Adultish

After Glow

2011-05-15T12:20:00.003-04:00

Have you ever read a book so good that you read it slowly, to stave off the end? I used to work at a bookstore in Denver and one of my co-workers was reading through Patrick O'Brian's seafaring novels and he slowed it down around book seventeen or something just so he wouldn't finish reading the set during his lifetime. My friend was really let down the day Patrick O'Brian died. (By the way, these books make a nice gift for Father's Day. There are about twenty-one in the set, so your dad will be pretty taken care of for a long time, unless you double-up the books).

I recently slowed down while reading Radioactive by Lauren Redniss. The book is part biography of Marie Curie, the story of radioactivity, and art book. Did you know Curie was from Poland? Her real name was Marya.

You can smell the ink as you turn the pages. You know how it will all end, that Marie Curie changed science forever, that it killed her, that it continues to be dangerous. To tell the story Redniss created a delightful typeface, which gives the book the appearance of being written by hand, a re-telling in a very physical sense. She named the typeface after Eusapia Palladino, who held seances Marie and Pierre Curie attended. The story of someone's life is never a simple one and Redniss elegantly balances many components of Marie Curie's professional and personal history. The one of scientific discovery. Marie Curie: "It was obvious that a new science was in the course of development." The one of love. The one of triumph. (Marie Curie was named the first female professor to teach at the Sorbonne). The one of atomic properties. How they glowed at night. Their poisonous effects.

Throughout the book I was very attached to the idea of a blurred line between science and magic. Because Radium glowed, Marie Curie was awed by it. In the lab, it was something special. Curie wrote, "If a radioactive substance is placed in the dark in the vicinity of the closed eye or of the temple, a sensation of light fills the eye." In this context, seeking atomic energy and creating it, at least for the Curies, was spiritual. Mystical fusion was the thing that sort of kept them going. In Radioactive, Radium has nearly three sides: the mystical glowy side, the toxic side, and the healing one. It's still used as a cure for cancer. Even though exposure to it is so incredibly harmful. Pierre Curie died so young. Marie Curie followed. Her daughter and grandchildren also died of complications related to radiation exposure.

So are we supposed to celebrate the discovery of Radium or not? Are we supposed to answer? Redniss's book delicately and pointedly addresses the art of art, of pursuit, how earthly things seem so unearthly. Non-fiction doesn't have to be boring or terrible and Redniss's unique and investigative technique of conveying biography makes this book sit well with writers such as Dava Sobel, Rick Pearlstein, Lawrence Weschler, and Karen Elizabeth Gordon. I recommend reading this one slowly.

What Could Possibly Happen Next

2011-05-02T14:12:00.005-04:00

According to the BBC and TPM, president Obama has said that, due to the death of Osama Bin Laden, the world is now a safer and better place. How does he come by way of this knowledge? For fear of retaliation, I don't feel safe. For wrongfully invading Iraq, I don't feel safe. For the cruel and harsh treatment of detainees, I don't feel safe. For the pillaging of the environment, the world is not a better place. I don't feel safe from toxic waste and harmful chemicals. A for-profit healthcare system does not make me feel I'm receiving better care. As local police budgets are being slashed, I don't feel safer on the streets. As our infrastructure such as bridges and highways are not being properly cared for, I don't feel safe traveling on them. The continuation of drilling for oil and for natural gas via hydraulic fracturing does not lead me to believe that my tap water is always safe to drink. The proliferation of GMO food does not make me feel my food is always safe to eat.

I am deeply troubled by Hillary Clinton's statement to al-Qaeda members: you can make the choice to abandon al-Qaeda and participate in a peaceful political process. Which one is she talking about? The one where the government invests in its people over business interests? Where government diplomats talk to and reconcile with enemies? Is a peaceful political process devoid of secrets?

When I worked on a farm one summer, the farmers said they don't shoot the coyotes at first glance because bigger ones move in and fight for the territory. To the White House complex: job well done. You perpetuate that which former president Bush started. Secrets, blame, torture, hunting people in the night. This is what our government is now. There is no question that I grieve for those who suffered in the attacks on September 11, 2001. I have also lost a family member at the hands of another, but even though I grieve every day of my life, I know that irrational actions will never repair the loss.

Obama says, "Today we are reminded that as a nation there is nothing we can't do." It's true. We sure do know how to kill. It is sad that Obama's patriotism is not generated by having the best education system, by having the cleanest subway cars, by supporting the arts. Do our political leaders know how to invest in energy resources safe for the environment? Do we know how to rehabilitate people who break the law? These things seem to be a bit of a mystery.

A Poetry Book Club's Response to The Descent of Alette by Alice Notley

2011-04-20T14:45:00.004-04:00

I'll tell ya it's 1986 New York City subways.

Responding to the Vietnam War.

Question of responsibility: killing, having to kill. Fairness. Having never given birth. What do you understand.

Subway v. Metro. AIDS era. Angels in America.

THE QUOTATIONS. Speech weakened. Perpetual overturning of thoughts. Breaks. Makes you pay attention. Storyish, narrative driven but not building. Seeing in dreams and images. Descent of Inanna. To build this book? Cave or Subway? Writing consciousness, a story "told." Unfolding in the process. Space to fill in.

Poems as poems. Descend down them. Each poem is its own unit. Lyric poetry accumulative. Snakelike in form, going forward, looking back. Track those threads: light, birds, form, darkness. Inferno closure is important.

We realize our own strength when we're powerless.

Visuals driving the action. Action v. image. Each encounter, action.

Each subway car is a new world. Levels of consciousness. Feminist revelations.

Chronological or not.

Allegory of the cave.

Catholic/Christian Paradise. Adamless Paradise. Snakes. Enticed by serpents and drugs. Adamless = female snake. DNA helix.

p. 19--embracing the darkness. Darkness as shedding the body, womb, blood, earthiness.

Finding the form The Tyrant doesn't own. The Tyrant isn't a person but a consciousness. Tyrant as history. Masculine ideas of history. Having never given birth. What do you understand. The female Oedipal story.

Fire baby. Vision seeing this happen. Vietnam.

Light Made New. Pound Plug!

Literary Function. Will voice state of affairs. Are we writing answers to questions. Or writing the state of affairs. Is this ending hopeful?!? Triumph over the message. Changing the way we think. Imagination changes the status quo. Works of art v. mapping out the future. Constraints in our existence. Breaking through state of affairs.

Owl: good daddy v. bad daddy.

A Poetry Book Club's Response to Spring and All by William Carlos Williams

2011-04-20T14:19:00.001-04:00

In control, out of control. The idea of the thing. The thing itself. Cutting himself off.

What is the experiment. Connection between poetry and prose. Wanting you to connect it to the poetry. Poems and prose working ON you.

Doing nothing. Imagination without emotional connection. Everyday objects. Artist and the farmer. One thing couched in another.

Red Wheelbarrow: shocking "in here." What does depend on it?

What does it mean for poetry to imitate life. Writing a poetry he can't quite write yet. Supreme importance. Nameless spectacle. Moment of cleavage.

Emerson, Nietzstche. Old turning over the new. Romanticism. Something lost. Disorganization principle. Emerson disobedience. Relatedness. Are these the ideas most poets operate.

Personality. Dialectic. In dialogue. Drawing on.

Projects of NOW: v. learning then, pure and puritanism, inclusive, redundancy, completeness. Always now. What is suspense. Dottie Lasky. Marianne Moore.

Excess. Spring... and all!

Underlining, I Was Cringing

2011-02-10T10:26:00.003-05:00

Do you write in your books? I underline and write in the margins. When I was in college and grad school and grad school, I took most of my lecture notes in the very books we were talking about! Lately, however, (did you know you're really NOT supposed to begin a sentence with however?) I have begun feeling badly about writing in my books. I used to think that writing in my books would be like a kind of legacy. I don't really have much besides books and books are all I care about really, besides knitting. So to read a book that I've read is to know a little about me, what I underlined and bracketed or checked. (I don't know the difference between those things, but that seems to be my system).

Does this mean I'm growing up? I started thinking about this when the old man and I started a book club with several of our friends. We have to share the same book or buy it twice, which doesn't make much sense. The first book we read, William Carlos Williams's (the Carlos saves the day here) Spring and All and the old man wrote all up in it. I couldn't wade through his notes, which really read like a bunch of jibber jabber. Then I couldn't tell if I was reading Spring and All for the old man's notes. Let us say the old man writes like four people were simultaneously holding one pen and trying to write one thing together while on a train.

I asked him not to take so many notes in our book club books and he now writes in a little journal, which I think is pretty cute. The benefit of writing in my books is that I know directly what to steal without having to waste the time of having to re-read and search an entire book for the quotation I wanted. How else would I know when the butt sex begins in A Sport and A Past Time if it were not for that big-ass star marking the page? Hmm? And what about all the things I need to re-pay-attention to when I reread my books? Also, when I write essay, I practically write the essay in the book.

I do not write in handmade books and chapbooks.

Disclaimboid

2011-02-01T11:07:00.005-05:00

Look at me. I'm a business woman now. I'm going to have a business card. A letter-pressed business card that the old man is making. Please do not worry about my soul. My soul is intact. In fact the old man and I are going on a Yoga retreat in Costa Rica. We are wholesome. We are starting a business together because we love each other. We will be selling poetry. It is kind of an anti-capitalistic act because no one could ever pay what poetry is worth. No one could ever pay what a hand-bound and or letter-press book is worth. I'm sticking it to the man. We are sticking it to the man with our bookstore, Berl's Brooklyn Poetry Shop. If you make books, you should let us sell them. We have created all kinds of fantastic ways to display poetry books. The old man's dad made beautiful curved wooden structures for us to display poetry books. Berl's will rule, but it will not rule the world.

Pardon Me While I Throw Up On Myself

2011-01-05T14:26:00.003-05:00

During the holidays I developed a strange need to watch a show called Hoarders. I actually watched it on instaNetflix and am quite curious as to what commercials are shown while the show is on. The Container Store? Mr. Clean? What upsets me most about watching the show is how little the show actually accomplishes, how the show is painfully devoid of humanity. Yes, we viewers get to gawk at how dirty these people's houses are, how they have chosen to have stuff like a collection of cats or years-old yogurt cups rather than personal relationships, and we get to watch them squirm and cry as a crew (standing by ready to help the hoarder!) tries to clean out various hoarders' houses.

What I keep hoping is for someone to point out an addiction to bargain shopping. This is the price of capitalism: that someone fills up their house with shit he doesn't need or will never use because it was cheap to buy. And then he feels terrible for having to throw it away. Or he fells terrible about all the shit everyone else throws away so he keeps broken shit. There are extreme issues of poverty, loneliness, and self-esteem that are hardly addressed. What a loss--to have such an interesting topic for a show and to completely make an empty half-hour around it. They should just call the show Police Chase or something. Hoarders become that way after many, many years, and they can't possibly clean their houses in two days. My dad sometimes visits the homes of hoarders because he's a caseworker for the elderly. He says there are clients' houses that are so terrible he has to throw away the clothes he wore during the visit. He says the stink never comes out.

Would hoarders be hoarders if everything they bought was super-expensive? Do you know any hoarders? I know some and after I watch the show, I maniacally clean something. Last time I dusted a lamp, threw away three broken chopsticks, and did a load of laundry. My mom jokingly called me a Paper Hoarder because I keep wrapping paper from various Christmases. Also I like to collect trash such as the packaging from electronics because I like to craft with them. From now on I think I should stick with Buffy reruns.

How Would You Like It If Someone Trimmed Your Beak

2010-11-06T15:47:00.005-04:00

When people ask me if I eat turkey, I reply that I don't eat BIRDS. That's disgusting. Nor would I eat something that is so genetically modified that it can't hardly walk.

Did you know Turkeys can purr? Think about that before the holidays, will you?

Turkeys recognize voices and faces. I kind of want a pet turkey. There are wild turkeys that live around a house I visit in Massachusetts. Here is a rather awful picture of one that sat for hours outside our door. Does anyone know how to get rid of that lamp? I took the photo with my computer because I didn't want to scare the turkey away. I wish you could've seen it outstretch its wings. Wide as both my outstretched arms!

This video is not my favorite, but it's made by the compassionate folk at Farm Sanctuary. When I was a high school teacher, I always brought in a devastating article about turkeys the day before Thanksgiving. I usually pulled those articles from the PETA website, so you know they were really gross and sad. After reading the article round robin and before we started the discussion, I would break into the disgust by saying: so, you should always just eat beef. That always got 'em laughing. But we all knew what I really meant.

You'll Think of Kermit When You Hear Him Say Help

2010-10-15T23:37:00.003-04:00

My friend Noah told me about this early Jim Henson video and I thought you would enjoy it. Notice the cars when Jim Henson crosses the street. American cars used to be cool.

So, why does he paint an elephant?

Where May I Cash This?

2010-10-05T17:55:00.005-04:00

I've always thought our bills should be updated...

Raffled Hair

2010-10-05T07:52:00.004-04:00

Watch out, y'all! There's an anagram maker! What do you get when you type in your name? When I graduated from Columbia, Lucie Brock-Broido and Richard Howard used to make anagrams from all the students' names. I don't have an L in my name, but who cares?

Speaking of raffled, I've always been a little smitten by words that end -led. As though those words are led to something or by something. Baffled, led by confusion or baff. Tousled. Crumpled.

List: Poetry Books With the Author on the Front or Spine

2010-10-01T17:03:00.004-04:00

Collected Poems by James Merrill
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan
T.S. Elliot Collected Poems
H.D. Collected Poems
W.H. Auden Selected Poems
The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley
Collected Poems of Ted Hughes
Selected Verse by Frederico Garcia Lorca
Selected Poems and Three Plays by William Butler Yeats
The Poems of Marianne Moore
Robert Frost Collected Poems
Robert Lowell Selected Poems
Jorge Luis Borges Selected Poems
Opus Posthumous by Wallace Stevens

In General, with a poet on the front or spine:

Poet Be Like God by Ellingham and Killian
The Journals of Sylvia Plath
The Selected Letters of Amy Clampitt
A Helen Adam Reader by Kristin Prevallet
Spontaneous Mind: Selected Interviews with Allen Ginsberg
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Fantasy Feature No. 2

2010-09-30T15:02:00.004-04:00

Your old man has left for Los Angeles. You cried when he left. Now you get to dominate the Netflix que. You will stay awake until 4 a.m. watching these movies. (It really does say "Your Que," by the way). W. The Double Life of Veronique. Metropolis. Au Revoir Les Enfants. Blow Up. The Runaways. Scenes From a Marriage. Some of these films are on instaNetflix, but you will receive them in the mail just for you because you don't want to watch them blurry. You will have no one to curl up with because the old man took the cat. You will not bathe for three days.

What You Wanted To Be Doing

2010-09-23T15:48:00.003-04:00

The next time you are in Cullman, Alabama, you should definitely go to the Ave Maria Grotto. It is a miniature Jerusalem, along with other historic buildings. It definitely is on the Christian side of the Holy Land argument, but worth the visit. The Leaning Tower of Pisa and Noah's Ark were undergoing construction when the old man and I were there, so let me know if you get to see them when you go.

There is yummy Southern food nearby at All Steak. The old man and I ate from the veggie plate, which had one of my favorite Southern delicacies: fried okra. With your meal comes an amazing orange roll. I almost missed my flight back to New York because of the orange rolls.

Finished in Marshall, California

2010-09-15T23:20:00.005-04:00

Worked in Brooklyn, Kentucky, Ohio, and California.

Moss diamond scarf pattern from Wendy Bernard's Custom Knits.

Only Get Me When I'm Down

2010-08-24T12:21:00.003-04:00

I was never afraid of the dark until my mom's step-mother told me the story of Bluebeard and my sister made me sleep by all windows after that. I like it when darkness comes early. One time I went hiking in the middle of the night in Iceland, talked of sagas and realized if I didn't have lights I would believe in trolls too. Those rocks. One Christmas in Massachusetts we were snowed in, but it was so bright at night because of the full moon's reflection on the snow. Lit up from your feet. How weird it was to follow light under my eyes and not over my head. Sometimes the old man's dad turns off his headlights when we drive past a pretty New Englandy farm at night. Did you know that so many soldiers broke their ankles during WWII when they parachuted on moonless nights? Jumping into darkness. In order to save 1.2 million dollars in this year's budget, Colorado Springs, Colorado is shutting off one third of its city lights. Is having light safety or is safety safety? Also Colorado Springs majorly cut back its police force. What is darkness to a local economy? How many films can you name during which the love interests ask for help turning off the lights. Places that don't have many lights have many trees or lots of snow or huge waves. My kitty is only a bad kitty during the day or when I'm eating. I believe in trolls and Bluebeard. Suddenly everything is like a big cave and how did most things come to be. You were killing me with light anyway.

Does This Make You Blush

2010-07-29T11:13:00.007-04:00

Do you know who Jan Schakowsky is? You fuckin' should. She's a representative from Illinois who, on Tuesday, introduced a new bill to Congress that will require stricter regulations for beauty products. As you may know, Congress has not passed any legislation regarding the chemicals used in beauty products since the Cosmetics Safety Act of the 1930's. Many beauty products use small amounts of known carcinogens and other harmful chemicals.

Democracy Now! hosted a debate between Stacy Malkan, founder of the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics, and John Bailey, industry scientist and spokesperson. I recommend listening to what they say about the issue. Bailey made an interesting point that the industry is actually backing the new legislation. I wonder to what extent. I wish he could've further explained how the industry justifies their attitude that, well, it's only a pinch of chemicals. There's only a small amount of lead in lipstick. Mr. Bailey, do you roll around in a little bit of poison ivy? Would you mind it if there was a little bit of poop in your drinking water? Think about this: if a pregnant woman isn't supposed to dye her hair (because the chemicals in the dye may harm the baby), why should anyone else use that same product?

My dear reader(s), is your definition of beauty yours and yours alone? How many products do you use per day and are those products actually doing what you want them to do? (I'll be the first to admit that my bathroom has at least four bottles of lotion in it, but my skin always seems to be dry). Do you really need to put acid in your hair, only to wash it away with an oil byproduct? I can't decide what's more upsetting, the fact that there are reproductive disruptors in beauty products or that these items are so needed that we accept small amounts of poison. Sure, these chemicals don't out and out cause cancer, but they are linked to it.

I leave you with two websites where you can go to to find out about the chemicals in your beauty products. The first, Cosmetics Info, is hosted by the Personal Care Products Council, the one that John Bailey sits on. The second, the Cosmetics Safety Database, is brought to us by the Environmental Working Group.

This Is Not A Love Letter From Louisiana

2010-07-27T21:12:00.008-04:00

Dear Mr. Flag Lapel Pin Wearer,

You got me! I wasn't ready for someone to ask me about that dang ol' mosque-near-nine-eleven-freedom-towers issue. I thought only crazies listen to Wing Nuts! I'm so sorry about all the confusion. When you asked me what I thought about the mosque "they're" building two blocks from the world trade center sight, I was like there are mosques all over New York City. In fact, there's one two blocks from my apartment. And two blocks from that. If we really want to get into the buildings belonging to religious institutions, which I think should have to pay property taxes BIG TIME, you can see about one hundred of them from the roof of my friend's studio. Mosques, cathedrals, etc. They're everywhere. So what if one is going downtown? How nice it must be, if you were religious, to walk to a place where a sacred ceremony is happening. You know, it's all clean sounding. By the way, do you think yoga is religious? I'm kind of starting to feel religious about it. On my recent airplane trip, I listened to a yoga podcast and imagined myself doing all the poses. Also, I kind of feel religious about the old man. Like I think about Him all the time and I would let Him do anything to me, I mean, I would do anything for Him.

So, when you said that you thought that "they" shouldn't allow the mosque to be built, sucked in your lips, then said, someone is going to blow it up. I wanted to rip the lapel pin right off your gray lapel, sir! That's what you think America is? Incapable of making gestures? Of reaching out? Reactionary? I know we've been to a kind of war in Afghanistan for NINE YEARS and we're about to pay 34 billion more dollars for it, so that really isn't the best example of the great things America can do, BUT we do have freedom of religion, isn't that right? That someone can worship in a mosque or on my couch, in my case. I'm not sure, but I assume that we should invoke a religious-like tolerance of religion in order to have the freedom of walking to a synagogue or church. Embracing freedom. You get your religion and I get mine. Am I wrong?

I have to tell you that the way you said what you said rendered me speechless. You didn't say: I hope "they" don't blow up that mosque in your city near you where you feel afraid and see smoke and imagine people crying. You didn't say: I haven't been prepared to understand what it means to have a mosque down near the new freedom towers. You didn't say: It's a bold move and I hope no one gets hurt. Sir, you said it the way you said it because you want the mosque to be blown up. I can't hate you because you're the one who hates. As a Republican Fascist, that's your job. Wear your pin and spew your hate.

What I can do is pity you. Your buckets are full, aren't they? Poor you. It is so easy to hate. I mean, so simple. Just blow 'em up. So easy. Understanding? Embracing? These are complicated ideas meant to be handled by adults. You are a little boy who has come across blue eggs in a bird's nest and has decided to take down the nest and set your dog on fire. See and destroy--that's what you do. You react; you don't progress. You are a part of something crazier and greater and together y'all have succeeded in increasing the military industrial complex.

I'm so sorry you're so scared. I'm only down here for a family reunion then I'm back to Brooklyn where just about anything is two blocks from two blocks. Before I fly away, I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry you feel the way you do. You'll be stuck like that forever until, well, you want something more complicated.

List: Your Fad Is So Obvious

2010-07-22T08:36:00.006-04:00

Stockings. They are meant to be worn on the legs during WINTER. They keep your legs warm. Unless you're in some kind of marching band, you can go bare.
Boots with shorts. The look is cheeky during Spring and Fall, but one hundred and two degree weather? You're screaming.
Sweaters. Quarter sleeve, half sleeves. It's August. So you wear one in the office. Outside, it's hot.
Other random winter objects. Scarves. Turtlenecks. They are doing things you don't need right now.

What Is Much

2010-07-07T12:35:00.006-04:00

Yesterday I read the very provocative Nancy Hirschmann "Mothers Who Care Too Much" article and its responses and the response to the responses in the Boston Review. Hirschmann's article is so powerful that I wish I could sign up for her class. I've had so many interesting conversations about the article, but I must admit that I kind of find the title a bit problematic. "Mothers Who Care Too Much" suggests that it's going to be an article about overbearing mothers, not about Care Feminist (do I cap this?) theory. Women are pigeonholed into the role of caretaker, furthermore into the dual role of earner plus main caretaker, or better yet sole caretaker. So why are these must-read articles framed with a title that more or less capitalizes on a mainstream, negative stereotype of women? My reaction here reminds me of the Atlantic Monthly's inflammatory title, from earlier this summer, that frames a very in depth and much-needed look at womanhood. I mean, The End of Men? Really? So, as discussions about women are ignited in a culture that rejects powerful women and shames women in need, am I supposed to glance at these titles and think, the end of men? Oh no! What about my future son! He's not going to be a pig! He'll be a pig over my dead body! Oh no! I'm a future mother who cares too much! I can't ever win. I can't ever get out from under the something that is the something.

I have a question about studies done about housework. This summer, more than one article from more than one source said that women typically do more housework than men. How are these findings obtained? I asked the old man if he thought I did more housework than he does and he said it was pretty even. Then he said it wouldn't be if he didn't include running errands. He is the errand runner of our house. So I might cook more often, but he's the one running to various farmer's markets and whatnot all the time. Do you count running errands as housework? My point is that these things aren't easy to ascertain and I feel really skeptical when I hear people cite this particular information. Who are the contributors to the housework studies and what are the questions? Are couples interviewed together? Are they always heterosexual? And are they usually married? Are they from the suburbs or in a city? Do they always have children? Tell me, how do you define housework and who does more of it in your house?

As an aside, I'd also like to know what findings show about men's attitude toward cleanliness as they age. In college a friend of mine left a half eaten box of pizza on his couch for months and whenever I went over to his house I used the rotten pizza as an ashtray so I wouldn't smell it. Because social norms allow young men to live like slobs, isn't it a given that their future partners would do more housework? Is the problem that women do more housework or that women play with dolls and then grow up to play real house? I wonder if these studies are merely quantitative collections of symptoms rather than findings that motivate change for both men and women.

You When You Were Younger

2010-06-13T15:37:00.005-04:00

Let me tell you about this wonderful reading I attended last night. Not your average poetry reading, this reading featured six or so who read from their early, teenagery work. Hosted by the beautiful Niina, who apparently used to be goth, the reading was such a touching experience that it almost makes me cry thinking about it. I told G. about a poem Nicole read about being overweight and feeling as though no one would ever love her, that she wouldn't be able to give her mother grandchildren. Another reader wrote about two cousins who had to move in with her family when their parents died. She was annoyed that the cousins hogged the tv and took over her bathroom, stuff like that, but then her younger self is grateful she had parents of her own. Incredible, right?

It's interesting through all the haze of the-world-is-bullshit, Holden Caulfield type writing, the seriousness that was addressed--coming out, body issues, feeling neglected and misunderstood. (Amy pointed out a thematic connection many of the writers shared regarding someone hogging the "good television," but it seems like being pushed off the shows they wanted to watch actually got them writing and creating). The old man read from some of his cute juvenalia, a poem called "I Must Be An Adolescent," in which he wonders if man "should have ever had a SURPLUS of GOODS." The reading made me know and understand those writers in a whole new way. I felt as though I had traveled back in time with them and I was just like them but so so different. The old man wished he had gone to high school with everyone who read (and it turns out he actually did!) but I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad they just took me into their pasts, into their beginnings, into how they were first starting to make sense of it all.

The Voices You Hear Were The Ones You Made

2010-06-03T18:06:00.004-04:00

When you read over italicized words, do you read it differently? I do. I kick italic-voice right in. I did it a ton while reading Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. She's the best italic-voice giver. She writes about having to call an ambulance. Just come, she said. Just come. I love that. It's interesting that just by slanting the letters, you can change how the words sound in your mind.

Speakin' of voices you hear when you read, do you hear someone's voice that isn't your own? I hear my senior English teacher's voice. Mrs. Boniol was the first teacher who read something like she cared about it. My other English teacher wore pants slips. I could see them sticking out from under her pants.

Steve Roberts, a poet I workshop with, hates italics in poems. I sort of agree or agree enough to try it. I like it when you can't tell who's talking, if there is even someone talking. I like guessing at emphasis. I took all the italics out of my manuscript today.

Really Good Song To Jog To

2010-05-23T22:42:00.001-04:00

Syllabus: This Is How It All Went Down: Documentaries

2010-05-19T15:45:00.003-04:00

Films:

Let's Get Lost, directed by Bruce Weber

The Untold Story of Louis Emmet Till, directed by Keith Beauchamp

The Business of Being Born, directed by Abby Epstein

Grey Gardens, directed by Albert & David Maysles & Ellen Hovde

Be Here to Love Me, directed by Margaret Brown

The Up Series: 21, 28, and Michael Apted's director's commentary for 35

The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. MacNamara, directed by Errol Morris

4 Little Girls and When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, directed by Spike Lee

To Be and to Have, directed by Nicolas Philibert

Our Daily Bread, directed by Nikolaus Geyrhalter

Harlan County USA, directed by Barbara Kopple

Grizzly Man, directed by Werner Herzog

New York: A Documentary Film, directed by Ric Burns

Sicko and Capitalism: A Love Story, directed by Michael Moore

Born Into Brothels: Calcutta's Red Light Kids, directed by Zana Briski & Ross Kauffman

The Civil War, first disc, directed by Ken Burns

Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, directed by Alex Gibney

American Blackout, directed by Ian Inaba

Monumental: David Browers' Fight for Wild America, directed by Kelly Duane

In the Realms of the Unreal, directed by Jessica Yu

Field Trip:

IMAX! The Endurance: Shackleton's Legendary Antarctic Expedition, directed by George Butler

Course Objectives:

Is a documentary truth or is truth truth. What is a documentary supposed to do. What about the living. Who's lens is this anyway. Documentary v. biopic: discuss. Say what you want to about politics, but you can't deny the footage in American Blackout. Do you feel lied to by the media yet. How come most documentaries about women are about porn stars. Sorry this list is so America-centric. How to present a controversial subject or person. Perpetuating myths: telling someone's life from all sides. What does it mean to tell the story from all sides. Getting in there deep: why Let's Get Lost sets the standard. How to get people talking. Can you publish everything they say. If given the chance, what would you make a documentary about. What do you do when you uncover something mid-film, change course. What did every documentary begin with, as. You can do all the extra credit you want.

Yeah, I'll Be Right Here to Love You

2010-05-17T18:16:00.005-04:00

About a week ago, the old man and I watched a documentary on one of my favorite folk singers, Townes Van Zandt. Be Here to Love Me: A Film About Townes Van Zandt really disappoints. I kinder wish I hadn't seen it because I found Van Zandt rather annoying and immature. It's such a strange thing when a beautiful songwriter is anything but that. A tag line for the film reads: what would you sacrifice to follow your dream? I didn't see him sacrifice anything: all his various women raised his various children while he was out a-singin' and a-ramblin'. It seemed as though his only dream was to have someone waiting at home for him while he was on the road. The film mentions only once Van Zandt's heroin addiction. Toward the end of the film and of his life, various figures talked about how his alcoholism affected his performances, but none of them went into great detail, saying that he got a little talky on stage toward the end.

As the movie went on, I got to thinkin' about Emmylou Harris. When she first started out, she was only one of a handful of women folk singers. I thought it was interesting how she's been in so many bands and sang back-up for men like Townes Van Zandt. I wondered what that was like, if she's more like them, more like their wives, or something else entirely. So, what is she really allowed to say about them? And what does it say about her? Gram Parsons and Townes Van Zandt have a whole lot of addiction in common. (As an aside, Harris actually credits Linda Ronstadt for being the driving force that led to Harris' first recording contract). The old man and I talked about Harris at great length after watching the film and talked about other artists and writers who were burning down their lives while their children were being raised by someone else. One of the only women, we could think of, who left her children while in pursuit of her own interests is Muriel Spark.

Townes Van Zandt was one of those characters who makes you think about whether you're stricken with life or stricken with death--so afraid to live that you destroy yourself until you die. Looking down the smoky path he burned, I wonder of what it was Townes Van Zandt was so afraid.

That Is So Cape Cod!

2010-05-14T18:22:00.006-04:00

That is so Cape Cod! Annoyed teenagers listening to their ipods! That fence! Those salty houses! Shorts worn with sweaters! Hey Paul, Hey Charlie. Shorts worn with a tank top under a t-shirt under a long sleeve shirt under a button down under a blazer! That is so J. Crew! Sand flies. Suddenly everything is open! Lobster mac 'n cheese! I can ride my bike to work! Who's living above me! Why won't anyone talk to me! I can't feel my feet or face! It's turned out to be sunny day!

Flow Out of My Chart

2010-05-12T09:19:00.005-04:00

Now that I've been hidden away in Provincetown, I can tell you what I've been meaning to tell you. I've been making poster-sized flow charts on poser board leftover from my teaching days. When you make a flow chart, you can think about three things at once, like being able to eat, read, and write at the same time. (Did you try to do that when you were younger?)

A friend of mine asked me to write an essay for his journal and I was super nervous because I'd never done that before. I wanted to write about gurlesque poetry, but instead chose the topic, On Being Gross. When my friend asked me how the essay was coming along, this is what I sent. He inevitably asked me to write on someone else, which is good because I think the flow chart basically became the essay.

I've done two more since then, one on the folk singer Laura Marling (for Poets off Poetry) and one on my family. I love drawing the lines to connect the boxes, getting my pen stuck in a tight spot. In the first and last charts, all the major thinking, all the deductions are on the outer rim of the chart, but I mixed it up with the Laura Marling chart and the arrived-to thinking forms a sort of labyrinth on the chart. It's fun trying to find the end of the line.

The "getting to" thinking is sort of the main point, seeing how far I can come away or how much thinking I can do about a subject until I can't think on it anymore. For example, in the gross chart I was making notes about the differences between men being gross versus women, thinking about artistic situations besides poetry that highlight this, finally contrasting Samurai films with Buffy. During the chart about my family, I began to think about anxiety and whether or not anxiety is something that is a result of having goals.

I have some wall space in my apartment that I'd love to cover with butcher paper and just go to town. The space is by the bath tub, so holy shit if I do that, I'd be reading, writing, thinking, and taking a bath at the same time...

Fantasy Feature No. 66

2010-05-06T10:42:00.003-04:00

You finished. Something in you went away. You put the last segment of Bolano's 2666 back in its box and together, all three spines created the big red title, 2666. Bolano is the smartest person in the world and you held his writing in your hands. You didn't say anything. The old man was wearing headphones and watching something on his computer. You walked across the room and blew your nose. You're supposed to read books to be done with them and move onto the next one, right? You feel as though someone were sticking an arm through the triangle your arm makes while resting on your hip. A handful of almonds. Suddenly the old man stood up. "Did you finish?" Yeah, it's done.

The Next Time You Go To BAM I Will Have Hidden Something in This Wall Box

2010-05-04T16:15:00.003-04:00

The Next Time My Bike Gets Stolen I'm Making This T-Shirt

2010-04-28T10:43:00.002-04:00

I Don't Know WHAT to Call This

2010-04-27T19:54:00.003-04:00

I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking about a stupid football player. While driving to New Hampshire last week for a reading, I caught the tail end of an NPR discussion about Ben Roethlisberger, who was recently suspended from the Pittsburgh Steelers after being accused of raping a woman in a nightclub bathroom. Although Roethlisber wasn't charged with a crime, he was suspended for six games. The suspension will cost him almost 3 million of his 102 million dollar contract. The nature of the NPR discussion was about whether or not this was an appropriate punishment. I don't pay much attention to sporting events and the whole deal, but I was surprised by how few women called in. Most of the men who called in thought he should be suspended only when charged with a crime. One man noted that the Steelers, for whatever reason, has more women fans in the NFL than any other team and that Roethlisberger's conduct wasn't fair to them. (Thank you, sir!) By the way, the woman in question is underage. By the way, this rape allegation is Roethlisberger's second in a nine-month period.

While listening, I couldn't help but think about Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas. I'm not sure why exactly. I wondered what she is up to, what her life is like. A man accused of sexually harassing his co-worker becomes a supreme court justice. (Working for Monsanto wasn't bad enough! And of all the porn out there, Long Dong Silver? Please.) It's frightening how crimes against women are still seen as petty, pettier if the men involved are high profile public figures. It's interesting the football player apologized to his team, his family, his fans, but not to the woman accusing him of rape or her family.

How long do you think girls get to be daughters? Sons are always sons somehow. Boys will be boys. But girls never get to be girls, do they? My guess is that girls are daughters until they're 8. What's yours?

I Was Trying So Hard to Be Cool My Butt Got Wet

2010-04-16T13:40:00.005-04:00

Whew. That was a close call. Earlier last month, the old man wanted to go to Iceland to see the volcano erupt. He had seen the volcano years before with his family; there is a very beautiful photograph of it hanging by my desk. I'm looking at it right now. Reports about the eruption were pretty mild. His sister lives in London and we thought about meeting her over by the volcano. (In Europe, it's actually affordable to fly. Why is that? Do airplane companies consider their customers to be real people? I don't understand). I hate to be a stick in the mud or a bump on a pickle, but I said no to seeing the eruption. You may have read that the eruption is far greater than what was expected and clouds have halted some travel in Europe. The old man is quite the adventure seeker, which is why I live in sin with him, but I am very glad I said no to this request.

I hate being the old lady who says no. Reminds me too much of my family. One of the last adventures the old man took me on was night kayaking in the ocean, to see bio-luminating lichen or algae. It can only be seen ten days each year and requires a full moon. I was trying so hard to be cool about the whole thing, but in the darkness I couldn't control the kayak, which was an open sea kayak. (Open sea kayaks aren't the cute, snugly kind that you sit inside. They are like plastic cocoons and easy to maneuver). I felt totally exposed and unhappy. Water splashed me from all sides and I rammed an empty, parked, scary boat. Then I thought, this is a scene from Jaws, and started to cry. Actually, I think I may have been wailing. I was crying to hard that I really couldn't see where I was going. I hated that I was such a baby about the whole thing. We went to dinner afterwards and I ate soup. I wanted to eat the soup with my hands.

Stick This Up Your Life and Leave It There

2010-04-14T14:21:00.004-04:00

Before New Year's I started reading Roberto Bolano's 2666. It is by far one of my favorite books. As you may know, it is a novel compiled by five books. I think he wanted them to be published separately, but he died before it was released.

I have just started the fifth book and have half a mind to start the whole thing over, from book one. I've read varying posts about it, like this one on Exoskeleton. I've been reading the book for so long that I'd forgotten about the artist who cut off his hand. I would like to never be done with this book. (I felt the same way about Neil Gaiman's Sandman series, which never should've ended). What am I going to do with myself when it ends, huh? What will I think about then?

As a weird, weird, painful aside, let me tell you about something from 2666. I can't remember when or where this happens in the book, but I know two characters discuss the Medusa story. One of them talks about how Medusa was different than the other Gorgon sisters because she was mortal. Her mortality creates Pegasus (right?) and stops a sea monster from eating a beautiful virgin. Medusa is set apart from her sisters because she will die. Since the 13th anniversary of my sister's death recently passed, I can't help but wonder why Medusa's sisters thought less of the one they would lose. Anyway, 2666 is definitely one of those books you'll finish reading, but you'll never be done with it.

You Were Doing What You Thought You Were Doing

2010-04-13T11:54:00.004-04:00

Are you looking for summer shoes? Why don't you buy some Toms? Every pair you buy, they give a pair of shoes to someone who needs them. Toms also sponsored a day without shoes day, but I'm too tender.

The Devil Don't Change

2010-04-05T12:03:00.004-04:00

A gym I like to go to has an interesting health and fitness blog and one of the gym's owners blogged about a group called Corporate Accountability International. They are going after McDonald's mascot, Ronald McDonald. McDonald's use of the clown gets children hooked on unhealthy food for the rest of their lives. I was pretty irked when I first heard about the campaign against the clown. When is censorship ever the answer? Most advertising is inappropriate for everyone; if it's not exploiting women's bodies, it's exploiting something else. (I'm still so surprised every time I see a commercial for cleaning products sold by women for women).

What does Ronald's retirement accomplish exactly? Will the clown's absence change the fact that McDonld's uses airplanes and helicopters to scout out schools they can put new restaurants by? Will schools stop selling fast food because the clown is gone? Will everyone become aware of unsafe slaughterhouse practices used to fulfill McDonald's meat orders? Will more people become aware of the disparagement in wages between the average McDonald's employee and the CEO?

I'm really getting tired of the witch hunts that never seem to address complication. Do you really think you're protecting your kids by going after some evil that will easily be replaced by another evil? If your kids aren't eating at McDonald's, are they really at home reading books and eating carrots? Do these parents think their kids won't eat at McDonald's because the clown is gone? I know children who eat at McDonald's because that's what their parents had time to feed them and in some cases, that's what their parents could afford to feed them. Is it Ronald's fault that school kids can't identify what a tomato or broccoli looks like, but can identify a chicken nugget?

I've had conversations like this before where people respond with, "My kids. I've got to protect my kids." I agree. We all want to protect something greater than ourselves: each other. I don't want unhealthy products to be foisted onto children, but why not talk to them about horrible business practices and how companies are trying to market to them? Kids are actually smarter than you think. And the thing about kids is that they're so much more willing to change their habits when they learn about stuff. Why not create a list of companies with good business practices? Fun for the whole family!

For the record, I think Corporate Accountability International is a great thing and admire that they're going after McDonald's. I just wish our conversations about this stuff was, well, a conversation.

Why You Should Love Assholes

2010-03-31T17:52:00.004-04:00

I'd like to direct your attention to the discussion Amy King began last weekend. She was surprised by the overwhelming heteronormativeness she sees taking place in the new gurlesque poetry anthology. Being that the Riot Grrl movement was invoked by the editors, and given other ramifications that the editors say make gurlesque poems and visual art, Amy asks the question: are there not l/g/b/t poets whose work falls into the gurlesque category? (You can read Lara Glenum's comments here). I think it's a really valid question to ask, especially regarding gurlesque, since female sexuality (gothic, grotesque, burlesque/performative, feminine, and mechanized) is at the forefront of gurlesque dealings. I love gurlesque poetry, I love finding poems that I think falls into the gurlesque specifications, and I love artwork that I think is gurlesque. (Lara Glenum's books are pretty powerful and have changed my approach to poetry and language). Lara Glenum wrote an interesting piece about how Lady Gaga is gurlesque. The sunglasses made from lit cigarettes! How could she see except with machine eyes! Loving this new genre/school/aesthetic of poetry and thinking, I couldn't help but feel sad that Amy didn't find the Lady Gaganess, the performative blurred lines from a highly sexualized woman embracing queerness, in all respects. A few months ago, I put together a list of gurlesque poetry, using only books I had at home, and I now wonder if it was a hetero heavy list and how the list would've changed. Amy raises a valid point, a complicated one, an interesting one.

For a long time I've felt we should all write more about assholes. It takes the gender out of the whole thing. There isn't fairer genitalia than the asshole. We all have one. Some of them are pinker than others. Some of them are hairier than others. Some of them have hairs in the crumbs. Some of them look like slits. I mean, crumbs in the hair. You can put things in it or next to it. Asshole skin is soft and dotty. Gosh, I'm not sure if there's anything I talk about more than poop and poop comes out of all of our assholes. Some of our assholes have fissures. And they all do that cute puckering up thing when we tell it to. Or not! Sometimes it puckers on its own! I knew a kid who lit his farts on fire. I have two friends who love talking about polyps and butt doctors. There are even butt doctors who specialize in the asshole!!

How Will You Know Who Anyone Is

2010-03-29T08:35:00.007-04:00

At least once a week I think about Keith Newton's poem, "I Lived Among Girls." This poem somehow encompasses everything you've ever read and everything you've ever felt. It's cyclical in the way Keith Newton is with his poems--controlled yet with quite expansive growth, reaching, a honing in, layering, then a letting go. "I Lived Among Girls" addresses searching, understanding. First there's an acknowledgment that what we're all looking for is kind of the same, something we want better or back, something we've never had before, something someone else has, something from someone else. Beauty. All the people who come and go in our lives get blurred and we don't mean for it to happen, but it does. When they are not blurred, we recognize how different we are, how strange we are. "Let us see how far away we are." The force of experience weighs on our memories.

You probably already saw this on Jules' blog a long time ago, but the poem was made into a film. The poem collaborates both with the Portastatic song, "I Wanna Know Girls" as well as images from the film. Newton refracts "I wanna know girls" to "I lived among girls" and does this quite a bit with other lines, such as "I wanna draw your outine" to "I knew them by their outlines." There's a muli-presentation of getting, wanting, understanding, being confused that is extraordinarily powerful. This was the first poem film I ever saw and I can't believe how easily the poem incorporates both film and song, without taking away from either genre. I love the opening sequence, that the poem doesn't start until the airplane is out of view. The poem is cyclical the way the song is cyclical, the way the images return to the wintery landscape of the tarmac.

"We travel to you and will be sent away.

We travel away and will be called back.

Among men, I was disciplined in my approach.

Among girls, I withheld the ruin I had seen."

Have a look/listen/read:

My Sign Said Come to a Poetry Reading!

2010-03-25T13:35:00.006-04:00

This past Sunday I travelled to Washington, D.C. for a reading and it happened to be the day Congress signed a bill regarding health care (the first major bill to address a social program in over fifty years). Walking next to the tea party protesters was rather scary. They shouted about killing, about socialism, and their signs threatened that Texas will one day rise again. The old man is Jewish and I have never feared for his life the way I feared when I walked by tea party protesters. The Republican/Tea Party protesters' message confuses me. One person's sign said: Get Your Government Hands Off My Medicare. Huh? I hate to tell ya, but it's a government program, as is garbage collection, police services, and the fire department. Hmm. Should we cut those programs too? Another protester's sign said: I Love My Country But All I See Is Red. I thought it was kind of clever because all I could see were crazy Republicans too. Their color is red. The old man explained to me that she probably was exhibiting her fear that a health care program would turn our country socialist.

While all this was happening, the largest immigration rally in U.S. history took place Sunday. I felt pretty overwhelmed. The old man and I cheered on the street as the protesters made their way to National Mall. Seeing all those people choked me up so much that I could hardly speak. Rallies in D.C. are so different than other places. People get really fired up. All the health care rallies I went to were pretty tame compared to what I saw on Sunday. When people aren't yelling racial epithets or threatening to kill anyone, seeing people gathered is a very beautiful thing.

I'm sad I found this sign in the garbage:

Don't Move that Dead Deer

2010-03-20T07:52:00.003-04:00

I can't stop thinking about a deer that died next to a bedroom window in a place I sometimes stay in California. The house is out in cow country, pretty remote. The old man's parents suggested that he move the deer away from the house, but I didn't want to touch it at all. The old man thought maybe we could "lasso" the deer and spent most of a rainy afternoon reading about it online, but. I can't think of any North American large mammals that eat dead things, so I didn't worry about the dead deer attracting anything dangerous to the house. I was hoping the vultures would've taken care of it, but they didn't seem to notice. I wonder if vultures didn't want to approach the house?

It looked like it curled up, went to sleep, and died. I feel so badly. Every morning, I walked over to the window before brushing my teeth or anything. I had to make sure it was still there.

A Louisiana Update

2010-03-16T00:59:00.002-04:00

Today I'd been thinking about Louisiana and how I once read that Louisiana had the highest rates of domestic violence. As I was searching for evidence of this statistic, I came across this interesting website that compares findings from all 50 states.

Here's what you need to know about Louisiana before moving there:

it ranks 49th for best place to live
has the highest rates of poverty
ranks 45th on education. California is oddly number 46. If you live in California, be very afraid. My chemistry teacher was a 19 year-old fill-in.
is number 1 in gun violence
uses just as much oil as densely populated states
ranks 49th in health care
ranks 50 regarding economic growth

What I want to know is how does anyone run for election there? Do you just not have to worry about answering for yourself because everyone is so uneducated? How does this happen? Some third world countries have better health care than this. I'm embarrassed.

Syllabus: Cute as Hell

2010-03-12T11:04:00.005-05:00

A study of a compendium of the following:

Smurfs
Bjork, "It's Oh So Quiet"
Film: Babe: Pig in the City
The Cuteness of the Avant-Garde
toadstool mushrooms
miniature: small pies & muffins, pencils, miniatures taken out of their dollhouse context
animals: puppies, sleeping babies, baby pandas, koalas, otters, bunnies
Sad Little Breathing Machine by Matthea Harvey
Bows & bow ties
tv show: The Littles
Fashion: round collars, rolled pants, color!, ruffled bloomers, Mary Jane's, baby doll dresses, suspenders
Hair: pig tails, the bob
Film: Fantastic Mr. Fox
pixies & hobbits
eco-houses, houses built into the ground
butt cracks & short stubby hands
little bowls
plastic buttons
baby faced men: Matthew Broderick, Elijah Wood
cute women: women with short hair, manic pixie dream girl
Joanna Newsom: The Milk-Eyed Mender
candy

Course Objectives:

Is cuteness asexual happiness. Elisa Gabbert's post on cuteness here. Is calling something cute condescending. Does cuteness come from darkness. Cute: beauty plus pity. Are people who like cuteness to be trusted. Forced cuteness: dressing kittens in doll's clothing, kittens in mugs. Big people folding small people's laundry. Sesame Street: debate. How come being short is cute. Weigh in: the old man thinks Mia Farrow was cute in Rosemary's Baby. How come southerners are always calling things cute. Texture: wood v. plastic, suits v. dresses, linen v. silk. Animals that reach out to you. Do we all them cute because they can't talk. Any sleeping being, sleeping beings sleeping next to animals. Dogs who show guilt. Debate: leprechauns aren't cute b/c they are all-knowing. Is Tin Tin cute. Aw, reactions to cuteness: document. Anti-cute: children singing Christmas carols. Cultural cuteness: Asian girls, black babies. Cute irony: (Film) The Incredible Shrinking Woman. List: the new childishness. Genitalia v. butts: discuss.

Scariest. Shit. Ever.

2010-03-10T09:26:00.006-05:00

Don't ask me how I ran into this. I couldn't sleep last night.

Farewell Sparklehorse

2010-03-07T15:57:00.004-05:00

I'm so sad to tell you that Mark Linkous committed suicide yesterday. He was the man behind Sparklehorse. The only thing I know about him was that he was a good musician. He was forty-seven years old.

Here's a fan video made for Sparkhorse's "Piano Fire" featuring PJ Harvey:

Jessica Lange Was the Best What's Her Face

2010-03-04T10:21:00.006-05:00

One of my gym t-shirts is a light yellow King Kong shirt. I think I found it at a thrift store in Louisiana. Last summer I wore it while jogging in the park near my apartment and I returned tired and feeling like a total pig. Well, a friend told me that she didn't think the t-shirt was racist and the old man doesn't think the shirt is racist because King Kong isn't "waving around the woman." I wore it to the gym today and lo and behold, who was the only white woman wearing a King Kong t-shirt at the gym this morning? I'm cutting the sleeves off and sewing the bottom closed and it will be forever used as a bag for produce.

I admit I have a weakness for the King Kong story. Nature v. city. What climbs your buildings must be shot. Woman who needs something wild. Love without language. Not to mention size. Anyway, I wonder if any version of the film is without racial connotations. How odd that the most recent one was horribly racist. If we had to measure our social progress in King Kong films, well the message is clear.

How could you not love him? His nose is the shape of a heart!

So what could be a non-racist, woman falls-in-love-with-animal, love story? I mean, instead of using the gorilla? What about a horse? Still well hung and could jump and dodge bullets. Maybe the horse could throw the woman on his back and gallop up the Guggenheim rather than the Empire State Building? Can raccoons show love? Tigers? I love tigers. I guess Bringing Up Baby already addressed this sort of.

For the record, I prefer the King Kong with Jessica Lange.

Where Is That Other World You Were Sitting On

2010-03-03T19:48:00.007-05:00

Other places have sunshine. I have seen it.

The only interesting thing about this sunset is that I wasn't on land when I took the picture. I was told I would see dolphins. Rum punch is no joke.

I snorkeled in a deep place that a boat took me to. There were no sharks, but there was an ominous ledge where there could be sharks waiting. Last summer I wasn't afraid of sharks, but now I am afeared.

Just to the right of this woman's shoulder is an underwater wreck. The old man snorkeled out to it and watched diver's bubbles float to the surface. The old man has swimmer's ear and I squeeze drops into his bad ear.

It is true. I burn.

You're Not A Total Idiot

2010-02-26T18:31:00.004-05:00

For the past month or so, I've been working on a longish essay about someone's poetry. I've never really done anything like that before, other than what I've done here, but I never quite dipped and dived into writing a long essay. (I'll tell you about the poster-board essays another time). It was quite the process, trying to first describe what someone was doing in their poetry, then trying to say why it was good.

Anyway, I ended up turning in a rather long piece, which had to be trimmed. Something that was cut was this sort of line that I was a bit proud of. When you do what you do, do you try to get away with things? All my poems have something that I try to get away with, something I sneak in there, something that only half-way fits but still adds a little hip, a little flavor. In the essay I just wrote, I was discussing something the poet was doing and I described it as: the limitless blank of what poetic language can do.

I rather like the thought, the limitless blank. I can't exactly think of what I would fill in the blank without making an annoying list. What would you fill in the blank?

List: Songs With Women's Names

2010-02-24T11:26:00.004-05:00

Song for Whoever--The Beautiful South

Celia Inside--The Cardigans

Eleanor Rigby--The Beatles

Jackie's Strength--Tori Amos

Lucille--Gram Parsons

Sweet Jane--Cowboy Junkies

Jane Says--Jane's Addiction

Sweet Caroline--Neil Diamond

Julia--Taken by Trees

Delia's Gone--Johnny Cash

Sandy L--Kathryn Williams

Katie Cruel--Bert Jansch

Madonna--CocoRosie

Judy Is a Punk--The Ramones

Judy Staring at the Sun--Catherine Wheel

Polly--Keren Ann

O Yoko--John Lennon

Stephanie Says--The Velvet Underground

Prescilla--Bat for Lashes

Amelia--Joni Mitchell

Sister Margaret--The Acorn

Jezebel--10,000 Maniacs

I Married Sonja--The Wrens

Look at Miss Ohio--Gillian Welch

For Emma--Bon Iver

Seems So Long Ago, Nancy--Leonard Cohen

Jolene--Dolly Parton

Jolene--The Weepies

Hannah's Song--Jim & Jennie & The Pinetops

Good Night Irene--Leadbelly

Diana Ross--The Concretes

Sally--Johnny Flynn

Charlotte Mittnacht--DeVotchKa

O Evangaline--Emmylou Harris

Julie--Jens Lekman

For Elisabeth, Wherever You Are--Tobias Froberg

Sukie in the Graveyard--Belle & Sebastian

Pretty Polly--The Byrds

Bessie Smith--Emily Jane White

Sara--Bob Dylan

Violet--Thao & The Get Down, Stay Down

Brooklyn Bridge, Feb. 20, 12-1 p.m.

2010-02-16T16:17:00.006-05:00

There's a healthcare rally this Saturday and I can't go because I'm going out of town. Will you go for me? Please? It would mean so much to me if you went. If you've never been to one, don't worry; you're not going to shut down the government or be listened to in a European sense, but you will be doing the right thing. I'm always impressed by doctors who come out and speak. A walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, during any type of weather, always comforts. That bridge somehow absorbs sorrows. The walk is scheduled to end at the New York Stock Exchange where you can get depressed all over again. Please go? You won't "change the world" or "make a difference," but you will make me want to hug you.

You can go here to find out more about the rally and find out about rallies closer to you if you're not in NYC.

Rockin' Out the Opera House

2010-02-12T08:51:00.004-05:00

Last weekend the old man and I went to see Ra Ra Riot, the cutest band ever, play at the BAM Gilman Opera House. For a while now, BAM has opened its Opera House to musicians and I've missed performances by Joanna Newsom and Sufjan Stevens there, but I couldn't miss the adorable kids in Ra Ra Riot. (From Syracuse, New York!) Their sound would not be complete without their string section, a cello and violin, both interestingly played by women. They are a high energy rock group with a nice mix of fun '80's, fun now.

The Opera House, I must say, was the weirdest place I've ever seen a show. It was very strange to see young people dancing in the aisles. Several people in the rows ahead of me tried to get up to dance, but made it difficult for the rest of us to see what was going on, so they had to return to their seats. I even had trouble seeing when the two men in front of me started talking for a bit. When I sat up straighter to be able to see over them, the people behind me asked me to scoot back down. It's interesting how a venue can be limitless or limiting. What a difference it is that you are supposed to go to an opera and not react at all, just sit there and take in the performance. The old man likes opera and opera has done nothing but teach me the art of ninja sleeping. When I go to shows at, say, Mercury Lounge, the space has a stage with a sort of open pit for everyone to stand in. How fascinating it is that the performances there are supposed to be an interaction; the audience should be dancing and having contact with each other and the music. At the Opera House, the young crowd seemed to have a hard time finding their seats let alone staying in them.

Thinkin' on poetry readings: it's funny which ones tend to be interactive. I gave a reading in New Jersey last weekend at a very local bookstore in Hoboken and the crowd, a small group who have been attending the series for years, talked and asked questions during the reading. By the time I left, I felt as though I was saying good-bye to old friends rather than people I'd just met.

Events vs. Space: I wonder what a poetry reading would be like in the Opera House.

I'm Sticking Up For Everything

2010-02-08T14:41:00.005-05:00

Last night the old man and I watched The Cove, a suspenseful and thrilling documentary centered around a group of activists' fight to end dolphin capturing and killing in Taijii, Japan. The group's bravery and their devotion to these animals is quite extraordinary. They risk their lives to install hidden cameras (one underwater) and microphones into a cove used as a killing floor, if you will, for slaughtering dolphins. I am afraid to swim in water past my neck and the only time I was in the ocean at night, while night kayaking to see bioluminescent lichen, I almost had a heart attack. So I am deeply impressed by the freedivers who braved the night waters.

Throughout the film several points were made about how intelligent dolphins are, but the one that was most profound was the fact that dolphins understand sign language... but they don't even have hands. I never really thought about that one before, what an impractical yet sophisticated ability it is for a dolphin to be able to communicate with people in this way. It's devastating to watch something get speared to death, to see the cove turn red with blood (ew, which one of the fishermen has to dive in to make sure they got all the dolphins), to watch dolphins flapping ferociously in the water, screaming until they die.

The fact of the matter is that nothing or no one should be rounded up and killed. After the movie was over, I felt a little conflicted. What about cows? It's not okay for cows to be rounded up, shipped half across the country, standing in their own feces for weeks, and being forced to eat something their four stomachs have trouble digesting. If we all watched The Cove version of the cattle industry, watched a huge five hundred pound animal crawling to the kill floor on weak, unused legs bent in the opposite direction, would we allow this to continue to happen in our own country? It's weird to go to another country and point out their shames when we have so many of our own. In the early 1700's and until about 1850, whaling was one of the prominent industries in America. Let us not forget that New Bedford, Massachusetts was known as "The City That Lit The World." Do you think we stopped whaling because we felt bad for whales? No! The demand for their oil plummeted after the invention of oil wells.

The question of activism remains: why anything? Why dolphins? Why healthcare? I thought I'd be doing some good by not eating meat, but shit. I knit with wool. I wear leather. My pants and my warm winter coat were made by someone who didn't earn a livable wage. My list of sins goes on. I want to try; I go to health care rallies and stuff like that, but feel like while I'm standing up for one thing, something else is coming apart. Do you think The Cove is going to change the fishing industry? Some people say there was so much media in Taijii that the dolphin hunting has stopped. I wonder for how long. Paul Watson made an interesting point in the film: you can be active or inactive. But how do you know if you've done any good?

Fantasy Feature No. 83

2010-02-06T15:42:00.002-05:00

Your new bangs are going to be folkish hipster bangs. Everyone will want bangs when they see you. You will not run into a wall, trying to get your bangs out of your eyes, like that young girl did at the show last night. She also couldn't walk a straight line because her bangs were in her way. You've seen the pictures and your forehead is, well, let's just say you got brains, okay? They'll be like Swedish bangs. Young Marianne Faithful. Think Bangles. You're going to be like that woman who hung out with Flea while hanging out with Chet Baker.

Why Wasn't I Invited to Take Off My Pants

2010-02-02T10:44:00.009-05:00

Apparently on January 10, 2010, 3,000 New Yorkers participated in the 9th annual No Pants Subway Ride. How come I didn't know about this? I have a great pair of violet Steven Alan bloomers that would've worked well for this. Anyway, a group called Improv Everywhere led the de-pantsing. They do all kinds of funny activities around the city, such as a musical in a Queens grocery store. They also performed a gig at a Knicks game, where one friend pretended to get lost and eventually hundreds of people were helping him find his seat. The No Pants Subway Ride video is pretty cute; I really recommend checking it out. The various undies are pretty funny. Some people just know how to live, know what I mean? So, what say you? Would you take off your pants on the subway?

It's All About the Fish

2010-01-31T13:45:00.004-05:00

I was thinking about "The Lady in Kicking Horse Reservoir" by Richard Hugo earlier today and came across this interesting video. I love the pack of 100's in his pocket and I love that someone is smoking in class. I wonder what happened to the students in that class.

He doesn't read the poem until about four minutes in. The sound of his voice is so odd to me because it doesn't have any mean tones at all. I know recordings are different that hearing someone more than once, etc., but I was really struck by the way he didn't sound like he was the one who had written that poem. What is best is the floating fish superimposed next to the couple at the beach.

My Rally in Your Union

2010-01-29T00:09:00.007-05:00

This week I walked in what is known as Outside for the first time since I came down with the flu last week. I made my debut upon The World at a noon-time emergency healthcare rally. Some other guy was coughing and sneezing behind me and I have to admit that I was coughing on the back of my own sign. There were speakers. They spoke into a microphone so we could actually hear them this time. One of them was a doctor. I have hope?

The State of the Union didn't exactly ramp anything up. Obama and others keep talking about how we have to go after Wall Street. (Obama is actually pretty soft on this, if you want to know. A tax on bankers who fucked our system and "earned" even more millions? They aren't fooling anyone). Now corporations can spend however much they want on elections. (How much is that exactly? They pay a great deal as is. They pay so much to fight healthcare that they could've funded healthcare already. Does this mean I'm going to be denied even more coverage so they can buy off the legislative branch?) Wall Street and corporations. We act like they're these huge, mysterious, monstrous, free-reigning beings and I guess they are since we always hear about them as such. (I actually live on Main Street--go figure). Don't we know that these giant monsters are the way they are because we refuse to regulate them? We have a deregulated market and that is why an elite few are running away with my savings and my dad's hard earned retirement money.

Here's where I'm confused. Republicans time and time again say that we can't have universal healthcare and other certain programs because they cost too much (although no one seems to talk about how much it costs to fight it) and our government is getting too big. They constantly talk about "the government" as though it were also one of those huge, monstrous, big thingies. Well, if everything is pretty much a big thingie, then who's going down first? Oh, right. The government. It's not that big. It's consists of the people you and I voted for, sitting somewhere with their thumb up their butts or not, getting bought out or not.

My wish, starting now, is for Republicans to tell the truth. They're Christians! They can do it! They are not worried about our government getting too big. They already know it can't because it is becoming more and more hollowed out. Last night, on national television, one of our Supreme Court Justices, someone sworn in for a lifetime to uphold the Constitution and nothing but, shook his head and pouted when Obama openly disagreed with the Citizens United decision. In his own mind, Justice Alito may or may not have embarrassed himself last night, but he sure did let us know our government--our oh-so-scary big bag government--starting with our highest court, with the exception of very few, is comprised of me-first, stop- progress, can't-think-of-anything-except-morals-they-can't-uphold, liars, hypocrites, and bought-out war mongers with, thank you Alito, even less integrity.

I Do What My Fever Tells Me

2010-01-22T05:03:00.007-05:00

Did you know that Freud used to paint all of his family members? How crazy is that? Maybe all psychoanalysts should paint all their patients? I only found this out while searching for artists who portray their mothers--a reaction I had to Aline Smithson's latest work. She painted a series of portraits of her mother in profile, wearing different costumes. The paintings are kind of campy, but I still kind of like them, especially the one of the mother dressed in equestrian clothing, holding the reins of a horse in a nearby painting. Pretty cute.

I think it's great that someone is depicting older women. Actually, my only compliment for that silly thing, Nine, was that two older women were featured in the film, holding just as much importance and weight as the other actresses. (Quite a sultry role for Judie Dench, eh?) I'll discuss one other film here, although it doesn't involve an older woman, but a strong women nonetheless. (These roles being less frequent these days). While sick in bed I watched Francois Truffaut's Shoot the Piano Player and although the character Lena is a young woman, I was amazed by what a strong (literally) role she has. Just after one man says all women should use nice language and be fragile all their lives, Lena carries her passed out lover Charlie into a basement to hide him from the police. This act also comes after she is forced to laugh with Charlie and the two cronies (after Charlie's brother) over the statement: once you've been with one woman, you've been with them all. We know Lena can laugh loudly at that, being at how frank she is with her lover, Charlie/Edward, saying if you don't want to be with me, just tell me. I love that.

With a group of friends last week I watched another episode in the so-interesting series The Secret Life of a Masterpiece, this one about Whistler's portrait of his mother. I wanted to spit every time an American woman said how nostalgic the painting made her feel. Really? They found the painting so comforting! They think she's the ultimate grandmother! I'm being for real! In the constant celebration of Puritanism and misguided morals, people around me continue to elect Republicans who will do more harm than good for the sake of morals. Will we ever shake off our Puritanism? One of the talking heads described Whistler's mother as the ultimate "old biddy," a detestable term, but kind of the right one in this case. She's dressed in black, she's unhappy, her husband left her with hardship. Whistler very purposefully went against lush Victorian norms, going so far as to call the painting "Arrangement in Grey and Black: The Artist's Mother."

Fever 103 My Nothing Fantasy Feature

2010-01-21T12:30:00.003-05:00

Goddamn the goddamn flu. You watched a movie about how shitty the food industry is. You didn't know Oprah was sued by the cattle industry for saying she didn't want to eat a burger during the Mad Cow scare. It cost her one million dollars to fight them. What does anyone's sick voice sound like. You wanted to call someone but it hurt to talk. You wanted to know if you're whiny or pouty. Your eyes are big and puffy. You hurt so badly. The old man brings you water. He cooked you matzah ball soup. You sweat through your hair. Your pajamas stuck to the floor. You have now made it through four of six Lone Wolf and Cub samurai movies. Today you may watch Baby Cart in the Land of Demons. Slight suspicion--you watched them in the wrong order. Maybe there will be ghosts of the slain in it. You want to go to Japan. You want to not be sick.

You Should Say Scary

2010-01-15T08:57:00.006-05:00

If his first book The Man Suit sits on the borders of tender absurdity, Zachary Schomburg's newest book, Scary, No Scary, hovers on the borders of absurd and tender yet existential. The Man Suit explores costume and disguise, even going so far as to limit all man and woman names to Carlos and Marlene. (Both of which are so manly and so womanly; Marlene being particularly old timey). The poems pose a weird sort of ontology, discovering why things are the way they are and how things happen as reactions to other actions. Schomburg's, Scary, No Scary investigates smallness. Abnormally or obtrusively gigantic things dwarf small things that appear throughout the book--spiders (being stuck in between spaces like a wolf spider), hummingbirds, and eyelashes (piles of). There is also quite a bit of attention given to sex parts... pointing at them... wrapping fake intestines around them... and the sex that happens with those sex parts always takes place as a kind of reward. The sex seems to surprise, seems to happen in unforeseen places. I couldn't help but note the continuous references to babies and children, even a "pretend son," for that matter, and their nod toward thinking of oneself as adultish, as someone capable of taking care of someone else, someone with advice to give.

The poem, "The Black Hole," is a perfect example of how Zachary Schomburg's poems are composed of absurd, sort of silly action, at the heart of which sits painful tenderness and incredibly poignant language. Have a listen to "The Black Hole" here:

The poem's movement is so staggeringly precise yet informal. Feeling "as if our hearts had been switched" delicately and quickly moves into the moment after, an end-of-times scenario in which we pass each other with each other's hearts. This delicate balance happens moment to moment, at the start, recognizing that one would push someone else into the back hole, that one wants to jump into it oneself, wants to investigate mortality or something unknown.

I actually prefer this poem in its poem-film form, which Schomburg arranged himself. It's an incredible experience to read the words as they are given slowly on the screen (along with images and sound). It breaks up the boxiness of the prose poem as well as slows it down to it's inherent humorous heart break. You can watch "The Black Hole" as well as some of his other films here or watch it with me here:

Amongst the Bombings and The Carnival

2010-01-09T17:07:00.005-05:00

What a cock tease, I so incorrectly thought while getting through the first thirty minutes or so of Luis Bunuel's That Obscure Object of Desire. And finally, some boobs. And at last maybe they're going to do it, but. I finally got what the whole thing was about a bit too late, which isn't saying much for my supposed contemporary sensibilities. Bunuel once said his films "would" reveal that we "do not live in the best of all possible worlds." In other words, we don't live so much as let social constructs control us. I felt so disgusted with myself for wondering when Conchita was going to give it up once I realized, why should she have to? How odd that a film made in 1977 was asking the same thing: just because a man wants something, just because that thing is coquettish, does he deserve to have it? (The title of the first version of this film, directed in 1935 by Josef von Sternberg and starring Marlene Dietrich, was The Devil Is a Woman). Mathieu wants to "possess" her so badly that he doesn't even notice that she's two different people, tries to buy her from her mother, and later beats her up and frightens her so badly that she urinates in her clothing. On the other hand, why does she ask for a home from him, why does she dance naked for tourists, and why does she pretend to fuck someone else in front of him, why does she constantly toy with him? Her mind games are quite difficult to engage and I was somewhat just as frustrated with her as Mathieu is. In the background are the apocalyptic explosions of terrorists' bombings.

It is no small coincidence (aw shit, am I always saying that? Art is connected to timing!) that I watched That Obscure Object of Desire, Bunuel's last film, a few days after watching Fellini's late period City of Women. Both films host their confrontations of gender politics in strange settings, the first under the threat of constant terror bombings and the second in a burlesque-type of carnival. (Could we say one man's embrace of Socialism and another's fear of facism?) The carnival setting depicts, both graciously and gratuitously, the changing role of women. The carnival setting is perfect for the lead role, a womanizer, who finds himself trapped in the middle of a feminist convention. Where Bunuel is dark and heady, Fellini is playful. The lead, played by Marcello Mastroianni, talks to himself throughout the film; at the convention the women are having provocative discussions as well as putting on plays and trying to create positive words to describe the vagina--just to name a few examples. One thing Fellini's films almost always show is how easily available sex for men, and how remorselessly so. We cannot deny that Fellini's carnival and circus settings hint at nostalgia, with indirect undertones of rascal jocularity, but the carnival setting offers the exuberant chorus of many women speaking out together and it couldn't be anything but beautiful, funny, interesting, weird, and loud.

If I never get to the bottom of what exactly both films were trying to say, I'm more or less cool with that. Both films created unforgettable cinematic moments and accomplished what I can't do for you here... they made me feel what it was like to witness women vibrantly changing the entire social landscape.

You Don't Watch Antonioni. Antonioni Watches You.

2010-01-05T18:29:00.009-05:00

I finally finished watching something I'd fallen asleep to: L'Avventura, which itself is an allusive Italian word meaning both adventure and fling. The old man and I joked about the big brotherness of falling asleep during a film, the little life that is always always, hovering on the walls and your eyelids, telling you what to dream and to dream with great camera work. What played on after I fell asleep: two friends (Claudia and Sandro) become lovers while searching Italy for their friend Anna who disappears earlier in the film. You'll know they're driving around northern Italy because of the mountains.

I liked how the melodramatic affair between two friends (his girlfriend is the one who disappears) is set against their friends who represent the disenchanted members of the idle upper-class. None of them becomes overwhelmingly upset or affected by Anna's disappearance and they even go so far as to scold themselves for making a joke of it. All the while the two lovers drive throughout Italy, their selfless motivations succumbing to their passion for each other, which kind of means Anna's return is unwanted after all. Mine mine mine, Claudia tells Sandro. Those who think they feel so much often realize they feel so little. Who feels anything anyway. Is it embarrassing and beneath you to let yourself be taken by melodrama? While I was watching, I couldn't help but think of Laura Marling's song, "New Romantic." This is a pretty cute video I recommend checking out. (I love the floating "sorry" on the floor).

While the authorities search for Anna, a police captain tells a smuggler, in order for information about her, that he'll get the smuggler set up with state services because he's obviously been stealing to help his family. I know it was tongue-in-cheek (where the hell did that phrase come from anyway), for Antonioni's films were not subsidized by the state. I however can't help but acknowledge that if this were an American film, the smuggler would've been offered a lesser sentence and not social services.

Antonioni has a delicate style of filming, featuring perplexing sensual cuts. For example, just after Sandro and Claudia are fooling around outside, they drive to a strange town where Anna may have stayed. Sandro leaves Claudia outside with every man in the piazza. It used to be a thing that Italian men would stand around outside at night. This was true even in the '80's when my family lived in Sicily. (My mother had quite a time getting my sister and I to our nightly piano lessons and orthodontist appointments, without the three of us being cat-called or asked where my father was). As Claudia becomes more and more surrounded by fiery men, she realizes she's in love with Sandro and darn if she isn't ashamed he's her best friend's boyfriend. I couldn't help but think about Ruth Orkin's photograph, An American Girl in Italy and what women think about when they are in those sorts of situations. A friend of mine had the photo framed and hung in his living room and we often discussed whether or not the woman wanted the attention, if she was trying to cover herself, and the overall pressures women have to be constantly beautiful even if it garners unwanted attention.

Fantasy Feature No. 7

2010-01-04T11:55:00.004-05:00

If garlic were tongues. The night after you cooked with garlic you sit with your fingers nearly up your nostrils on the subway. None of the other passengers know what you were doing the night before, roasted vegetables. Poor vampires. Definition of a hangnail: you were cooking not talking. You'll give up garlic like you'll give up booze. Is it time for soup yet. Research shows you should eat at least two cloves of garlic a day. With you. The family had an important meeting; someone was turning older. You were slicing avocado, looking at the garlic. Once it goes in it becomes a thing. If a bit of garlic fell on your leg would you eat where you found it. You had to cut off your nails to get the smell out. Someone said to rub your hands on steel.

Nine: A Little Shake Shake After Christmas

2009-12-25T23:13:00.007-05:00

Is there no limit to the imagination. See, all you have to do is sort of think your mother is a sexy version of Sophia Loren then you'll get over all this Freud stuff and your mother will be just one of the women who are women. (Go for the substantial object). Man looking for a film, sounds familiar. Love Fellini references, not too keen on musicals that aren't Meet Me in St. Louis. Older couple sitting next to me almost trampled me near the exit; I think they wanted to go home to have sex. Muse vs. Artist. Do you want to be the man or the woman. The old man wondered if this film is a bit sexist, but I didn't, fully, oddly. Why didn't I. (Can't a woman sing a song without wearing next to nothing or dancing with a chair kind of like a prostitute. Can't a woman not be an object. What does everything always have to be at a height). A strange role for Daniel Day-Lewis, who sings like The Count. I secretly like it when the stars of musicals can't sing all that well. It started to snow outside while I was in the movie theatre. All women are sex kittens! When women throw their hair about it's sexy! Women are wild! People only think about themselves. The experience is something experiencing. The experience is not the same as what you experience. Watch out for jazz hands. Cut to black and white. When they weren't singing, I secretly hoped the next song would begin soon. Are these the lead-in lines. Why couldn't I be in my thirties in Rome in the '60's. What are you thinking about all the time anyway. What is a role and is anyone really playing a role or just some version of themselves over and over again in different costumes. Finally, a movie that praises the beauty of older women. Are you who you are or who you think you are. Some people make you want to lie down. It was hard getting through Christmas without crying for my sister.

Fantasy Feature No. 4

2009-12-18T12:24:00.003-05:00

Nothing bothers you. See this heart? It's made of steel eating steel. Nothing "gets to you." A Friendly Frank, that's what you are. A regular. Everyone leaves you alone while you knit at the strip bar. Just kidding. You don't go to strip bars, but it wouldn't bother you if you did.

The Machine, It Just Doesn't Stop

2009-12-15T10:27:00.006-05:00

Clamoring in my brain was the voice of my very own president who said we have to go to war for democracy (i.e. in support of oil and the military industrial complex) and kill others to be free--the night the old man and I began the BBC's The Private Life of a Masterpiece series. In each episode, one piece of art is analyzed, discussed, and extensive historical background is provided for the piece, how it reached its current housing, along with some biographical background of the artist if any exists.

The first one we watched was centered around Francisco Goya's "May 3, 1808," which depicts the execution of those thought to be involved in an uprising against Napolean's army. (I say "those thought to be involved" because any man with a weapon was rounded up and executed). In the painting, the men are shot and also stabbed to be sure they died. During the episode, a really interesting discussion about the soldiers ensues. They are described as a machine and x-rays of the painting shows how they were sort of "stroked" together as one, particularly hard and fast brushstrokes given to their guns. The soldiers' faceless posture, their boxy yet triangular stance, pushing forward yet hiding behind their weapons, hiding behind some form of democracy they were supposed to represent made me kind of wonder where everyone's descendants are. Where are the children of those who died? What are they doing now? What happened to those soldiers?

One of the talking heads is Leon Golub, I'll admit, an artist I'm not very familiar with. He said so many powerful things and I know I'm going to butcher what he said that struck me the most. Our leaders do terrible things that hurt so many people, all in the name of freedom and democracy, and they don't understand why no one thanks them. It made me think about former president's Bush's visit to Iraq, how no one thanked him for what he'd done and in fact, a shoe was thrown at him. How could someone who is trying so hard to follow in Bush's footsteps receive the Peace Prize? To quote my friend Walter: "As president, it is Mr. Obama's prerogative to keep the war machine going, whether or not that is what he truly believes is best for the nation."

I Like It The Other Way

2009-12-15T10:20:00.003-05:00

This is a hand-knitted "Tiny Thing Conversion Factory: From Pandas to Gnomes." I wish it were eating the gnomes and shitting out pandas.

Fantasy Feature No. 18

2009-12-11T06:53:00.002-05:00

No more dreams about bullfighting. At some point this week you saw two images of the running of the bull, but you have only dreamt of bull fighting. The bull took forever to die. It gored the bullfighter (it's fighter? weird) against a wall for a long time. Then the bullfighter hit it against the wall until it died. Someone gave the bullfighter the ears and tail. (Which is weird. Why not just give him the balls?) Why did you dream about this. You once watched a Bruce Connor collage film (a form of assemblage art) of a bull being brought down, among other things, as president Kennedy was assassinated and declared dead--presented by Peter Gizzi during a traveling lecture on Jack Spicer. You watched an Italian and Spanish film about the dispersed body of a bull. It becomes dog biscuits that an actress tries to sell in a grocery store and something weird happens to its heart or eyes. You couldn't find a record of that movie anywhere, which is really weird.

Holy shit. Claire Hero.

2009-12-03T06:52:00.005-05:00

I first heard about Claire Hero through Ross and we both agree that she is a damn fine poet of the body. (We've been emailing back and forth about her this week--more on that later--so please know that many of my comments here have surfaced from these emails). Saying "of the body" always seems a little weird to me, but she's really onto to something physically, more than physically, the bodily nature of everything. She's attune to animal-ness, the meat of it all, the violence of being so bodily body--the sexuality therein, caregiving, killing, the fluids of all that. "I knit a sheep house, I knit // a sheep house for my body..." She's so brilliant at combining something natural, something animal, something made from animal, and animal making. (Ross says this makes him think of "the wonderful opening to Lyotard's Libidinal Economy"). Doors come up quite often in Claire Hero's poetry and it's this sheep house, this animal world, this acknowledgement of being an animal that will be entered again and again. "Animals he takes apart" : "He knows what the meat wants".

In her poem, "The Night Was Animal," Hero wordbuilds through word splices: "owlmaw," "preyclaw," "meatbeasts". She addresses "Crackbone," a cowboyishness on the range, out in the woods type, a force of death and dismemberment. What gets established, what killers we all are, even in our night doings, even though these doings don't stop just because of night: "& still the forest continues, the linespeed never slows". The carcasses keep coming and coming. In Ross's words, it's the carnivorous grotesquerie--so beautiful and so gross that we can't look away--repulsed and attracted to what we are, animals and death, both yarn and kitty. We need this poet.

Have a listen to [The Night Was Animal], which you can find in her book Sing, Mongrel and her chapbook, afterpastures. Claire Hero is going to be reading here in Brooklyn this weekend for Yardmeter. You should come.

I've Been Saltered

2009-11-29T23:55:00.003-05:00

After hearing two of my friends debate whether or not anal sex was the sport or the pastime, I knew I had to read James Salter's A Sport and a Pastime. At least four times a year, a really good piece of fiction comes my way, comes your way, and they somehow manage to change our thinking forever. I kind of wonder why the guy isn't a poet, but I'll take what he has, you know, any way he wants it.

Salter's Faulknerian, Hemingwayishness of story-telling combines a sort of lush spareness with decisive imagery. Or maybe it's not even imagery. I don't really care what these characters look like or what the room looks like, but they all seem to be in a place that I know, in time that I can feel passing. I'm trying to say Salter's prose has movement, Alice Munro movement. "They have turned off the light. In the room there is a huge armoire, a wicker basket, chairs. A metal tree on which garments can be hung. The ceiling is very high. In its center--one's eyes must be accustomed to the dark--a grotesque fixture. The hours pass. She is pinioned on the bed, her arms trapped beneath her, her legs forced wide. Her eyes are closed. The radio is playing Sucu Sucu. The world has stopped. Oceans still as photographs. Galaxies floating down. Her cunt tastes sweet as fruit" (64). Who doesn't want to read more? It jumps and pivots and sometimes just kind of floats. I usually throw up on airplanes, but I made myself finish this book on my journey home. I just couldn't go through another day with it unread.

There's so much to say, but I'm kind of tired from my flight. Change is something I think about often, what really changes someone, if anyone changes. I used to think that place changed a person, that you could be anything if you were in the right place. After reading A Sport and a Pastime, I wonder if it isn't physical love, not even love really, but someone else's flesh that makes you feel alive or scared a bit, definitely more yourself. Change through physical discovery--that's what I scribbled on the top of page 123 anyway.

Airplane Movie Reviews

2009-11-27T22:16:00.011-05:00

Quantum of Solace:

Better with the sound off.

500 Days of Summer:

When are these kids going to leave their office-like internship and go back to class? Aren't they going to be late for class? The principal is going to be pissed! He may call their parents!

The Proposal:

Better with the sound off. You know when they're talking about boobs because they point to them!! You know she's a mean business woman because she can't climb down stairs and wears a suit!! With high heels!!

Grease 2:

Sorry, but it's kind of cute as hell. And I like that Paulette is over thirty and has smoker's voice.

Madonna: Truth or Dare:

Oddly, this is edited really well. It's interesting listening to her talk to her parents. The painter and poet Francis Picabia was really interested in the anti-Madonna, the motherless woman, the one you didn't have to feel bad about. Madonna's "Daddy" wanted to know if he could attend her show both nights and if it was going to be "racy."

New in Town:

Another mean business woman in heels. She totally needs a man! She changes because of the town! She learns something about people!

Lesbian Vampire Killers:

Ha ha. Fooled you. I didn't see this on a plane. I haven't seen this one.

The International:

There's a woman in it because...

Love Happens:

Oy.

Ghost Town:

Nicely confusing with the sound off.

Penelope:

Christina Ricci always seems like someone I'd like to know, I mean really. I think it's her face. Who is Mark Palansky and how did he come to direct such a pretty-looking movie?

I am Legend:

Okay. I didn't see this on an airplane, but in a theater. My apartment building stars in this movie! It was even on a subway poster!

I started this post because I thought it would be funny, but now I feel sad.

"'Bout the rebel yell, 'bout the one that fell..."

2009-11-23T12:11:00.006-05:00

With the ONE beautiful, amazing, lovely person who showed up to my reading in Richmond, Virginia, the old man and I snuck into the Hollywood Cemetery. More than 18,000 confederate soldiers are interred there, as well as Jefferson Davis, Presidents Monroe and Tyler, and some other Civil War generals. The confederate soldiers are memorialized by a mortarless pyramid that is around ninety feet tall. We were hankering to see the pyramid, especially after my friend described a sound show that she'd like to do, featuring a recording of the confederate rebel yell, which sounds like a pack of dogs, bees, mosquitoes, and a bubble maker in tall grass. Have a listen:

After we jumped the first fence, the three of us dodged the security guard by wrapping ourselves together around a large holly tree, Bugs Bunny style. I'm thinking the guard saw us and let us go to our destination. (By the way, I warned the old man not to talk to the guard, if it came to that. The old man is from Massachusetts, knows how to pronounce wine correctly, says "O Geez" fairly often, all of which does not go over well to local law enforcement. I can whip out some southern if I have to and our friend sure could've and I think the two of us gals would've come up with some form of romantic excuse for being in the graveyard with one speechless man; I have done this in a cow pasture after all).

The pyramid was quite a site, pointing high into the cool night air. We were too afraid to use the flash, for fear of being caught, so this is an over-exposed night photo of bricks carried up from the James River. Do you think the guard thinks I'm a ghost? After a very harrowing climb over a high back gate, one of us lost a sock in the cemetery.

It's No Seven-Up, But It's Fascinating

2009-11-19T04:56:00.005-05:00

The most comprehensive longitudinal studies in the United States began in the 1940's at Harvard. Arlie Bock started surveying men as early as 1937 to see what made them normal, healthy men. The study is comprised of 268 men from the Harvard classes of 1942, 1943, and 1944. One of these men was president, four have run for Senate, and one took a spill while drunk and died. The study was designed to determine what factors lead to a normal life, normal being sort of loosely, 1940ishly, Harvardly defined as being stable enough to be successful. Totally problematic, but interesting nonetheless in that it was one of the first studies of its kind to focus on what makes people live a long, healthy, and perhaps happy life.

From the time of the study's inception, the 268 men annually undergo a physical examination and answer survey questions. Quite a bit of work, right? The study has been running under the leadership of George Vaillant, who took it over in 1967 when it was barely surviving. His charismatic approach to the study, it seems, has contributed to the study's survival of seventy-two years, which is also Vaillant's age. He's written two books about the study, Adaptation to Life (1977) and Aging Well (2002). Although he is now in an ancillary position, he still seems deeply affected by the lives of these men, focusing on the story of their lives as a way of understanding what it means to be able to live a well-adjusted life. A small number of them are still living, in their 80's, but most of them are deceased. Many of the men, 80% of them, fought in World War II, most of them apparently seeing heavy combat, so the study has been a useful tool for understanding PTSD.

I first read about this study in the June 2009 issue of the Atlantic, in an article entitled, "What Makes Us Happy?" written by Joshua Wolf Shenk. (He's the author of Lincoln's Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled His Greatness). The article is written so well that I would hope Mr. Shenk would write the definitive book about this Harvard study. Mr. Shenk sifted through the thick records and directly addresses some of these anonymous men while reporting on the history of the study and study's potential findings. I leave you with one of the addresses, but first want to take a moment, let it settle in a bit, to think about what it means to study someone's lifetime, their life span. Vaillant's approach is very clinical, regardless of how touched or influenced he is by these men's lives, and he says, "...when someone dies, I finally know what happened to them." It's a weird truth, hard to stomach, and he's had to do it so many times.

Joshua Wolf Shenk, to Case No. 47:

"You ducked the war, as a conscientious objector. 'I've answered a great many questions,' you wrote in your 1946 survey. 'Now I'd like to ask you people a couple of questions. By what standards of reason are you calling people 'adjusted' these days?' ...You married young and did odd jobs... You said you wanted to be a writer, but that looked like a distant dream. You started drinking. ...By 1964 you wrote, 'Really tie one on about twice a week...' ...'I've never been more productive, and I'm a little wary of rocking the boat right now by going on a clean living kick...' ...In the early 1970's Dr. Vaillant came to see you in your small apartment... ...You told Dr. Vaillant he should read Joseph Heller on the unrelieved tragedy of conventionally successful businessmen. ...You went on to a very productive career, and became an important figure in the gay-rights movement. ...You died at age 64, when you fell down the stairs of your apartment building."

Syllabus: Samurai Films

2009-11-17T02:29:00.007-05:00

Films:

Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa)

Lone Wolf and Cub: Sword of Vengeance (Kenji Misumi)

Lone Wolf and Cub: Baby Cart to Hades (Kenji Misumi)

Samurai Assassin (Kihachi Okamoto)

Throne of Blood (Akira Kurosawa)

Lady Snowblood (Toshiya Fujita)

Samurai Trilogy: Miyamoto Musashi (Yoji Yamada)

Zatoichi (Takeshi Kitano)

Samurai Reincarnation (Kenji Fukasaku)

Sword of Doom (Kihachi Okamoto)

Twilight Samurai (Yoji Yamada)

Yojimbo (Akira Kurosawa)

Field Trips:

Art of the Samurai, The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Course Objectives:

The way of the warrior is to live to die. Weird titillating breast-feeding scenes: discuss. Comments on culture. How a samurai sword is made. Committing seppuku. The battle is never won. In-class homemade blood packets blood splatterings: wear clothes you don't care about. Actor as swordsman as actor. Bandits, ronin, samurai: chart qualities of all. Who's running this country. If you cut off their topknots, they will be so dishonored that they'll kill themselves. Oy rape scenes galore: why. How did death become honorable. Wait--where's his sword--oh shit how did he do that. Compare Kurosawa's version to all. Is a duel challenge a form of bragging or a wish to die. How to remain calm. What is the samurai code.

There's More in the Fridge If You Want Some

2009-11-15T23:41:00.004-05:00

Today I cooked sweet potato soup from Deborah Madison's Vegetable Soups. I kind of jumped the gun because sweet potatoes are technically a winter vegetable and it's not quite cold enough. (Do you feel you can bring winter on by wearing hats and scarves when it's not quite cold enough? I do). (This is when I get embarrassed and smile funny). I had a country bumpkin moment while food shopping--ah! but that what's New Yorkers say. New Yorkers say they go FOOD shopping, not GROCERY shopping. Is a yam the same thing as a sweet potato? I couldn't find sweet potatoes, so I naturally assumed that Yams were the Northern version. The sign next to the yams said that a yam is technically a sweet potato. I tried to call the old man's mother, but she didn't pick up. When I'm in Louisiana, we buy sweet potatoes from roadside stands.

Deborah Madison wanted quince in the soup, but I couldn't find it, so I used three tart apples that I picked while I was upstate. I like this soup because the stock contained apple cores which is cute as hell. It's nice to cook with all that stuff instead of throwing it all away. I like how Madison and her people construct the recipes and word the directions. Listen to this: After a few minutes, when the wine has reduced by half or so, pour the stock through a strainer right over the vegetables. Pretty nice, right?

I love cooking. Sometimes I want to invite the neighbors I know from the elevator over for dinner. I wish I had a long bench and when the person in the middle wanted something, we would all have to touch it. I love it when I think I'm done cooking and can finally eat, but wait there's something I forgot about that I have to go get, and shouldn't I squeeze out a pie while I'm up? At long last, that first bite is always so good.

Please Don't Change That Grit

2009-11-10T11:31:00.006-05:00

Streamers hang from a string of lanterns and confetti is peppered about the floor, along with balloons that have lost their umph. Be careful that you don't step on the sword that also rests on the floor. Did someone leave it there or was it thrown there? Circled about are chairs, as though people had been talking and on one chair rests a large head-mask, mustached and staring only where it can stare. The mask will return in another photograph by Paolo Ventura, as well as the sword, but in this photo, titled "2:00 a.m." the mask and sword and the room itself are at rest. The party is over, the space has been cleared, and the piano waits for people to play it once again.

The photographs of Paolo Ventura are of miniature sets that he constructs. The old man and I first came across his work in the latest issue of Harper's and you can see the portfolio here. Ventura's work is not miniature but of miniature. His sets boldly have people, circus performers or just people in their hats and coats walking down the street, not that that's that bold, but the figures themselves look like old dolls or toys that look like people. There's a new grit being explored in these sets... the clown with the dirty gloves, the sword swallower performing on a dirty stage to no one, the soiled-apron waiter looking out the window of an empty restaurant. There's always a feeling of departure, someone heading home, someone dressed up in a bird mask with no one around to see, a figure who holds a brief case and looks through a gate. (The soundtrack here coming from the gritty musicianship including the likes of Sunset Rubdown, Department of Eagles, Phoenix, and Grizzly Bear. Maybe Beirut. Maybe Devotchka.)

Ventura's work reminds me of lonely afternoons of Sicilian siesta, when everyone would drop everything, eat a huge lunch followed by a nap. The only people out were the leather bracelet makers from Africa, the drunk flip-flop salesman, or the occasional mother rocking a restless child. It was so quiet you could drag a stick on a wall and no one would tell you to stop. You could peak in someone's window and see something similar to "Table for Four," stacked dirty dishes, crumbs everywhere, empty bottles of wine, a pan with grease waiting to be scrubbed, the smell of pasta lingering.

Paolo Ventura was born in Milan but now lives in New York. His collection of photographs entitled Winter Stories accompanies me sick in bed today. I will flip and flip and flip through them, piecing the stories together, noting the footsteps or tire tracks in the sooty snow. He has a show here in the city pretty soon. Come with me when I'm all better?

It All Started This Day Thirty Something Years Ago

2009-11-08T10:25:00.006-05:00

Today's the day. The old man spelled "happy" across the floor with books. Health care barely passed, but it passed. In the photo my father and I are devouring a watermelon, my favorite thing to do. The only bad thing about living in the city, really, is that we don't get good watermelon here. It's always a little pink, not too hearty. If you don't agree with me, I'm driving you to Louisiana in July and you'll see. You'll say I told you so. Behind me is a white salt shaker. It's a Southern delicacy to sprinkle salt on watermelon. Those days are over for me, you know, because of my age, but I sure do miss that simple weird taste.

The Human Zoo, Closed on Mondays

2009-11-05T04:04:00.004-05:00

I've been to see quite a few shows recently, well more than normal since all the musicians I like are apparently autumnal travelers. At a rather disappointing Noah and the Whale show, I couldn't help but note the human zoo-ness of it all, the light on everyone's faces, the guy next to me hornily looking at the woman next to him and the curly headed kid not to far ahead of me who could've very well have been my kid because he looked like a cool kid. (I'm so sorry for not liking Noah and the Whale. I wanted to so badly because I really liked most of their first album. I haven't yet watched the film that accompanies their new album, so maybe that will change how I reacted. For further aside, the lead singer of Noah and the Whale is the fourth or fifth English performer who commented on how polite his American audience was. Really? Do you really think your fans are the stupid ones? Come on.)

It's funny how we all show up at events to watch whatever, to see what we think may be greatness, some of us totally unaware of who we're even sitting next to. When I travel, I always try start up conversations with people, you know if someone asks me to take her photograph or something like that. It's no secret that I generally don't like to go the movie theater as much as everyone else does because I find it to be total sensory overload. (More on that later...) It's so weird to me that we all pay a rather high fee to go stare at a large amount of light, sitting next to strangers in total darkness, wanting it to be darker, and then we all leave--with sad faces if the movie was sad, etc. I just want to know why everyone is there and who they are really. It's a type of connected disconnect I guess.

When I used to visit my grandmother in Grenada, Mississippi, she would take me to Wal-Mart and we'd sit in the car, watching people go by. She would call me Sugar and point someone out that she thought I should see. One of the best human zoo experiences I've had was when the old man and I saw the, correct me if I'm wrong the old man is sleeping right now, Olafur Eliasson exhibit at MOMA. There was one room filled with orange light and when you walked into it, your sense of color as you knew it transformed everything into black and white. It was as though I was suddenly in Casablanca and it was time to kiss Bogart. I immediately turned to the old man, who was already flipping out, and said something about how film noir the light was. We sat down on a nearby bench, took off our coats, rolled up our sleeves, just to see what our skin looked like under the weird light. I could've sat on that bench for a year, watching people react to the orange light. Some people didn't get it at all and made funny you-call-this-art faces while others, I could tell, were thinking they'd just stepped into a black and white movie too.

Visitations

2009-10-28T12:14:00.003-04:00

Louisiana fog is a weird kind of fog. You can sort of see the sun behind it, like in San Francisco, but Spanish moss makes the whole thing unsettling. On the way out to the cemetery I visit every time I come home, we pass a huge bayou filled with ducks and a few egrets. The ducks walk over to a nearby gas station that has a donut shop. Anyway, while at the fog-filled cemetery, my mom saw a chicken not too far off from where we were standing, the place our family always stands when we go out there. Did the chicken escape from a farm? I also wondered if maybe someone was recently practicing voodoo, but chickens involved with voodoo are generally sacrificed. They say most houses in New Orleans have chicken heads buried in the backyards. The fog has burned off and I remember now that I wanted to write about a certain hate-filled, conservative town, but all I can think about is that chicken. I hope it doesn't get hit by a lawnmower.

I've Already Been Called a Yankee Three Times This Trip

2009-10-26T21:48:00.005-04:00

My niece/sister complained that she was surrounded by Yankees on the way to my folks' house in the middle of Louisiana. She was sitting between the old man and I. He, clearly, is a Yankee, who pauses before answering most southerners because he doesn't want to say the wrong thing or he didn't understand what was said to him. Am I a Yankee? I remember the first time my niece/sister asked me what a Yankee was. We'd been at a family reunion and apparently she heard someone call me that. When I was in college, I had a friend who thought anyone who lived north of Shreveport, Louisiana was a Yankee.

So maybe I'm part Yankee, no? Is that even allowed? At a wedding this weekend someone asked me if I was originally from Brooklyn and I found myself saying yes. She looked so impressed. The old man corrected me, of course, explaining that I had southern people and the whole moving around thing. Tonight, while at an all-you-can-eat soul food buffet restaurant, our waitress kept calling me baby and asked me if I was okay and did I want more sticky buns. I wanted so badly to say yes ma'am and thank you very much, but all I could muffle out was oh yes and thanks. My mouth was full of sweet potatoes and I felt like I didn't have any manners, but really I hate manners and I hate even more that I felt embarrassed for not having much of a southern accent. I just wanted her to stay talking.

It is the end of squirrel hunting season and the beginning of deer hunting season. In the middle of Louisiana, many folk are walking around in weird camo or orange pants. It's unsettling, knowing what they're doing out there in the woods, the camo being so obvious, the shooting, the killing, the skinning, and the potential eating. Someone's freezer is gointabe full, you know what I'm sayin? I know what your pants mean, you know what I'm sayin?

Laura Marling on a Warm October Night

2009-10-21T20:44:00.009-04:00

The old man and I went to see Laura Marling play last night at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, which used to be known as North Six. The old man and I went on our first date there, standing awkwardly next to each other as Dirty Rainbow blasted out our ear drums.

I was incredibly looking forward to seeing Laura Marling and didn't at all expect her voice to be so drippingly soulful. Her album really doesn't do it justice. Her voice (in person) is edgier and textured, like looking at a painting after having seen the print. She sang songs from her second album, which sounds pretty damn good.

Laura Marling sparks in me the (VERY) occasional comfort I have with growing older. It's nice to grow older if it means you get to see young people like her come along. I don't mean in any following-in-my-footsteps, bullshitty kind of way. What I mean to say is that all is not lost because someone comes after you, someone really great, someone within your lifetime. I guess this goes without saying, but I was filled with so much admiration while watching Laura Marling on stage. Her new songs are so wise in this brilliant but structured sort of way and you can't help but want to sit her down and say where did you get it? She truly is awe-inspiring.

The Hat Box Has Come Down

2009-10-20T05:22:00.007-04:00

I've been hunkering down with Bernd Heinrich's Winter World, which details how animals survive during winter. When bears hibernate, their heartbeats slow down to almost eight or less per minute. Some turtles bury themselves in mud and can hold their breath for thirty of winter's coldest days. The winter world of the book is focused on New England, as Heinrich resides in Maine and Vermont. (New England winters are easy to romanticize, especially if you're not from there. Have you ever been night skiing on lantern lit lanes? Sigh now). My only complaint about the book is that Heinrich often takes babies (a flying squirrel baby to be exact) from their sleeping mothers and takes nests home with him to study. Can't he observe without stealing?

Anyway, snowshoe hares change from brown to white during winter. The color change takes about a month, which can make hares a target for predators during early snowfall (and they are still brown) or late snowfall; the hares turn completely white by late November. Heinrich wonders if the hares know about their color change, that they are practically invisible once they are white. Heinrich writes, "I doubt that a hare knows whether or not it is invisible because the totally white hares I've seen on brown background made no apparent effort to hide" (26). I couldn't help but think about Rilke's "The Eighth Elegy," which addresses how, according to Rilke, animals aren't encumbered by death because they, more or less, aren't hampered by the world. He establishes the idea of the Open, an eternal/God-type realm, a forward sort of place that isn't the future. We are so apart of the world, we think, that when we die we leave this world. Only when we are close to death are we over it. Rilke writes, "For close to death one sees death no longer/ and stares out instead, perhaps with the wide gaze of animals" (lines 22-23). Rilke couldn't be talking about any real animals, just the animals of example, eating their berries and nibbling their hind quarters until they get hit by a car or something. Who can say what animals are and aren't aware of, but the idea that on the animals v. human scale, one of us contributes to a cycle of life while the other takes the Harold and Maud approach, to live life to the fullest because you aren't going to be around forever. Sounds as though it were freeing, right? But we know it's just a confident sort of fear, a fear with tree planting and hearse stealing...

Heinrich often reminds me that the chipmunks and the snowshoe hares will be eaten, will be the winter meal of another animal desperate to overload on calories before cozying up with its young somewhere safe. Have a listen to "The Eighth Elegy" by Rainer Maria Rilke, from his Duino Elegies translated by Edward Snow.

More Eyes that Slant, More Woolens

2009-10-19T12:08:00.007-04:00

We left the city yesterday in windy rainy weather for the last day of the New York Sheep and Wool Festival. For the first time I saw cashmere sheep and Leicesters (they have fur not wool), and petted some Alpaca and merino sheep. The whole thing about livestock is so weird. Livestock. When eating becomes feeding, a year before dying. We just sort of take everything from these scared little creatures: their bones become plates, their milk for cheese, their wool becomes yarn, this yarn becomes superwash merino that I'm going to knit into socks. I worked on a sheep farm and we always knew that before winter, most of the lambs would be loaded up and sent to Blood Slaughterhouse. Even my friend #4 who would ram my butt while I was changing out the water.

After livestock we went to Woodstock where friends of ours just had twins. The babies were sleeping in two baskets on their living room table. I read books to their toddler and one of the babies woke up and puked on one of my friends. It seemed so nice, being new, sleeping wherever someone puts you, being little. One of the trees outside their house had turned bright red. Funny how October is almost over.

Children Are you Still Feral

2009-10-16T08:51:00.006-04:00

Last night I asked the old man if there could possibly be feral children running around, you know the kind that run with the wolves and tigers, the kind that don't know language, the kind who scratch. In the old man's cynic ease he said something about terrible parents who abandon their children, you know, of course there are feral children running around. Who is the cynic here: the one who thinks the world is too picked over, that there is no more such thing as being feral OR the one who thinks a feral child is a product of the ultimate human abandonment. I have a friend who went backpacking around the world and she said that everywhere she went, she stepped on a soda can or plastic bottle, even in freezing temperatures, even in the jungle.

I started Bhanu Kapil's Humanimal last night. The text itself is kind of strange, switching between a large print narrative, the writings of Reverend Joseph Singh (the man who found two girls living among wolves), and Kapil's journey through her research of the two girls' story as Singh tries to make them upright. I couldn't take my eyes off the photograph of the two girls, given to Kapil by Singh's great-great-granddaughter. The girls are lying naked on top of animal pelts (?) or blankets in the middle of perhaps a grassy field/road next to a white building. They are both little and their hair is shorn to their scalps. One of the girls sleeps fetal and the other sleeps over her. I want to be both of them at the same time, their comfort and discomfort, long toes, longish arms, someone you don't want to put a blanket over.

List: Temporal Art

2009-10-15T11:35:00.005-04:00

light on hair
heirloom tomato salad
food in teeth
wet receipts
nestlike pile of cat hair behind the door
where sneezes land
breathing newspaper in the subway
tired eyes
you know what
two bikes locked together (they love each other!)
pile of roasted vegetables, mostly orange
falling asleep with a book
falling asleep with a pen
steamed milk in coffee

Tunnels Mean Something But I'm Not Sure What

2009-10-12T08:44:00.007-04:00

Apparently things open up in New York City in Autumn. For example, the cemetery on East 3rd Street opens up briefly around this time. I took the old man there on our first date, but another couple were graphically pursuing their own strange romantic inclinations on the hood of a nearby car, all of us locked out with no mausoleums or grave markers to hide in/behind, so we continued on to my favorite yarn store.

Open now is the Atlantic Avenue subway tunnel, the first in New York City. It was once part of the Long Island Railroad, which made stops to Brooklyn when Brooklyn was a wee village. The old man and I had to climb down a man hole into the tunnel and I have to say that I was disappointed by its mere four steps on a precarious ladder. I wanted many steps, I sort of wanted to fall, to go down into the depths, I wanted it to be harder to get to. There are tunnels like this all over the city, well, all under the city, and it seems strange that these old structures aren't that out of reach. Also, I was very afraid that a rat was going to run across my foot, but there weren't any rats in the uninhabited tunnel.

The man who found the tunnel talked to us about all kinds of interesting New York City facts, but the old man had to retell them because I wasn't really listening. I was wondering why all the other people had come, what happened to the woman who was pooped on by a bird while we waiting in line, how come I stupidly bought an environmentally friendly flashlight that charges when shaken in a weird masturbatory way and gives off minimal light, how a tall happy man climbed down the manhole while carrying a baby, if I could carry a baby and climb down a manhole.

Do you remember a band called Frente? I don't know what happened to them, but they had one album which has the best cover of "Bizarre Love Triangle." While in the tunnel I hummed a song of theirs, about you and me and a tunnel of love, but I was surrounded by strangers, and the words actually are you and me and the labor (labour) of love. I kept tripping on old railroad ruts, sort of hearing a story about horses freaking out next to the trains down there. How long do you think I could've been alone down there?

We had to leave before the end of the tunnel tour, but at least we heard the story about how the laborers shot and tore apart their overseer, burying him in the tunnel. A half hour late, we jumped on our bikes and rushed away into a day that had warmed on the city.

Dumplings and Trumpets: Chris Martin

2009-10-07T14:20:00.007-04:00

To call a book of poetry beautiful is somewhat problematic, but I like problematic so I'll go ahead: Chris Martin's American Music is an incredibly beautiful beautiful book of poetry. The difficulty in calling something beautiful is that it's such an over-achiever of a word. What words are you supposed to say after? Calling something beautiful means you've been rendered speechless, that (fuck!) there just may not be a word to describe your reactions to American Music. Nevertheless, I am comfortable with being arrested (uh, in the poetry sense) and will carry on.

American Music is a book that drives in and out of art and film, in and out of daily routine, in and out of literature, of city and subway, the people around. If you're new to the city, you should read this book. If you're turning older, if your age isn't giving you leverage or grants you a kind of leverage that make young people call you SIR or MAIM, or if your age is a reminder that someday you will die because you will grow so old that you will die, you should read this book.

Perversion is a prevailing worry throughout the book. Is someone becoming a dirty old man? Dirty being there all the while yet brought further out by age or city life. Worse yet, being a dirty old man means there is no boys-will-be-boys boyhood anymore, that somehow everything must be accounted for. "...not often am I/ Prepared for violence," Martin writes in "Fertility for Dummies", "though I find it/ Natural, in me as in/ The World, and it remains/ Revolting, the brief/ Desire to trample something/ Living, loving certain/ Registers of collapse..." What you see in that there quote is the beauty prior mentioned and also the italics, the way Martin infuses all his poems with a long list of writers and artists.

Something else I'd like to point out is that the poems sort of wind their way down to their closings. Martin doesn't stop much for punctuation outside of a comma and a question mark, and the poems make their way, connecting phrase after phrase, either making long Faulkneresque sentences or doing away with sentences altogether, to make room for thought. It's easy to get used to and it's fun teaching myself how to listen to the phrase, how to make it work as I read, while somehow becoming a better writer and thinker because of it.

Have a listen to "Subcutaneous Concerns." There are two New Yorky references in this poem, the first being Neckface, the tag of a graffiti artist here in town, and the second being the Gowanus Canal, a canal in Brooklyn that five east-west bridges cross over. Chris Martin is going to be reading near there this weekend for Yardmeter.

Fantasy Feature No. 23

2009-10-06T15:27:00.004-04:00

Those poor pieces of painted linen. This was the plan: you'll paint them then you'll trace something on them with pastels. Boy howdy you thought pastels were oily and not chalky and your pastels turned into dust when you started to draw on the painted fabric. Only you can't draw for shit. So you hooked up your computer to the old man's projector and practiced tracing photographs on brown paper. You were up on a ladder, holding onto the wall, you'd been thinking on this for months, and the shapes were so beautiful. The old man said hmm and don't you want to cover the books. The paper was lovely and the pastel glided over it and you thought fuck this might be working, but your childhood rocking chair you traced looked like something out of Tron. You had one and your sister had one and now no one can sit in them. Everyone is too big and you suck at everything.

Are You Still Blushing From Last Night? I Am

2009-10-02T11:36:00.007-04:00

I've written about hands before, how I think you can tell what instrument someone plays by the way he or she holds his or her hands. (Really, is it so wrong to use their here?) My former cello teacher has the most celloie looking hands you've ever seen. Anyway, I noticed in grad school that most of the poets I know use a kind of staid circular motion while talking with their hands. Their palms tend to point to themselves and their hands sort of balloon around them. Almost all of the painters I know hand-talk in squares, as though everything were some sort of canvas. Up and wide, space, light these hands say.

Well, at last night's reading, I met two women who are modern dancers. Their hands spoke in swirls and swoops. I don't think the women knew each other, but they reached far and wide with their hands, somehow encompassing their whole bodies--hands as hips when the hips are sitting. I wanted both of them to invite me to their performances, but they didn't. I guess I'm happy enough just watching them talk.

Fantasy Feature No. 1

2009-10-01T09:56:00.004-04:00

Will you forget everything when you die. Will you be smoking a cigar in a lawn chair. What is all blackness like. Who will remember you and does it matter. Will it be painful. Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof says you have to feel pain to know you're alive. Barf. What will it be, in the end--too much drinking, too much salt, not enough fiber. What did you do well in your lifetime. Are you going to be this bitchy in heaven. What if what you believe is where you go in the end. You want to stay here and do stuff. You want to be a ghost so you can watch people having sex. You mean, you want to be a ghost and protect your family, friends. You want to be a ghost traveler. You will hold your breath for a long time when you're a ghost and you won't scare anyone. Is what you do totally empty because you will die. Bring your old dog Daisy. Bring chocolate cookies. You met a man who rolled cigars for a living. You lost a lace shirt your grandmother gave. What are you supposed to do with all this yarn. You want so badly to be Hob from The Sandman.

Love My City, Part One

2009-09-29T14:28:00.005-04:00

Last week the old man, along with Steven and his lady, went to see a play on a boat. The boat is the decommissioned Lilac (a former Lighthouse Tender) and resides tied to a pier in Manhattan. The play was a rather sloppy, uh, thing inspired by Herman Melville's The Confidence Man. What was incredibly fun was that the play took place all over the boat--little scenes here, little scenes there--and attendees were allowed to walk about the boat, as many scenes were happening simultaneously. The audience was split into different groups who had to follow different docents and if you stayed with your docent, then you could follow one story line throughout the ship.

Besides being free of charge, something I liked about the play was that it couldn't really decide if it wanted to be old-timey or current-timey. Some characters were dressed in fashionable shorts and t-shirts while others wore vests and dresses from a different era. This amalgamation seemed to affect the language of the play, inspired by different times, but captivated by the pressures of now.

Oddly enough the docents were almost a little better than the play. (The docents were actors. They use their hands when they speak! They say funny things! They speak loudly without losing their voices!) Our docent was a chirpy ribbon-clad pony-tailed comedian who began fighting (like I'm never sleeping with you again and you're a bad actor fighting) with one of the actors, who in turn ridiculed her after each scene. She had this quirky way of telling jokes as though she were just sort of talking to us (listen, she said, for the secret word and you will win a prize), so no one really knew if we should laugh or not. But then we laughed and she invited us to pick up flyers for her comedy group's performance.

A play on a boat. It's such a great idea. I loved the swaying and rocking and the smell and the tiny staircases that I had to climb backwards. I'm really glad I went, but I was wondering how come I haven't been to any poetry readings on a boat.

I've Got Your Back, Flarf

2009-09-23T11:00:00.005-04:00

My friends who don't write poetry and claim to "not get it" like to pull me aside, sit me down and have conversations about how silly it all is and why do I bother with it. The past two conversations like this, most recently, have begun, "you know, the thing about poetry is..." and "poets should be more assessable..." and I squish my nose defensively and if the old man is around, our eyes say O JOY. One thing I'd like to say is that I really never hear people attacking other art-generators as much as I hear poets being attacked (not that other writers/artists aren't questioned about their difficult material). For instance, I didn't understand one of my friend's paintings and asked him what it was all about. He said the image was from a film. I felt bad that I hadn't seen the film and put it into my Netflix que right away. Please note that I didn't say, "You know, Artist Friend, why can't you paint flowers to look like vaginas? Why did you have to make this so hard for me? Why did you have to make me feel as though there was something in the world I hadn't yet experienced?"

Anyway, what I eventually talk about with non-poets, after the definition for what is assessable has been established and pissed on, is that there are many different kinds of poetry out there and there is, I think, a poet that every person can feel comfortable reading. We're kind of like sweaters, really. The last two conversations I had, I mentioned Flarf because I knew those friends were pretty internet savvy and I thought they'd find it interesting, which they did. Luckily, Katie Degentesh's The Anger Scale was nearby and the old man read "I Loved My Father." I like the way Flarf shuts people up while they are thinking. It's funny, watching the change come over someone's face when they find that something they thought was going to be meaningless is actually the opposite, is quite thoughtfully constructed and provocative. If (IF) most new poetry is disconnected, disjointed, and full of stuff because the world is, because we're going to die and we don't want it to be meaningless and we can't help it and we're hopeless, Flarf, at least for me, is a kind of poetry that has its own nook, its own unique gesture of meaning taken from information floating out there.

Sorry about the loud train! I didn't have time to unplug all my external hard drives to record in the bathroom, which is what I usually do. Listen to "I Loved My Father" here:

Swallow This And Love It

2009-09-21T13:07:00.005-04:00

Poemland by Chelsey Minnis
concord grapes
pancake squash
The Cow by Ariana Reines
wheat stamp
new orange journal
The Malady of Death by Marguerite Duras
Hush Sessions by Kristi Maxwell
Mad Men, Season 2
My Kafka Century by Arielle Greenberg
Don't Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine
last of the last sweet corn

Autumn With Very Little Assurance

2009-09-18T08:46:00.006-04:00

Well, the sky has been repeatedly cloudy and the air has cooled, making me talk of pants. I even wore a shirt with sleeves on it. Autumn is my favorite time of year, when things begin to die and acorn squash becomes available. The old man and I are traveling upstate this weekend for a reading tomorrow (do you live in Ithaca--please say yes), and I plan to bring home some fallen leaves for leaf etchings. Also, I plan to go apple picking--my favorite ever thing to do. The old man and I even have a routine where I climb on his shoulders to pick the apples that little kids can't pick. Their sticky faces look up at us and they usually run away to tell their parents and I also usually get caught by the staff, climbing the trees.

I didn't knit the sweater I'd plan to and it seems that our government is going to fart away health care. I don't watch television (other than what Netflix sends me and what I find on the Internet) but I guess I was drinking some weird water and began to doubt why Obama went after health care in the first place. Then I watched Michael Moore's Sicko the night before last and I was reminded what it all was about. I need to figure out a way to move to France or Norway. How is it that medicine that costs $120 dollars costs less than 2 pesos in Cuba? What we've allowed to happen is criminal. Big companies have bought the U.S. government and there's nothing I can do about it.

It was so rainy all summer that it seems autumn has crept in sort of uninvited. There may be one or two hot-flash days, but the last warm day was Tuesday. Just like that I have to start thinking about pumpkin pie and move my sun dresses to the back of the closet. Out comes the corduroy. Maybe I'll throw a Christmas party this year.

Voting by way of Fascism Through Democracy

2009-09-15T11:13:00.006-04:00

Oy. I just voted in the NYC primaries for a city council member, a mayoral candidate, comptroller, and public advocate. Here were some of my choices:

Chode # 1

You can't tell here, but her hair is red--rrrow. She is the only woman running for city council in my district.

Chode # 2

This candidate claims he will clean up local politics. He even mailed me a picture of himself taking a broom to the street. Would he mind using said broom in the Atlantic subway stop? While there, I saw a rat so big we made eye contact.

Chode # 3

This candidate mailed me a photo of himself talking to latino children! He had his sleeves rolled up! He wasn't wearing a tie! He's supported by the New York Times!

Sadly, folk around here say your mayoral vote is a wash. Our current billionaire mayor has bullied the current city council into allowing him to run for a third term as an independent. He has outspent everyone else and I wish I could say that doesn't mean anything, that my vote meant something.

Current Vices

2009-09-14T09:55:00.003-04:00

Ra Ra Riot. (Inde-pop with string instruments! Causes giggling and dancing around the living room! This caused a late arrival to Dan's house). Late arrivals. Chocolate plus pistachios. Sticky notes. The Fitness Guru. (Exercise isn't a vice per say, but the trainers are former dancers and totally hot, smart. Great place for more than one girl crush. Think about it: when was the last time you jumped on a trampoline to Jane's Addiction?) Mighty Leaf tea. (It's awfully pretty.) CoinSide Accordion Book. (It opens and closes! And you can add to it!) True Blood. I once knew a girl named Vicie in high school. Raspberry vodka gimlets. Fuck You, Penguin. Thinking about owning a house. Heirloom tomatoes. Morbid Anatomy. Downtown Yarns. Afternoon cappuccino. Finally, this spoof:

How to Ride an Airplane in Four Easy Steps

2009-09-13T13:32:00.005-04:00

Step 1. Arrive at the airport fifteen minutes earlier than you'd normally want. You may use this time to have a glass of champagne or Scotch before boarding.

Step 2. Do not fight with TSA people. Flirt with them. Tell them you think they LIKE watching you put on your shoes. Tell them you would have knitted something for them if you'd known what colors they like. Ask them if they like your orange luggage. Say, let's take off our coats together. Also, do not fight with the old man. Tell him his cell phone is in his pocket, you can see it sticking out a little bit above his butt crack.

Step 3. After you're in the air, order one gin and tonic, one Mr. and Mrs. T bloody Mary mix, water in ice, and hot water for tea. You may now nibble on the food you brought: almonds, cheese and crackers, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple or orange, Australian licorice.

Step 4. Always do something. Write in your journal, read a comic book, knit. Never never never watch television. If you do watch television, only watch it with the sound off. You'd be surprised. Always bring ginger gum in case you feel sick. Also, always pack lightly. You don't need underwear every day, right?

Syllabus: Native American Literature

2009-09-04T11:57:00.005-04:00

Texts:

House Made of Dawn by M. Scott Momaday

Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko

Here First: Autobiographical Esssays by Native American Writers edited by Arnold Krupat and Brian Swann

Riding the Earthboy 40 by James Welch

Reservation Blues by Sherman Alexie

American Indian Literatures edited by LaVonne Brown Ruoff

Film:

Our Spirits Don't Speak English: Indian Boarding School

Black Robe directed by Bruce Beresford

Smoke Signals directed by Chris Eyre

Incident at Oglala directed by Michael Apted

The Exiles directed by Kent Mackenzie

Music:

Mariee Sioux, Faces in the Rocks

Field Trips:

Wounded Knee Mass Burial Gravesite, South Dakota

Battle of Little Bighorn Historic Site, Wyoming

Native American Film Festival, Los Angeles

Course Objectives:

Have you heard M. Scott Momaday speak. What do we do with our knowledge. Do you know about L. Frank Baum's comment regarding Native Americans. What is a Reservation, what is life like there. Think about names. Feeling heavy. Story telling, why and how does that become a talent for a people. What about casinos. Sorry this is Lakota specific, suggest otherwise. Do you know about the 1973 military and FBI takeover of the Pine Ridge Reservation. How do we overcome.

Live a Little

2009-09-03T16:10:00.003-04:00

Do you know about Living Liberally? It's the umbrella organization that houses Drinking Liberally, Laughing Liberally, Eating Liberally, Screening Liberally, Reading Liberally, Crafting Liberally, and Shooting (??!!) Liberally. All of these are social organizations designed to get progressive minded people together. They have chapters all throughout the U.S., but if you're here in NYC, Drinking Liberally meets on Thursday nights. I've been to a few events, my favorite being an Eating Liberally event with the author of Twinkie, Deconstructed, Steve Ettlinger. The discussion of his book was followed by an interesting q & a session, accompanied by homemade twinkies, some of them vegan. Yum. The Eating Liberally blog is pretty good, if you're interested in reading about food politics.

The reason why I'm telling you about this is because every Thursday I receive an email from this organization, reminding me to go to Drinking Liberally, among other events. The emails begin with these kind of poems about what's going on in the crappy world. I wanted to share this week's with you because I thought it was especially poignant and something that I spend a lot of time thinking about. I don't know who writes these emails; I assume it's Justin Krebs, but I'm surely grateful this organization is around and I hope you'll attend an event in your area if you are a liberal minded person.

Americans Stopped Listening to Republicans... Why Haven't Democrats?

When the President listens to Republicans
he finds support to escalate in Afghanistan
despite the violence, no clear goal
& election fraud in the "democracy" we built.

When Senate Dems listen to the Party of No,
they consider jettisoning the public option,
making healthcare reform meaningless
& mandating a give-away to insurance companies.

When the media listens to the GOP,
we hear how much GOPpers respected Kennedy,
yet in life they slandered him as a "liberal,"
blocked his work & their activists boo him now.

So...why are we still listening to Republicans?

When their homeland security chief listened,
he manipulated threat levels for political gain.

Now, when AG Holder ignores Republicans,
he appoints an investigator into illegal torture
& puts Justice back into civil rights enforcement.

Moral of the story: ignore Republicans...
as the American people told us in '06 & '08.

Tune out the right & turn on the Left
as you join left-leaners for liberal libations
at your local progressive social club.

DRINKING LIBERALLY
Tonight - and every Thursday
7:30pm onward
Rudy's - 9th btw 44th & 45th
[back booths beneath the DL banner]
Questions: nyc@drinkingliberally.org

A Cup Full of Breathiness, A Droopy T-Shirt

2009-09-01T11:41:00.008-04:00

Do you have the same Emilys that I have? I recently realized that I've been listening to a definite three, definite in their femininity, definite in their quirkiness, definite in their studious musicianship: Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, Emily Jane White, and Emily Wells.

Emily Haines's voice is very crisp and childlike, emotionally playful and beguiling. As Metric's short-skirted front person, (you can see evidence of this in the Olivier Assayas film Clean), Knives Don't Have Your Back makes for an interesting solo debut. Emily Haines by herself offers a brazen, folk-punky pretty kind of personal flavor, which explores emotion (where Metric is limited to new wavey rock) and grief for the loss of her father Paul Haines, Montreal poet and jazz musician. Emily Haines' music is playful. "Bros before hos," for example, is kind of irono-funny lyric accompanied by beautiful piano playing. What I wish the album had was more bricks. I'm attracted to the lonely woman lost in the thick of it all quality, but the album tends to lack depth where it has reach. Her heartfelt music becomes a bit boxy and I find the most memorable song to be the first.

You'll encounter a new kind of folk singin' in Emily Jane White. Her tough, soldier-popping and soft hip swaying music has a minimalist folky western yet match-stick struck on the sole of your boot flare. Where Eilen Jewell is perky, Emily Jane White is alluringly sleepy and existential. This music is born of a strong aesthetic, which I'd like for you to see in one of her videos.

What attracts me to Emily Wells, kind of solely, is her fabulous use of strings. Her song, "Mt. Washington," snakes her violin around her moanful lyrics. "We go together like bleeding lips" is a fetching lyric and her violin tiptoes around her words, animating them. Her voice gives over to demure, feminine breathiness and this dragging, droning until her voice turns into air seems to be her overall style, which is a tad redundant. Breathiness is a weird issue in music because women singers use their breathiness as sex appeal or to stylistically cover up a lack of range, as though all women have to have a high voice in order to be able to perform.

Cucumber Sandwich, Variations

2009-08-29T13:03:00.003-04:00

Cucumber, mayonnaise. Cucumber, mayonnaise, tomato. Cucumber, mayonnaise, tomato, red onion. I used cherry tomatoes because that's what I had. Cucumbers are high in calcium and they also contain a chemical that helps your body digest protein. They are good for your kidneys and make your hair grow. Cucumber juice is good for heart burn. Cucumber, mayonnaise, tomato, red onion, jalapenos. Listen to "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear. You could add basil, mint, or what have you. Bread is your business, but I had a baguette from a French bakery around the corner. It was kind of tough, but fun to watch the tomatoes explode.

Good Job Mr. Bruhl

2009-08-25T08:30:00.006-04:00

While watching Inglorious Basterds this weekend, I was pleasantly surprised by Tarantino's choice of Daniel Bruhl, who plays Frederick Zoller, a Nazi sniper who becomes smitten with theater owner Shoshonna, although he doesn't realize she's Jewish. I've seen Bruhl in two other German films. (He's German but was born in Barcelona). In The Edukators, Bruhl plays a new kind of protester who breaks into homes, rearranges the belongings inside, throwing a couch into a pool for example, and leaves a note telling the owners to not be so materialistic. The film meanders to the countryside where The Edukators have taken a hostage from a botched break-in. Bruhl also starred in the very interesting Good-bye, Lenin!, playing Alex who, after the reunification of Germany, maintains and re-creates the presence of East Germany for his weak-hearted mother.

Daniel Bruhl very expertly portrays Frederick Zoller, both the show-offy soldier and the brutal killer from the film within the film, Nation's Pride. I've been on a Paul Newman kick lately and have been thinking about film and how those who are on film participate in many returns of life in that they are always alive somewhere, always preserved talking and shooting pool or whatever. This eternal point is made through Zoller's character: the weird documentation of Nazi ideas and Nazi horror through propaganda film. (It baffles the mind to wonder what made the Nazis use film as a way of instilling/forcing patriotism, that film, besides the tanks and the killings enforced Fascism. We must recognize the chilling power that film has here). Zoller, no less, *spoiler* dies during a screening of his own film and what a riveting juxtaposition it is to see the dead actor, who moments before wasn't really enjoying watching himself shoot many people although the German audience happily cheers. The character lives on, however, as the film continues to play out the atrocious acts he committed.

There is much more to say about Inglorious Basterds and revenge against those historical figures who caused so much grief for so many people that I know, but I guess I'll just stick to Daniel Bruhl. You should go see it, go see him, but know that the film is terribly violent and I had my knees in my eyes as soon as the club and the knives come out.

Two Days Without Computer

2009-08-24T10:45:00.004-04:00

The cat had his goop wiped. He has aged considerably. Sandwich queen: brie, fig spread, apples, provolone on toasted multi-grain. Sewn bind-offs are a bitch. I am almost done knitting a birthday present I began in April. The piles are smaller and have moved elsewhere. The journal and I have made eye contact. You know what the sign announcing just placed rat poison means: you'll probably see a large rat. I heard Brad Pitt pronounce Nazi like Knatzi. Three drawers were wiped clean and reorganized. I rode my bike in the rain. My dog Honey died. She had been my sister's. I saw someone I hadn't seen in a while. He reminded me that I used to teach. Some people are so tall. I took a wrong turn and went the wrong way. I wish I could do Saturday all over again because there are at least ten people I could sit and talk to all day. It's like there's never enough fucking time. Will I ever know if I'm a Bourbon or Scotch person? I think bartenders take me for a Bourbon person. Tomatoes are best in August. I have seventeen mosquito bites.