Troubador Other
February 13th, 2008
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Troubador Other
What is Partnership Publishing?
I've been considering publishing options for a book, and don't want to go down the "vanity" publishing route, nor do I want to employ an agent to secure a full deal. I stumbled across this thing called "Partnership Publishing" on matador (the self publishing branch of troubador) and it seems right for me, but I would like to know if there are any other companies which offer a similar thing, and I want to understand it in more detail before I take any action.
I can't find more details anywhere. Does it have a different name? Is it a new thing? Can you help me?
Sorry to tell you this but Partnership Publishing is just another name for vanity publishing. I have a friend who is trying to get her book published, and I have asked an acquaintance of mine who is fairly high up in Waterstones what Partnership Publishing is, and that was his answer. I believe you can buy an ISBN but I don't know the cost. Huge publishers buy them in large blocks, so if you're sad like me you can look at an ISBN and immediately know the publisher. I honestly don't know which website to recommend, as I have been out of bookselling (with Borders) for a number of years now.
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Live At The Troubador [Digipak] $37.99 Track Listing: 1. Plainsman, The, 2. Sun Never Shines On The Poor, The, 3. Marijuana Australiana, 4. Far From Me, 5. Factory Man, 6. Lucky Old Sun, 7. No Account Cowboy, 8. Song Of The Stars, 9. Ballad Of 1891, The, 10. Darkness In The Valley, 11. I Threw It All Away, 12. End Of The Rainbow, The, 13. Here Come The Cowboys, 14. Town I Loved So Well, The, 15. You Gotta Pay Me If You Lay Me, 16. Walking On A Wire, 17. Forever Young |
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Two-Gun Troubador - B&W $5.99 The third of four Fred Scott Westerns produced by C.C. Burr for Spectrum Pictures, Two Gun Troubadour was rather grim for what was ostensibly a true "horse opera," with the stress squarely on "opera. (Scott was a former light opera baritone.) Fred Dean, Sr. (Scott) is murdered and twenty years later his son (also Scott) is still searching for the killer. Returning to the old homestead from the East, Fred, Jr. assumes the identity of Fred Evans, a singing troubadour and would-be cowpuncher. When a young rancher (James "Buddy" Kelly) is found murdered, Fred is accused of being the killer, a mysterious outlaw wearing a disguise. The real culprit, as it turns out, is childhood enemy Bill Barton (John Merton), who is in league with Fred's evil uncle Kirk Dead (Carl Mathews). With the help of old friend Elmer Potts (comedian Harry Harvey) and pretty rancher Helen Bradfield (Claire Rochelle), Fred gets the goods on Barton and Kirk, proving along the way that Kirk was the man who murdered his father. In between all the murders and mayhem, Scott found time to romance Miss Rochelle and sing Cowboy and the Schoolmarm, Ride, Cowboy, Ride and the title song. Little Billy Lenhart (nicknamed "Bull Fiddle") played Scott as a boy and the son of sidekick Harry Harvey, Harry Harvey, Jr., appeared as a young Bill Barton. ~ Hans J. Wollstein, Rovi |
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Recording King RNJ-25 Century Series Jubilee Troubador Solid Wood Acoustic Guitar Sunburst $779.99 Recording King RNJ-25 Century Series Jubilee Troubador Solid Wood Acoustic Guitar Sunburst |
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Kurzweil Kfp-2S Double 'Piano-Style' Footswitch For Pc1x, Sp Series, And Troubador $59 The Kurzweil KFP-2S Double Footswitch has a stereo TRS plug for dual functionality out of the single 1/4" jack in your Kurzweil PC1X, SP Series, and Troubador keyboards. The Kurzweil footswitch's piano-style pedals offer natural feel. |
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The Troubador Singers - Sing out on the Beach $26.72 Disc 0:No track list available |
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Mikis Theodorakis - Troubador From Greece $27.78 Track Listing: |
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The Comedians of Comedy - Live at the Troubador (DVD) $21.59 Fifteen acclaimed comedians push the boundaries of comedy in this hilarious all-star event, filmed at Los Angeles` famed Troubadour club. Included here are the talents of David Cross, Bob Odenkirk, Sarah Silverman, Blaine Capatch, Zach Galifianakis, Bob Odenkirk, Patton Oswalt, Brian Posehn, Maria Bamford, Jon Benjamin, Eugene Mirman, Jasper Redd, Andy Kindler, Morgan Murphy, Doug Benson, and Dana Gould. |
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The Poet
As the saint stands for memory and experience, the poet stands for desire and language.
The word for the poet is beauty, the pleasing sensual arrangement. The surest way to get a poet to change his behavior is not to quote morals or principles, but to present a better aesthetic whole. If you would reform him into a better world picture, he will be pleased to fit into it at any cost.
The poet, as a man of air, is spirit, as even the written words are still mostly air.
He doesn’t feel desire and joy, so much as flow and place. Nor is he focused on the past or the eternal, as the saint and philosopher are, but upon the future.
Art is the orientor of attitude: this connects expressions and impressions, art and heart.
The poet is the speaker, and thus stands for personality.
Personality is a construction of verbal engines. Language engines, the speaking habits, make the personality. Even when we are alone, we are not alone with our self, but friends with our persona-for ourself.
No man is miserable, or stupid, or ridiculous, only he is caught in his own world. If you want to make him great with your ideas, to shine your light on him, you must learn his language. His language, his ideas, the images that move him, the concepts by which he thinks, need to be learned like any foreign language.
The poet, as personality, is created eternal, constructed immortal. When he touches into history, he moves in two directions: backwards to make way for his existence, and forwards to sustain it.
Study Buddha, Hamlet, Jesus, Wotan, Don Quixote.
Nothing can come out of the artist that is not in the man. The greatest creation of the poet, if a poet arises who can bring it, is to give mankind an infinite onion, a complex symbolic work of such perfection and density that it can be infintely opened like layer so crystal into a fine inwards lens.
Emerson was poet in that his foundational passion was writing, his ambition no less than to “write the Bible of my age” as a replacement for the Hebrew and Greek Bibles, a vision he chose at 21 and held to the end. In this he read Montaign, Plutarch, Plotinus, Goethe, De Steer, and Wordsworth religiously, claiming that without such a daily reading he would have “no daily substance” – nor could he conceive a good man who was not a great reader. He only read books which reported first hand experience – theology and commentaries were straight wrong. Likewise, he read only what “prophesized his own life,” and fed his own writings.
Emerson called poetry “the gai science,” after the troubadors. The poet is the grace of transitions. Let life be utterly chaotic – it only seems so by jars of jerky transitions. Smooth all these transitions into the smooth grace of inevitable symmetry, and the world will be symphony, come what may.
The poet is water, for water desires water, and feeds all life. And so the goddess of poetry is Sophia, Wisdom herself, who is not quite logical philosophy, but merely the idol of logical philosophers.
He reads not to be inspired, but to save time and take up worthy works that send him further in his own direction.
The love of the poet is to use his mind expressively. Mind is symbol, and always a symbol haloed in voice. Whenever we think any idea, somewhere in our conscious or subconscious is the shape of the projector of it; we see somewhere in our mind image of the idea, and around that hear the voice of the idea: no thinking exists without both voice and image (or their corralaries), and insofar as we do not directly experience them, we nevertheless indirectly experience them.
Most people think in sentence fragments accompanied by dim images. This loose thinking allows for a quick flow of thought. To think complete sentences and exact images is slow, clumsy, and wasteful. Autistic people think in visual images, but since they do not bridge unlike images with words, the image itself must summon a similar image (voice is a means of jumping through abstraction before alighting on an another image). A successful autistic will convert abstractions into symbols, so she can use them to leap; some autistic people cannot steel themselves onwards without envisioning with a visual symbol what “onwards” looks like
As the saint knows, the universally loved music, aside from your own mother’s voice, sings from the brook, the river, the waterfall. These all stand in turn for conscious movement, the stream of consciousness. Fluid speech is never hated, is dear as love, as indeed, and as Darwin suspected, music itself evolved from mating calls, and love of complicated mating calls sought for the survival value of a complex and resourceful brain.
For this reason, the Greeks universally trained the freeborn in the guitar (lyre); Homer was not recited without it.
The writer uses nouns, verbs, emphasis and evaluation. As they say: show and tell, describe and evaluate.
The founders of religions, and the writer’s of all scriptures, are poets, never saints. They ransack, steal, break down, revile, and hate the saints. Their genius is marketing a set of documents, creating a word that will encaspulate a type of person, and instantiating this in a group practice.
The philosopher alone sees the big picture. A hero is no reformer without the big picture, for both the hero and the saint can get overly focused on a detail unworthy of such attention and worry. Augustine with his pears. He was obsessed with confessing and analyzing his theft of pears – though you think the saint would be more honest to his actual sins, of which pear theft was not even among them. By focusing on a nothing sin, he yet committed the greatest intellectual crimes in Christiandom. This is the nature of the hero too, who makes other men into villians (a villianous act itself) by bending the fate of the world to his obsession with one fine point. The philosopher alone sees the widest view of the world, history, and mankind. The poet instead focuses on instances of the whole, and is unique of all of them in capturing the whole in an instance. A single sonnet might capture his whole world. The poet does not see the whole, but knows how to see the whole through an instance. In this he is almost scientific. The poet is in fact scientific in that he knows how to analyze the instances by his vision of the whole.
The hero is the details man, a practical man of action, the most practical of all of them. But he mistakes himself when he ignores the big picture.
The poet jumps rope. The rope loops above the mind into language, and then below the mind into the “metaphor mind” of the heart – dodging completely the critical scissoring of the mind, so that poetry can be spoken in a trance – and the best poets know not what they do.
The poem itself is white light, the one light that contains all the others, for though music is called the purist art – its relation to the spoken word being ignored – poetry is the thickest art, and thus the representation of artifice alltogether: it is musical, it paints a picture in the imagination, it sculpts an image through line breaks, and unlike music, it is logical, metaphorical, and a form of philosophy. As philosophy is the prototype of all the sciences of learning, poetry is the prototype not only of all the arts, but as well the prototype of philosophy itself, in its most sublime form, the sensual – indeed, all form is at last sensual.
Truth is not beauty, but truth does well to become beauty or it will hardly be received. Like a great “A,” the two start from different places, but meet for marriage in the heavens.
The artist does not create the work of art, he creates through the work of art, he makes heroes of men, and feeds the minds of philosophers and saints. Who would even know to be a Saint if some poet did not invent a scripture? What hero would know the honorable if some poet did not amber the honor in a noble verse? Therefore, the poet of all men stands for high culture, and the greatest creations a culture are its arts, and of arts, its books, and of books, its poems. All the rest resolves from this glorious tension.
Nature is mirror to the self. But the common man does not see this, and therefore, the poet must create the mirror obvious through the lens of the art work. Men contemplate art works in a museum only in order to contemplate the rest of the world through that lens ever after. Just as a worker does his vacation right when he learns by it how to make his life a permanent vacation, even when returned to work, and no yoga is worthe the stretch if it refuses to melt the rest of life into yogic meditation.
The poet sees differently, being hypersensetive, strange, twisted, and wonderfully complex. The saint wishes for simplicity, but the poet plants infinite onions, and will not be trifled over simple definitions and easy ideas. Leave that to the philosopher, who studies like hell in order to make a definition everybody can easily grasp and agree on. The poet would also like to be memorably, but also as troubling as a perpetual riddle. Does not his question mark curl like a spiral?
The art work works on you, forms and informs you, uses beauty to open you to a new truth. For beauty is seduction, all beauty is seduction, so know what you are being seduced into … for there are yet deadly beauties in the world. The critic, unfortunately, is too much the philosopher, ignore him. Be instead the philistine, for the Philistine is the one who trusts his tastes without asking for guides. He does not say “Praise God” but says, “Let God praise himself! Only then will the music begin.” The critics murder you for blasphemying their faceless art.
The only purpose of beauty is to pull a strong focus from your mind, without the usual criticisms, to allow a power to enter you. Truth also requires intense focus, and must be analyzed, but beauty must not be analyzed, except by aspiring artists.
Art does not wish to teach you any truth, but to train you to see and trance you to walk. The best art unifies your goals in the direction it desires – for the work of art is the objectified will of the artist. The art work is tangible will over human beings. The technology of the hero is tangible will over matter – or even of human bodies, but not what is man in human, the manic power of measuring – the mind itself. The mind can receive no truth but through the effort of analysis. To be moved so as to want to follow and do, the man must be fascinated.
We love because the poets taught us how. There are no two ways about this: romance was invented by poets – troubadours with their Gai Science affect and infect all men. We are all Don Quixote, not only the obvious descendents such as Madame Bovary, but every man and woman who cares for love picks up these words “love” “Roman Love” “desire, passion, lust, ecstasy” because the poems capture the beauty of them, invent the beauty rather, and inspire us to follow them in our own lives, to judge our own affairs, our own marriage, by these standards – as if they were something eternal and absolute. That is the great beautiful lie of the poet, and why poets are not philosophers, why beauty is not truth, because the poem tells you best what you desire to hear – though you didn’t know of this desire until it was spoken to you.
They all love, all the types. The heroic love is a love of works – “charity” – or more intimately, the kind deeds, working service, accepting a profession and supporting, defending, fighting for the beloved. And it also means making her work – for service also means enslaving others occasionally. One serves mankind best by making mankind also serve you – this they leave out of the catachism: “The greatest among you will sometimes be a servant of all, and just as often enslave others by charm and strength.”
The hero loves heroically, with brave fighting, or more likely, strong and passionate labor. The poet otherwise: he is songs, poems, romantic gestures, romances itself.
The philosopher loves as Plato recommended, like the hindus: first sexually, and then loving the sexual beauty in all mankind … unsexually … and then loving the beauty as a pure form in itself, and humankind as its nearest shadow.
The saint loves mystically, is only charitable when he dons the sandals of the hero, is better at internalizing his beloved, nor does he poeticize such a one. I would say the saint loves with his body – if this could be believed! – like a mammal, but perhaps our image of the saint has wandered too long among lambs. The saint as we live him is the flesh affectionate.
About the Author
Grad Student in English Literature and Rhetoric, and author of three books, including The Perfect Idius, due to be published spring 2010.
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