Lucy In the Sky With Darrell: Actualism Part 2:

The Story of Actualism

In Iowa City

A Prose History

Of

Poetry City

To read the other ACTUAL chapters, click here

Introduction

On October 10, 1975, I wrote a poem on a sheet of paper wrapping a city block. Forty-seven businesses gave their permission to cover their torefronts for the poem. Numerous actors and performers accompanied me around the block--Duck’s Breath Mystery Theater, The Sugar Plum Fairies, The Eulenspiegel Puppet Theater, and many others. As the day progressed, I knew that the greatest marathon of all was unrolling around the block, waiting for words, and waiting for a surpirse. Now, 26 years later, I realize how right I was. So many things happened during those wonderful, irreplaceable hours! In the days after the marathon, I wrote--in marathon fashion--a memoir about the event itself. It was a living dream show. I wanted to capture it on paper. Otherwise, it would it sink in the quicksand of consciousness till reaching oblvion. 7-30-11

From July 4 to Halloween, 2010, I wrote a 10,000-page poem as part of an exhibit celebrating Iowa City’s designation as a City of Literature. I titled it “Poetry City Marathon” after the original of 1975. At the end of the “Prose History,” there are several news articles about the guy who tore the poem down.

Part I

WELCOME TO POETRY CITY

On October 9, 1975, I had planned to write a poem around an entire city block in downtown Iowa City. The paper, 16 inches wide by however many feet long, was to be attached to the buildings on the block bounded by Dubuque St., Iowa Ave., Clinton St., and Washington St. I was to begin at noon and write till 6 pm.

I woke up at 8 am to my alarm clock after about 4 hours of sleep. Last night when I came home there was a note on my door: “David--Jeannie, Gil & I drove up--See you here about 9 am--if you have to go anywhere I’ll see you at 11 am at the Methodist Church--Mom”. Since I’d planned to meet Pat at Hamburg Inn #1 at 8:30 to get the last things together for the marathon and the Joyce Holland reading, I figured I’d leave a note on my door explaining that I’d have to meet them at the church. As I was getting ready to leave, there was a knock at the door.

“Hi, Dave. Did you just get up?”

“Oh, yeh, hi Mom, c’mon in.”

She came in and sat down while I finished tying my shoes. Jeannie and Dad were downstairs. We went down to meet them and the four of us drove over to Pat’s. After picking her up, we drove out to the Maid-Rite Corner for breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, orange juice, coffee, etc. My Dad paid for it all. Oh, we’d run into Paul Ingram and he came with us.

“I’ve still got to get some things done before I go to class at 11:00.”

“Jeannie and I can meet you somewhere before class.”

“I’ll be going back right after breakfast. I’ve still got to work today,” said my Dad.

“What time should I be at Lind’s?” Paul asked.

“Mom, you can meet me at Lind’s at a quarter to 11. And, Paul, if you could get to Lind’s at 11:30, Steve Toth’ll meet you there to begin taping up the paper. I should be there pretty soon after that, since I’ll call off the class at 11:30.”

My Dad dropped us off at my place, and then he left to drive back to St. Louis. My Mom and Jeannie and Pat went upstairs with me. Paul left for the time being. After we dropped off the luggage, we went back downstairs and out into the slightly cool, brisk day.

“It looks like it’s going to be a great day. No rain, not too much wind. I hope it stays that way.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Pat. “I prayed to St. Jude for a good day.”

“My Mom and Jeannie left to walk around town window-shopping. Pat and I bought some film, a balloon, and other supplies. We carried the remaining props and equipment from my place and hers to Lind’s Art S
Supply Store on Dubuque St. where the marathon was going to start and finish. When we had most of the preliminaries completed, I started walking to the Methodist Church for class. Then, half-way there, I remembered I was supposed to meet my Mom and Jeannie at Lind’s. I turned back. As I was about to cross the street a half block from Lind’s, I saw my Mom coming the other way.

“
I almost forgot to meet you,” I said.

Jeannie was a few feet behind her. The three of us went to class. Alice, Fanny, Elizabeth Countryman, Barry Nickelsberg (of the Iowa Arts Council) and Jackie (also Arts Council) were waiting for us.

“Howdy!” I said. “I see everything’s already set up. Today’s meeting will be short, as I said earlier, because of the Marathon.”

I noticed that three class-members were wearing their Poetry City, U.S.A. Buttons. I gave Barry and Jackie buttons, and they put them on. Then, after a couple more class members arrived and sat at the round table that we usually used and the non-members sat on a nearby church-pew, I handed out the Poetry-Sheet. It was a 3-page multilithed worksheet containing pooems by the class and as a special for the marathon, a copy of The Muscatine Mummy, which was the first public poem written by Dr. Alphabet (August, 1974 in Muscatine, Ia., during the Great River Days Festival).

I introduced my Mom and my sister to the class and Barry and Jackie, so the first few minutes of this meeting involved general conversation. Shortly, we began reading the poems on the Poetry Sheet. More people arrived as the class progressed. We took turns reading The Muscatine Mummy, each person reading about 5 lines. At 11:30, I had to end the class.

“It’s time to go. I”ve got to get reading for the Marathon. I hope everyone will come by later on. Bye.”

My Mom and Jeannie stayed to talk to the people in class and to the Arts Council people. Barry followed me from the lounge (where the class is held) to the lunchroom to tell me that the had been talking to everyone about writing letters to the Council on Aging in order to demonstrate the success of the poetry program so it could continue beyond November.

“They said they’d write, but be sure to remind them again Tuesday. They can give you there letters by Thursday, and you can send them to me so I’ll get them by Friday.”

“Okay,” I replied.

*

At Lind Art Supply, I met Paul out in front where he’d been pacing around looking for Steve Toth to help with the taping of the paper.

“What time’s Steve supposed to be here?” he asked.

“11:30, I thought.”

We went into Lind’s. Jeannie Scott and Jacquee Dickie were waiting inside to help.

“Great! Now there are enough people to begin the taping. Just get it started down to the corner, to the Best Steak House. When people see the paper on the buildings, they’ll start wondering what’s going on. Then Joyce’ll begin the Marathon at noon with her reading. By the way, where is Joyce?”

“She hasn’t been here yet,” said Paul.

I went downstairs to the basement of Lind’s to change into my secret identity of Dr. Alphabet. The costume was down there waiting for me, as were the paper, matchbooks, buttons, wooden nickels, and other paraphernalia to be used during the day. I slipped my alphabet slacks on just as Renee, one of the Lind’s crew, came down the steps.

“Those are nice pants,” she said. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

“I painted them,” I replied.

Now I began to feel the nervousness and stage-frightfulness that’d appeared previously as a muted paranoia. Now I knew there was no turning back. I wondered whether people would enjoy the outfit and the writing, or whether they would react in one of many possible negative ways: “He’s nuts!” “Show-off!” “Publicity gimmick!” “That ain’t poetry!” I wondered if they’d think it was just a joke or a trick or a ridiculous idea. Why deny it? I felt on the spot, and it was a spot that I’d created for myself. As one of my friends had put it, “You’ve created a monster that’s going to take you along for the ride.” [In my son Danny’s introduction to the current Poetry City Marathon, he compares the writing to Frankenstein’s monster.] At least that made it seem beyond my control, which meant that I didn’t have to really worry about it anymore. Whatever happened would happen no matter what I did. (Though fleetingly the thought crossed my mind that I could just split town and see what happened by calling someone long distance. Not seriously, though. It was just one of those Mark Twain fantasies.) On the other hand, the people at Lind’s, the workers and the friends who showed up, seemed so enthusiastic and positive about the coming event that I’d begun feeling much better about it myself.

Renee went back upstairs. I put on my alphabet shirt. Joyce came down.

“That looks great!” I said.

“Should I wear it with the top out or in?”

“Out. That way it covers up the lacing and makes the letters flow together better.”

We were talking about her tan and brown alphabet blouse and skirt. She’d been up at her placing changing into it. She took a pair of white socks out of a sack she had with her and handed them to me. I put them on, then put on my alphabet tennis shoes. We were both ready.

“Let’s go. Have you got everything?” I asked, knowing full well that at times as complex as that the answer would inevitably be no even if it seemed to be yes.

“Yes.”

Joyce was still getting ready, so I carried one of the boxes upstairs. At the top of the steps (or somewhere--this is one of those memories that doesn’t exactly fit into the time sequence as I remember it--in the excitement of the day, there are a number of mixed-up memories, though they did somehow fit together correctly when they first happened) someone told me to hurry.

“C’mon, Dr. Alphabet, there’s a huge crowd and some TV men outside waiting for you.”

I chuckled and said, “Oh, yeh, sure.” I thought whoever it was must’ve been joking because just fifteen minutes ago there weren’t more than five or six people out in front of the story. That was another thing that I’d been worried about. What if no one showed up, or, to paraphrase an old anti-war saying, “What if they threw a poetry marathon and nobody came?” I walked over to the front door and peeked out.

“Holy cow! There’s--”

I raced downstairs to get Joyce.

“--a hundred or more people in front of Lind’s. And one of them’s got a TV camera. Let’s get goin’!”

We carried some paper and the boxes of Joyce’s reading equipment upstairs. Joyce was getting her stuff in order. I hated to see the people outside waiting. I was afraid they’d go away, so I picked up the alphabet cane, put on the alphabet tophat, and walked outside dressed in letters from head to toe. I didn’t realize what I was doing or what I would do. I stopped on the front steps. I looked at all the people--many of them I recognized.

“Nice day for a poetry marathon!” I yelled.

I walked down toward them a little. The paper was taped to the buildings all the way from Lind’s door to the corner about 100 feet away. I lifted up the alphabet cane. At the tip of it I’d taped a blue wide-tipped felt pen to create, as Joyce put it, a “writing crop.” I took the cap off the felt tip pen as though I were going to begin the writing. I held it in front of me for a second, then put the cap back on.

“Not yet,” I said to the people. “I’ll be back soon.”

I turned around and walked back inside. Joyce still wasn’t ready, and Paul Ingram was wondering when he should announce here. I was getting worried that we were wasting too much time.

“Don’t rush,” said Joyce. “Remember what you said: Let them wait.”

“Yeh, but I didn’t know they were out there.”

“Where’s the flag?” said Joyce.

“Right here.”

“And the sparkler?”

I picked up the flag and handed it to her. I grabbed the envelope that contained the sparkler and took it out. She needed both these things for her first performance, The Alphabet Anthem. She laid the flag down and took the sparkler.

“Where’s some matches?”

She found a book of matches on the counter and lit one. Holding it up to the sparkler, she began trying to light it.

“Okay, Paul, go introduce her.”

He went out as she continued trying to light the sparkler.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Paul said, “To begin the poetry marathon, Joyce Holland is going to sing the Alphabet Anthem. She’s almost ready to join you out here on stage. Joyce, are you coming?”

(Again, to be honest, I don’t remember exactly what Paul said, but that’s the basics.)

Joyce was still trying to light the sparkler. Ironically, she had been worried about getting a sparkler that didn’t work. I’d told her that some friends had given it to me just after the Fourth of July, and I thought for sure it would work.

“This thing isn’t even burning, much less shooting off sparks.”

At last it began glowing at the tip.

“Oh, no,” I laughed. “This isn’t a sparkler. It’s a punk. It won’t do anything but burn slowly. That’s what you use to light fire-crackers with.”

Paul had walked back in.

“Tell ‘em she’s coming out now, Paul.”

He went back outside.

“Here she is: Joyce Holland!”

(While this might sound like a confusing beginning to the day, I doubt if it appeared so to the outside people.)

Joyce picked up the unfurled alphabet flag. It was a special flag that I’d prepared in the few days preceding this event. I’d painted the letters of the alphabet on an artist’s canvas that I’d gotten from Lind’s. The canvas was gessoed on one side, thus white, and natural on the other, thus off-white. On the white side, I’d painted a large ABC in the center, the A blue, the B red, the C green. They measured about 5 inches tall. Around them I’d painted a double circle of the rest of the alphabet, in letters about 1 to 2 inches high. The canvas measured abouto 3 feet wide by 2 tall. On the off-white side I’d painted a large XYZ in the center surrounded by a double circle of the remaining letters of the alphabet, similar to the front side. The flag was tacked to a mop-handle that’d been spray-painted in blue, red, silver, and a couple other colors, to create a special mist-colored flag-staff. Anyway, it looked official. Joyce walked out holding it high in the air.

“A-ay bee cee dee eee!” she began singing to the tune of the national anthem, then stopped and spoke to the audience. “It’s a grand old flag. C’mon everybody. You know the words. Sing along with me, to the tune of a song you all know. A-ay bee cee dee eee!....”

It was amazing. The crowd actually sang along, and very patriotically, too. Paul Ingram’s voice in the crowd really helped Joyce to carry the people through the song. He and she were leading them from A to Z, and they enjoyed it! What a way to start the day, this day in particular!

I stood inside the store looking out the doorway. Some of the people could see me, but most didn’t know I was standing there. Everyone’s eyes were on Joyce. She looked like a visitor from another dimension, one in which letters of the alphabet were more than symbols that united to form words, one in which letters were individual bursts of beauty that could also form words to achieve a different level of beauty, the topmost level being poetry in its many forms. She also looked like a cheerleader from the 1950’s. The skirt she wore was somewhat short, like that of a high-school pom-pom girl at a football game. Surprisingly, her outfit was storebought, unlike mine, which was handpainted like the alphabet flag. She’d gotten the skirt and blouse at Seiffert’s, a clothing shop located on the very same block that I’d be writing around.

“Today’s poetry marathon is being brought to you by Lind Art Supplies, Catherine’s Ltd., Dirty Doug’s, Mama’s, The Best Steak House,…” she recited in the kind of voice that a cirus barker might use to introduce a family of acrobats and/or freaks. The list went on and on--45 places in all--to include every business around which the poem could be written, the businesses that had given permission (except for 3 or 4 second-floor places) for me to attach paper to their store-fronts. She ended with, “…and by the one who will do the writing, Dr. Alphabet!”

The audience had begun to laugh about half-way through the list. The longer the list grew, the more enjoyable and immense the actual “sponsorship” of the poem seemed to be. The idea that no poem had evber had so many businesses behind it--until this poem.

“My next work is called The Real Thing,” she said as she lifted a can of Coke out of a paper bag.

Smiling at the audience, she began to shake the can up and down. Suddenly, people began to move away or to get up from where they were sitting, as though they thought she was going to splash them with the fizzed soda. In response, Joyce jumped off the step in front of Lind’s door and ran toward the audience! They jumped back even further! What a fantastic cat and mouse game! As though the can were a bomb of some sort. Moments later, Joyce returned to the doorway with the well-shook can of pop.

“Would anyone like a Coke?” she asked.

Everyone laughed; no one took her up on the offer.

“My next poem is a tribute to Marcel Duchamp, who recited it himself in the ‘30’s or ‘40’s. It’s the letter W, and it’s pronounced, wuh. Here’s how it goes: Wuh. Wuh. Wuh. Wuh! Wuh! WUH! WUH! WUH!...”

She pronounced the sound wuh beginning fairly softly and increased to a shout, then down again to a whisper. She sounded like a wild animal more than I’d thought she would. It lasted shorter than I’d figured, too. But the audience liked it, as with all the poems that she did, so no sense in repeating that observation anymore!

“Next I’d like to recite some oldies but goodies. The first poems are from my Opus series. I’ll do three of them: Opus 1…. 1; Opus 5…. 5; Opus 9 and Opus 12…. 21.”

At this point, Marge and Renee, who work at Lind’s, were thoroughly enjoying Joyce’s performance. But Marge didn’t like the view from inside, so she suggested to Renee that they go out at the next chance.

“This one is called UBBLE SNOP, a Ballad: Uv cabble toyoc fezt yab sig fovulatic: etc.”