Suitcase of Chrysanthemums contributor Richard Loranger reflects on the second stop on great weather for MEDIA’s 2018 west coast tour - Stories Books in Echo Park, Los Angeles.

great weather for MEDIA continued its rampage and seduction of Southern California with a ravishing reading at the storied Stories Books in Echo Park on Tuesday. Here are the facts-acts-cts, not necessarily in order of occurrence.

I’ve been staying in Echo Park for three days, and have been trying to find the echoes. Diligently. I’ve been unsuccessful. But it’s a damn nice park.

To start the show, I threw myself into a meat grinder for the sake of evolution, screaming GIMME SOME MORRA THAT BEER!

THREE DAYS EARLIER… My mortification began just as I arrived in Venice to commence the great weather for MEDIA West Coast tour. I stepped out of my rental car and my pants fell down.

Daniel Dissinger told us silence where olives grow, needs to see this perfect rest and scream, a vast pool of artifact to fix this compass, a childish gesture, not silence, lovely.

I’d recently bought a new belt, one of those newfangled notch belts, and wore it for the trip. As so many products now are, it was poorly manufactured, and the buckle came detached from the belt itself.

Yan Sham-Shackleton at the exact spot sad over an actor with each inhale, heydays passed behind the wheel of a car, dragging the vowels out real slow, feeling a pang, allowing her body to react.

I tried fixing it several times over the next couple of days, with jerry-rigs and odd modifications, to no avail – my pants continued to drop without warning, anytime, anywhere.

Daniel Yaryan smacks the air, moonbound dreaming on swings, becoming disappearing acts, serving up the mad expression spinning clocks of lost souls, struggling with holy contemplation snapping his habit.

Finally in desperation I went into a thrift store with my broken pride and broken belt, and the sweet manic owner insisted on selling me a scuffed, beat up old belt for ten dollars, to the point that she polished and buffed it – with black shoe polish! – on her knees on the tile floor for a good fifteen minutes. How could I refuse?

Christian Georgescu doesn’t touch the mic, has appeared, has not submitted, did not spit, does not like this life one bit, is not at home, won’t belong, is porous, is at the top of the hour, would like to welcome you, Happy Face.

Later that day, on my way to the Echo Park reading, I peeked into C & I Clothing on Sunset Boulevard, which offered beautiful new handmade leather belts for $20. The older gentleman who owned the store was incredibly gracious, and his craftmanship superb. How could I refuse?

Jane Ormerod has nothing to take, twelve seeds, would suspend all words, is the canary in the suitcase, wins a porcelain horse, writes a love note with fingers crossed, appears an arm, born in the snake year, a new home appears, light, no light, water cannot turn back, there is the light growing.

Now I find myself traveling with three belts – one new and defective, one old and bootblacked, one handmade and handsome, and therein, I’m beginning to suspect, bide the echoes.

Doug Knott was not in a plane crash even though Jane told everyone that he was, on the freeway, an oil fire, bent like a wild tooth, threw a rod, mass of gray lizards extended into the hot clear air, hotter than hot can be, slowly like Mephistopheles pulls the pin, listening for the tiptoe of the heart.

And so we tiptoe toward Portland – brash, bepanted, laden with chrysanthemums.

Next stop Friday October 26th at The Waypost, Portland OR

Poetry and prose submissions for our 2019 collection are now open.

If you liked reading this tour blog, you might enjoy Richard Loranger’s monthly posts at www.richardloranger.com.