in Whittier, where I missed out on too much beyond make believe with the community theater, funeral eulogies and a longing for a dream deep inside of me that is far away from the streets of Whittier."  

Kevin Ridgeway was born in Bellflower, CA, and raised in Whittier, CA.  He is the author of six chapbooks of poetry, including All the Rage (Electric Windmill Press, 2013), On the Burning Shore (Arroyo Seco Press, 2014), Contents Under Pressure (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2015).  His latest book is A Ludicrous Split alongside poems by Gabriel Ricard (Alien Buddha Press, 2018).  His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Slipstream, Chiron Review, Nerve Cowboy, Spillway, Plaingsongs, The Cape Rock, San Pedro River Review, Lummox, Misfit Magazine, Suisun Valley Review, The Mas Tequila Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, 48th Street Press, Thirteen Myna Birds, Trailer Park Quarterly and Cultural Weeky, among others.  A poem of his appears below.  









The Original Unsung Hometown Zero 

by Kevin Ridgeway

I daydreamed in the grooves of vinyl LPs scooped up for discounts in the rare expertise of Lovell’s Record Store on Greenleaf Avenue and hid in the claustrophobic stacks of the Little Old Book Shop,terrified during auditions for plays at the community theatre my

brother, Richard Nixon and I all performed in over the decades. BGirls I had crushes on saw me in my underwear behind that stage during quick-change pants-drops in between scenes onstage where they gave me my first kisses. I spent so much of my time up in my head that I forgot to experience Whittier much beyond my role as one of its fallen stars, a drunk in the pews of Saint Matthias Church listening to musicians eulogize the husband of my first AA sponsor the week after my great grandmother died and my father was sentenced to life in prison on the front page of the Whittier Daily News. I whisper Happy Mother’s Day to him as a reminder of his wife's death from inside those St. Matthias pews as I croon a Sympathy for the Devil feared by old John Greenleaf Whittier who came from Haverhill, Massachussetts where my college best friend grew up and where we wrote bad poetry that had nothing to do with two places where I never belonged, wasted

and in search of the eternal poet who writes verse that’s beyond all human comprehension, the one that saves me

in my newfound life as a rolling stone

on my way to finding myself,

whoever that is but he's not in Whittier

or Haverhill. His mind is his hometown.