The man who called him a liar at a press conference became a hero.
Variety mag did an interview with Michael Kirk, charter member/writer of Frontline, which you can read here.
Michael Kirk
Excerpts from the interview:
V: “Divided States” helped viewers finally make sense of the last eight years in American politics. Was that the idea?
Kirk: What we’re doing is slowing it all down a little bit for you. Of the 75 things that went across your screen, we’ve picked 12 that are all memorable and all really matter — against a narrative outcome that you know about but didn’t know why it happened.
Longform narrative is a dot-connecting exercise, but it’s more than just connecting them. It’s which ones are you connecting, and what are you revealing about them. Even if you saw the event, it wasn’t in context. You saw it in its own terms — which is a little bit of the trick that Trump does. He’s moving it all so fast that there’s no context for anything that’s happening, so you forget the outrageousness or the importance of what just happened because you’ve moved on to the next thing.
In the moving target that is the media right now, what is real and how do you decide what is real? Because even the outcomes can get smeared, it’s moving so fast.
V: Where do you start?
I pick a character rather than an event. Donald Trump, Kellyanne Conway, David Axelrod, Barack Obama, Hank Paulson. You pick somebody in the middle of a crisis, and you say, “I’m going to stay with him.”
V: It’s amazing how much people were willing to tell you.
Sometimes it surprises even me. We just start talking about it, and many people in the middle of an interview will look at me and say, “You know, I never said that before. … I never really thought about it in that context.”
With somebody like Donald Trump, it might be fun to interview him, but I don’t think I’d get anything that I really want. His method of communicating to the press primarily is the tweets. He doesn’t go into a room and take our questions. If you’re a reporter or a journalistic institution, how do you keep track of that?
Was looking for a photo of thee credit union where I went today to deposit the measley donations we received last night. $5 a head we charge, or $8 per family.
Since the 'bridge was out' Scott routed me to the church. Pouring all the way. I could barely see and sat stiff-jawed clenching the wheel.
Instead I found a pic of young Grace. my granddaughter, at Mom's house.
Wanted to buy Sarah a gift for her birthday and also for the cruise.
Bought her two warm winter hats and a straw hat for our Jazz Cruise in the Carib.
Went on various websites to buy the gift. Finally I was on the J C Penney one. Could not figure out how to proceed b/c they insisted on shipping the goods to my home.
Impossible I told Georgia, who helped me figure things out.
She and her mom live in Columbus OH. They formerly lived in West VA.
I told her about my W VA relatives and told the name of my short story, which she said she'd read. The Last Lawn Party.
I asked Georgia if I should drink coffee today. She wisely asked if anything bad happens when I do so.
No, I said.
She bade me drink it. I haven't yet.
Onkar Sharma of Mumbai, I believe, who runs Literary Yard has not published my story Kafka's Other Woman. Why?
Gonna go to Scott's now to take my second nap of the day, Marce.
Then, per a goal I set last night at our ND meeting, am gonna submit my shtuff to Halcyon. Monique wants the POV in the third person, hence my poem below Clogs.
HOLD ON, WE'LL BE RIGHT BACK
Thank you for your patience.
Please press one. Now press six.
Hello, my name is Sue. Thank
you for your patience. May I
help you?
I state my problem. Sue, from
Virginia, says, We have no
record of your account.
Julien is walking by with
his big dog and
little dog.
Thank you,
Sue," says I,
and hang up. Fast.
Now I dial the line that
was busy early in the
morning.
Says Glenn, you had the
same problem last month
when you were trying to
pay your bills.
Attention like this I do not
need. Why can't he remember
me for my early walks around
the block, or the pink socks
from the Sox Lady in Furlong
that grace my feet?
Or the painted bird houses
out front where the
wrens and sparrows
sing for joy?
***
CLOGS
She's the only one
on the dark street,
roadway slick from
last night's deluge
Fast footfalls behind,
a joggeress passes on
the right.
The Carrs on the high hill
are asleep, not even a night
light in the bathroom,
she's old and better not
fall
The lovely stone house
has a lavender light
shining like The House
of Solomon in the bible
All she could do was stare
as her clogs pattered on
the wet road, she shivered
in the cold, her PJ tops
had rolled up when she
put her coat on
Clogs that swerved on
their own like a drunken
sailor
No cars passed by. She
was safe as she crept close
to a house where a religious
lawn ornament looked like
a urinal
What if she were drunk, but,
no, and our drunkard Billy,
left this earth awhile ago.
She stood in her driveway
watching her breath curve
toward the sky
Then looked up
way way up, where
were they? The constellations
that guided the ancient seafarers
home. As she entered her own.
No comments:
Post a Comment