Stan Rogal : This Is Not a Review

(I Repeat, This Is Not a Review)

 

 

 

 

Imagine my (shocked) reaction when I opened the mail today and discovered a chapbook dedicated to my pal Stuart Ross. I thought, ohmygod, can it be that Stu somehow passed quietly into the great beyond without my being aware, or what? Certainly, I wouldn’t expect national news media headlines, but a discreet email or two from fellow scribes offering basic information and condolences, yes? Quickly checking the initial bio, I was relieved to find that he was still being described in the present tense, which gave some assurance that he was, in fact, alive and well and living in Cobourg (if these aforementioned conditions are not [haha] considered somehow mutually exclusive or hotly antithetic or figuratively oxymoronic or — at the very least — up for friendly casual debate).   

          A sub-title for the chapbook read: “an assemblage of writing in response to the work of Stuart Ross.” Use of the word “work,” I suspect, to mean not only his creative output as a writer, but also his place as a driving force within the CanLit scene as a publisher, promoter and all-around bon vivant. How totally far-out, exciting and truly un-Canadian, what? To celebrate a writer/poet before their expiry date.

I checked out the contributor names and recognized several, first and foremost Gary Barwin and Lillian Necakov, both of whom have been close buds with Stuart since Jesus was in knee pads, as well as long-time movers and (bone)shakers in their own right. Also, the ubiquitous rob mclennan, who certainly does his best to keep the faint pulse of literary activity alive and humming in this dim backwoods country.

          I wondered how each contributor would approach the “work” and “persona” of “Stuart Ross,” and was suddenly struck by an irritating (“painful” would go too far) memory. I’d put together a collection of poems and sent the manuscript off to a reputable publishing house. Many of the poems were dedicated to other poets — mostly dead — and while one reader/editor praised the book, the other felt that the dedicated poems were not up to the standard of the original writers, so, the manuscript was rejected. Well, I’d like to say “no shit Sherlock” but that would mean admitting to trying to replicate said dead poets, which I wasn’t. I mean, if I wanted to replicate Stevie Smith, I’d be smarter (and much more postmodern, à la Kenneth Goldsmith, say) to simply type out a copy exactly of “Not Waving but Drowning,” sign my name, mail it in, and be done with it. No, these were homages, tributes, at best, written in my own inimitable rudimentary hunt and peck style.  

          Sigh. Anyway, sorry about the slight detour into personal rant territory. Maybe, in truth, the experience was more “painful” than I care to admit. I wouldn’t doubt it. Well, fuck you reader/editor, and the horse you rode in on! I’ve been rejected by better for less, just so you know. Wait! Did I say that out loud? Nota bene: “I hope no one takes what I just said the wrong way. I was kidding. I didn’t mean what I wrote, or what I said. At this stage in my life I don’t want to make any more unnecessary enemies.” So said Roberto Bolaño, and who am I to argue with the infamous dead? Mea culpa, mea culpa. Take a freaking pill, Rogal, and chillax for godsakes.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the contributors — the subject connected, somewhat, I hope, dear reader, with the earlier rant [and trusting these fine folks don’t suffer a similar reproach], so as to offer a grain of method to the madness — and how would they approach the “work” and “persona” of Stuart Ross, meaning, how can one compose a tribute to someone without “sampling,” without “borrowing,” without employing some of the characteristics and/or traits and/or history and/or idiosyncracies of that individual? Especially an individual as recognizable and — shall I say it? “idiosyncratic” — as Stuart Ross — an admitted absurdist/surrealist-leaning writer who performs in a theatrically calm, authoritative, humourous, and highly infectious voice and manner. Basically, one can’t, and why would one? I mean, to be entirely honest, if I don’t see at least one poodle or squirrel or hamburger or sentimental portrait of Coburg show its funny face in this collection; if I don’t get a semblance or glimmer or taste of the mad-hatter Stuart Ross mind and voice, I’ll be sorely disappointed.

Flipping the pages, my eye and ear are caught variously and I realize I have no cause for concern, these friends and cohorts of Stuart have provided ample touchstones while (no surprise) maintaining their own specific identities and styles.

Congratulations Stuart! And recently turned sixty, as well? Hell, you’re still a young’un with many good years ahead of you, my friend — You Exist. Details Follow — I’m sure you’ll continue to make full use of them.      

 

 

 

 

Stan Rogal hangs his hat in the quaint borough known as Toronto. He is the author of several books, the most recent — a novel titled Darkness at the Edge of Town — will be launched virtually in April. He has high hopes that the launch will be successful, in that it gets off the ground in one piece. Stuart Ross once described him as a man-about-town and bon vivant. Judith Fitzgerald labeled him an intellectual redneck. The truth likely lies somewhere in between. In the words of Gertrude Stein: I am I because my little dog knows me. What greater recognition can one aspire to?