maybe we´re not meant for it. maybe its as it should be. but at least, while we were here, it was good.
in the islands, everything seems more like an adventure.
this could also be due to the fact that i´ve just celebrated my birthday, in the middle of the ocean,
and we have parties on sailboats.
not our sailboats, mind you.
the surfers´. did you know there would be surfers sailing the world? i wasn´t expecting it.
and this is when everything gets a little crazy.
"i disposed of my little green man long ago"
thumbs, and the question master, and other circle of death festivities.
camarones al ajillo.
gillian welch and the fugees and michael jackson, all within minutes.
dance parties under galapagaenian skies, on deck, sans shoes.
4 second meteorites.
barhopping professors. tequila shots. birthday parades.
spontaneous trips in pangas.
smoke.
smoke and mirrors.
five boys on a boat.
the british brothers, and the explanation of a "twitcher"
making up words.
being a sound young lady, and also la chica mas seria en el barco.
the invasion of prince phillips´steps (the flight of the booby)
pretty black eyes.
jazz on street corners.
the hat party.
marching squads of shouting soldiers, with guns.
tales of pirate attacks, whale beachings, twin confusion, firefights, and angry french missionaries.
telephone dates.
ice cream, coffee chocolate cake, and banana pancakes.
we wanted to jump. venice beach, california. 1997.
friday.
we wanted to jump, but we couldn’t. it was right there in front of us; the surf, the space between the balls of our feet and the sand as we sailed through the air. but we couldn’t do it. not after what we had seen.
you first, I said.
no. it was your idea.
it was both of ours.
but you said it first.
that doesn’t matter, I said. what matters is that it’s here, and if we don’t take it now, it’ll never happen. and then we’ll be sitting on our asses in Minneapolis in November some day in three years, and you’ll be drinking a cup of that horrible tea. the one that makes the kitchen smell like rotting fish. and then you’ll say it’s a shame we didn’t take it. in that voice you always use when you’re talking about things you wish had happened differently. like when you told me about –
ok, we’ll do it, he said. why Minneapolis?
are you going to count?
sure. I guess so. do you want me to count?
no. it’ll be easier if we just do it. without the build up.
yea. without the build up. you ready?
since this morning. let’s go.
when?
what do you mean, “when”? now.
well now just happened, so that’s not going to work. without one of us counting, how will I know when you’re going to jump? he said. how will I know if you are even going to follow through? I could just be doing it by myself, and I’d spin in mid air and see you standing there, your eye staring off all sideways like it does, your thumb up your ass. meanwhile, I’m flailing about in the water, and then those bright green motherfuckers come floating up, and I’m done for. down for the count.
we looked at each other. he turned, and started walking back towards the boathouse. I stood, rocking slightly as I let my knees relax. they had been tense, anticipating; the muscles in my thighs had been coiled like springs. my eyes caught a piece of sea glass, the remnants of an old Heineken bottle, caught in the gravel between my toes, and I bent. then I heard him. the shish shush of the sand as it spun out wildly from beneath him. he was running. I spun on one heel, and caught his eye just as he came rushing up behind me.
now! he shouted. and then there was silence. all I saw was his silhouette as he left the earth, his arms and legs flapping haphazard in every direction. like when you’re a kid on the playground and you’re in a swing jumping contest, and the more space you can put between yourself and the ground the better. so you flap, as if by some stroke of genius, you might be the one to finally discover how to fly. of course it never helps, no one ever gets farther by thrashing their limbs in the air. if you think about it, I’m sure it probably makes things worse; the physics of it, I mean.
I watched for a moment as the wake from his body sent white spray skipping across the surface of the sea, and then I realized I was still hunched over at the edge. without even thinking, I pushed off, soaring blindly in an arc over the water. I went in head first, and my stomach filled instantly with salt water. I had forgotten to close my mouth.
xviii. brick (inspired by the film)
its like walking home in the morning with a coat
too
thin.
you haven’t slept, and the wind cuts straight through the wool,
where holes in the silk lining give you away. across the field it’s
especially bad,
because there are no trees,
and the valley pulls the air down like a drainpipe.
but it’s not the cold that gets to you. it’s those words he whispered in your ear just before you let the screen swing closed.
they are spurring you across the street, your heels rubbing the skin
raw near your toes.
no one wears heels in the winter. except the girls with fake pearls in their ears. the girls with fancy black cocktail parties to go to on saturday nights, but no one to take them home on sunday mornings.
so you walk.
it was a mistake to stay on the couch. it would have been worse
to sleep in his bed,
but you should have left when the going was good, when the booze was still swimming
weighty in your veins. when he was still too gone to hide. but by light fall, he always remembers what he’s got to lose, and all bets are off. the cards sit on the table, growing yellow. the queen of spades is fading gray.
there was an impromptu piano jam, with spoken word, and
floating
white
tea
lights
in pitchers of red wine. every once in a while, someone would forget, and pour, igniting the sides of the glass like they were made of oxygen. it never dripped, never left a stain; that’s how fast the fire spread.
you were waltzing on wood floors, your shoes hardly making a sound as the silk of your dress clung to your chest. the girl at the piano, who was singing about some jazzy bird named eleanora, who tells everyone she meets that she was born in missouri even though it’s a lie, asks you what you want to hear.
nina simone,
you croon, and sway
on the balls of your feet,
with one arm in the air,
eyes closed.
whatever you say, lady day, he laughs from the corner, eyes glowing bronze from the candles. (he’s not even right. you knew it then, but you let him say it. he was looking. he was watching. this was all that mattered in the moment. but billie holiday was lady day, and nina simone sang about birds in cages.)
by three, there were only a few still sitting on bar stools around the kitchen counter,
plucking
petals
from
the roses and slurring slightly.
he tells a joke about an old man from Brooklyn, and everyone smiles, their teeth catching the first flecks of daylight as they s k i d across the ceiling. from outside, a man on a bicycle could see the sadness in you, and if he’d had the chance, he would have swept you away on the back of his spokes.
like sixth grade romance.
but you never looked, never saw him in the street. so he rode away, and you stayed til dawn.
he pulled you into the living room, his hands dwarfing yours (like they always did when you used to sleep curled inside his shell, arms entangled). as you’d brushed the black paint around your eyes
that night, pupils dilated in the mirror and searching for the strength not to notice the truth, you had promised not to stay. not to let him stay in your way.
but there is nothing so convincing as the promise of a miracle, the exception to every deceitful rule.
the chimes of the grandfather clock struck seven, and the morning light shone through the window
revealing plastic cups in corners
and a pile of ash on the stained couch cushion.
though his knee was pressed against yours, its presence was tentative, and you almost choke on the tears as they slide down your throat when he says
you’d better leave.
(he has to work.)
you should probably go out the back door.
( it’s more quiet that way.)
creaking porch steps draw his attention to your feet as he steps toward the car door from behind the garage. for a moment, you think he’s going to say something,
the way his mouth opens slightly,
the way his breath freezes in the air around his eyes.
but neither of you can find it in the other to speak, and as he drives away, your heels
sink (sink heavy heavy heavy)
into the layer of dead leaves in the yard. the sidewalk is empty; no one is up this early on a sunday.
the coffee shop on the corner near his house looks different in the daylight.
the letters on the sign are still blue, but
without the luster of their electric luminescence,
it is difficult to think of anything but a
broken bulb.
the lake is rocking steady against the rocks behind your house, it’s hushing rhythm abrasive behind your eyelids. the door doesn’t open – the lock is frozen shut. as you creep hesitantly through the dried brambles of the garden under the second story window, your foot catches on a rock, and you stumble. the wool of your coat too thin rips slowly,
stitch by stitch,
and as you press your way through the french doors downstairs, the wind swirls up the staircase.
your bed is cold when you sink into the sheets.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
it´s a long story, i´ve already told you that
it’s a long story, I’ve already told you that. if I were to tell it to you, you wouldn’t believe a word. no one ever believes everything. you know?
it is never, ever possible to hear everything…what do you hear? it’s not only all those animals you have seen, and all those you haven’t seen, and all those no one will ever see, making sounds. and that which isn’t possible to hear, the song of the fish that once cheered the waters, though now they no longer know how to sing. and if they still sing, they do it, most certainly, with no sound. with notes our ears are not able to hear. silently they sing, on another plane…
within our very being there sound the memories of all that we have heard throughout our lives, dances and flutes and promises and lies and fears and confessions and the cries of war and the murmurs of love. the voices of the dying that one has been or that one has merely heard. true stories.
memory is more, it’s much more, do you see? true memory conserves all that is to come. and even that which will never come, that is also conserved. imagine. just imagine. who could possibly hear it all, tell me that?
who could possibly hear it all, all at once, and believe it?
-ino moxo
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing. not only because of the reasons you hear about in the “most extreme tropical adventures gone wrong!” sort of tv shows [examples: nearly being attacked by giant conga ants, tarantulas with a leg span of approximately twelve inches, cryptic snakes with deadly venom and a nasty temper, or the possibility of contracting various afflictions ala yellow fever, malaria, lechmeniesis (that is spelled incorrectly: it is a flesh eating protozoan) or a botfly which could one day burst out from under your skin after months of chewing miniscule parts of your muscle away.]
not only because of los monos. (monkeys). they clamber through trees, swinging from their prehensile tails and plucking fruits from nearly unreachable branches. they stare down through the canopy at their binoculared fascinated cousins, their curious black eyes illuminated against the darkness of the tree shadow. woollys will stick around for a while if you’re quiet, because they are calmer, mas tranquilo, than the rest. if you listen closely you can hear the howling of los aulladores (the howlers) which resembles the growling of the stealthy jaguars in the distance. squirrel monkeys are more likely to jump over your head, carrying babies on their backs and squeaking their annoyance at your presence. they are curious too, but a bit more skiddish than the larger species, probably because they know not everyone is a friendly presence in their trees. the tiny ones, like the pygmy marmosets and the golden mantled tamarins are a rarity, but if you can see them amidst their vine tangles, their little faces will make your day.
spending so much time in the rainforest is interesting not only because of the charismatic megafauna, although they are definitely a highlight. along the river banks, you can see capybara, the world’s largest rodent, bounding their round not-so-little butts back into the cover of the forest. there are birds of every color, and every combination as well, like the scarlet macaw and the paradise tanager, and even the ancient hoatzin, which resembles (especially when still young) the archaeopteryx from eons ago. there are oropendolas, who send out sounds more similar to the dripping of water in a cave than to that of the orioles they are related to. there is the cacique, capable of mimicking everything from a parrot’s harsh crackle to the grumble of a riverboat engine. and there is the laughing falcon, who, along with the cackling witch toad, haunts the early morning hours with its eerie laughing call. there is the tapir, happy as can be, trundling along the bank and searching out leaves with its elephantine proboscis. the otters, swimming and playing graceful along the banks.
you couldn’t be more wrong darling you misunderstood no meaning I’m not falling for this one if love is surrender then who then who’s war is it anyway? do just what I tell you and no one will get hurt don’t come any closer I still don’t know how long I can hold my heart in two just look at the state of you babe you’re not listening to this and just for once could you let me let me finish a sentence if you know what’s good for me why would I be loving you now I’ve had it up to here don’t ever try that again why are you so quiet so suddenly go on a bit, you’re just dying to try me
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing because of the way it brings out the truth in people. being sweaty and dirty and covered in mosquito bites all day long is taxing, but a necessary evil in order to enjoy all of the pleasures of the jungle. but when living with other people who you don’t know all that well, who don’t know your insecurities and obscurities and eccentricities, it is difficult not to become exhausted of human presence. It’s eye opening, really, to discover so much about yourself that you adore, but that seems to rub others the wrong way.
I ask questions. sometimes they’re not very easy to answer, and sometimes they seem random and out of place. I have a tendency to ramble, and digress, and go off on tangents that are not central to the main idea. But I don’t talk much when I don’t find it important, when I don’t have something to say, so I’m not very good at relieving uneasy or awkward silence. I need time to myself to digest, but I hate being left out (this may be paradoxical. I am paradoxical.) I love discussions, especially about uneasy things, like indigenous acculturation, and the way western conservation idealism often comes into conflict with the conserved. I could argue for hours. I’d rather talk about books and the end of the world than anything else, but I could also go on and on about my favorite movies, and even quote some of the best lines. I like to watch movies that will make me cry, too.
I’m not particularly funny, but I find just about everyone else absolutely hilarious. I sing to myself, even when other people are around. Sometimes this appears to become excessive to others, but I never get sick of it, and I find it difficult to stop, even when I know someone is about to hit me over the head with their binoculars. I could spend my life on the water, and I would never regret it. Any kind really, but preferably large, and close to a sunny beach, where I can wile away the older hours of the day and watch time pass. I am indecisive. Consequently, I never really know what I want the most, although I have plenty of glaringly obvious ideas about what I don’t want. I can’t choose between many things, and would gladly take them all in stride. I am always happier when I have fruit, or coffee and some sort of dessert. Like cake. Or chocolate pudding. Listening to music while in the rainforest isn’t ignoring the natural sounds of the world. It’s creating a soundtrack. I could tell you all about my soundtracks.
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing because of what you miss while you’re away. the world seems to have disappeared without communication, without newspapers and the internet, and television shows blabbering on about the collapse of modern society (they never say that, but that’s what it is). and then we came flying back over the andes while reading headlines about: the impending attack on iran, and britney spears and her mental breakdown extravaganza. how is this what the world has come to? that headlines like that serve to garner equal attention? and that an attack on iran is actually feasible? really now. did we learn nothing the second time around in iraq? no, I suppose we didn’t. if the world blows up, I won’t be surprised. humanity is asking for it, if you want my opinion.
and all I am is holding back can’t you hear I’m not myself well go ahead and lie to me you could say anything small talk will be just fine your voice is everything and it all depends on you I refuse to believe that’s it only me I’m a slow motion accident lost in coffee rings and fingerprints
(I hate generalizing like that, because there are so many people that could be encompassed under ‘humanity’ that do not deserve to be incinerated, or that are doing their utmost to change the parody of a paradigm our international community has developed about “first” and “third” world interactions. there are plenty of people who recognize the hypocrisy of our policies, and are yelling. hollering. like the howler monkeys. [who are disappearing, by the way.] people like my profs. joe and catherine. you should all meet them someday. and mayor. my seventy year old ecuadorian pseudo-grandfather, who used to be a hunter, but now wanders around the jungle showing monos to hapless tourists without a clue about the ecosystem he understands better than anyone. these people are not asking for “it”.
but you! you who contribute to the continued deforestation in brasil, and indonesia, and the congo. you who contribute ignorantly I should say, because everyone contributes to this, as much as I hate to admit it. unless you live on a desert island and the only products you have consumed in the last fifteen years are your own tattered, dirty clothes, you are included as well. even conservationists use petroleum to get where they’re going. we should all listen to tommy the firefighter in “i heart huckabees”. the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I don’t even believe in hell, and I understand the sentiment of that sentence.
you! you who encourage the pet trade. you are included. monkeys and parrots and snakes should never be found outside of the their original habitats. you may not notice how lonely those amazons are when they sit on their perches, preening their feathers absentmindedly, or how terribly sad the capuchin babies are as they leap from hotel tree to hotel tree, waiting for a cast-off french fry, and being greeted instead by a skinny man with a scar above one eye and stick in his left hand. the toucans are the worst, because they hop along the ground, their flight feathers clipped, clacking their bills together in the air and staring at the walls. you may not notice how horrible all of this is because you haven’t seen these creatures in the wild. but I have. I’ve seen them. they are not supposed to be like that! they are supposed to be sitting in cecropia trees, and eating grasshoppers, and flying over the canopy under the sun. ) that was my ranting tangent.
I wish I knew how it would feel to be free I wish I could break all these chains holding me I wish I could fly like the birds in the sky I wish I could be all things that I could be then you’d see and agree everyone should be free
soundtrack for my rainforest serenade.
acetate prophets & lesson 6: jurassic 5
variation #2 on canon in d major: unknown
(this is) the dream of evan and chan: dntel
nature boy: david bowie
eleanor rigby: the beatles
i wish i knew how (it would feel to be free): nina simone
don’t come any closer: frou frou
post-war: unknown
gravel: ani difranco
lean on me: bill withers
track 9 from (black woman and child): sizzla
hoping for a miracle: bloc party
a distorted reality, pt II: elliott smith
whose blood is this?: unknown
ziggy stardust: seu jorge
the smoke too thick to breathe the tile floors glistened I slowly stirred my drink and when you started to sing you spoke with broken speech that I could not understand and then you grabbed me tightly I WON’T LET GO I WON’T LET GO even if you say so, oh no I’ve tried and tried with no results I won’t let go I won’t let go he then played every song from 1993 the crowd applauded and he curtsied bashfully your eyelashes tickled my neck with every nervous blink and it was perfect until the telephone started ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing off…
favorites: people with smiley eyes. the curly haired ecuadorian hippie and the old man in the canadian hat who lead native americans through the jungle. parahuaco, especially la playa of the tapir, the valley of socrates, and the log bridge. ceiba trees. tang (not really, but it became sort of traditional). real coffee. choclo, burrito night, and the biggest pizza slices in the world. olvidio and his hysterical laughter. monsanita. the monsanita vs. lucho debate (the only reason to choose lucho is because the name comes from louis armstrong, a trumpeter just like monsanita…or is it lucho?) watching the life aquatic with steve zissou in the station’s library, eating popcorn and reveling in the humor of pseudo-biologists gone crazy over jaguar sharks. reading to educate myself, but not forcibly (confessions of an economic hitman and song for a blue ocean). spit. egyptian rat screw. adventurous walks in the nighttime through vine tangles and leafcutter pass to the tower, and sleeping surrounded by the sounds of the canopy. sunrise with macaws, and woollys. banana pancakes with peanut butter. reese’s. raisins. bracelets made of chambira (palm) leaves. the matapalo. brown eyes. otters on the bank, and saving turtles by the trees. tortoise sex. trying to count painted conga ants (not). russian roulette over insect orders. meditating in the dark. heliconia, bauhinia, capirona, and duroia. reading genius indigenous literature (latin american literature in general). reminiscing on the chaotic events of last summer, and last semester. seeing the andes above the clouds. the huaorani in the dugout. debates. caciques and their mimicry. plotting paintings and epic memoirs and trying to decide what to do with my life this summer. wanting to ride on a fishing boat back to the west coast of the us and hitchhike/bus through the country back to wisconsin. my person.
put a dollar into the machine and you’ll remember when say the money just ain’t what it used to be man how we used to tear apart this town put a dollar into the machine and you’ll remember how
it is never, ever possible to hear everything…what do you hear? it’s not only all those animals you have seen, and all those you haven’t seen, and all those no one will ever see, making sounds. and that which isn’t possible to hear, the song of the fish that once cheered the waters, though now they no longer know how to sing. and if they still sing, they do it, most certainly, with no sound. with notes our ears are not able to hear. silently they sing, on another plane…
within our very being there sound the memories of all that we have heard throughout our lives, dances and flutes and promises and lies and fears and confessions and the cries of war and the murmurs of love. the voices of the dying that one has been or that one has merely heard. true stories.
memory is more, it’s much more, do you see? true memory conserves all that is to come. and even that which will never come, that is also conserved. imagine. just imagine. who could possibly hear it all, tell me that?
who could possibly hear it all, all at once, and believe it?
-ino moxo
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing. not only because of the reasons you hear about in the “most extreme tropical adventures gone wrong!” sort of tv shows [examples: nearly being attacked by giant conga ants, tarantulas with a leg span of approximately twelve inches, cryptic snakes with deadly venom and a nasty temper, or the possibility of contracting various afflictions ala yellow fever, malaria, lechmeniesis (that is spelled incorrectly: it is a flesh eating protozoan) or a botfly which could one day burst out from under your skin after months of chewing miniscule parts of your muscle away.]
not only because of los monos. (monkeys). they clamber through trees, swinging from their prehensile tails and plucking fruits from nearly unreachable branches. they stare down through the canopy at their binoculared fascinated cousins, their curious black eyes illuminated against the darkness of the tree shadow. woollys will stick around for a while if you’re quiet, because they are calmer, mas tranquilo, than the rest. if you listen closely you can hear the howling of los aulladores (the howlers) which resembles the growling of the stealthy jaguars in the distance. squirrel monkeys are more likely to jump over your head, carrying babies on their backs and squeaking their annoyance at your presence. they are curious too, but a bit more skiddish than the larger species, probably because they know not everyone is a friendly presence in their trees. the tiny ones, like the pygmy marmosets and the golden mantled tamarins are a rarity, but if you can see them amidst their vine tangles, their little faces will make your day.
spending so much time in the rainforest is interesting not only because of the charismatic megafauna, although they are definitely a highlight. along the river banks, you can see capybara, the world’s largest rodent, bounding their round not-so-little butts back into the cover of the forest. there are birds of every color, and every combination as well, like the scarlet macaw and the paradise tanager, and even the ancient hoatzin, which resembles (especially when still young) the archaeopteryx from eons ago. there are oropendolas, who send out sounds more similar to the dripping of water in a cave than to that of the orioles they are related to. there is the cacique, capable of mimicking everything from a parrot’s harsh crackle to the grumble of a riverboat engine. and there is the laughing falcon, who, along with the cackling witch toad, haunts the early morning hours with its eerie laughing call. there is the tapir, happy as can be, trundling along the bank and searching out leaves with its elephantine proboscis. the otters, swimming and playing graceful along the banks.
you couldn’t be more wrong darling you misunderstood no meaning I’m not falling for this one if love is surrender then who then who’s war is it anyway? do just what I tell you and no one will get hurt don’t come any closer I still don’t know how long I can hold my heart in two just look at the state of you babe you’re not listening to this and just for once could you let me let me finish a sentence if you know what’s good for me why would I be loving you now I’ve had it up to here don’t ever try that again why are you so quiet so suddenly go on a bit, you’re just dying to try me
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing because of the way it brings out the truth in people. being sweaty and dirty and covered in mosquito bites all day long is taxing, but a necessary evil in order to enjoy all of the pleasures of the jungle. but when living with other people who you don’t know all that well, who don’t know your insecurities and obscurities and eccentricities, it is difficult not to become exhausted of human presence. It’s eye opening, really, to discover so much about yourself that you adore, but that seems to rub others the wrong way.
I ask questions. sometimes they’re not very easy to answer, and sometimes they seem random and out of place. I have a tendency to ramble, and digress, and go off on tangents that are not central to the main idea. But I don’t talk much when I don’t find it important, when I don’t have something to say, so I’m not very good at relieving uneasy or awkward silence. I need time to myself to digest, but I hate being left out (this may be paradoxical. I am paradoxical.) I love discussions, especially about uneasy things, like indigenous acculturation, and the way western conservation idealism often comes into conflict with the conserved. I could argue for hours. I’d rather talk about books and the end of the world than anything else, but I could also go on and on about my favorite movies, and even quote some of the best lines. I like to watch movies that will make me cry, too.
I’m not particularly funny, but I find just about everyone else absolutely hilarious. I sing to myself, even when other people are around. Sometimes this appears to become excessive to others, but I never get sick of it, and I find it difficult to stop, even when I know someone is about to hit me over the head with their binoculars. I could spend my life on the water, and I would never regret it. Any kind really, but preferably large, and close to a sunny beach, where I can wile away the older hours of the day and watch time pass. I am indecisive. Consequently, I never really know what I want the most, although I have plenty of glaringly obvious ideas about what I don’t want. I can’t choose between many things, and would gladly take them all in stride. I am always happier when I have fruit, or coffee and some sort of dessert. Like cake. Or chocolate pudding. Listening to music while in the rainforest isn’t ignoring the natural sounds of the world. It’s creating a soundtrack. I could tell you all about my soundtracks.
living in the rainforest for three weeks is a very interesting thing because of what you miss while you’re away. the world seems to have disappeared without communication, without newspapers and the internet, and television shows blabbering on about the collapse of modern society (they never say that, but that’s what it is). and then we came flying back over the andes while reading headlines about: the impending attack on iran, and britney spears and her mental breakdown extravaganza. how is this what the world has come to? that headlines like that serve to garner equal attention? and that an attack on iran is actually feasible? really now. did we learn nothing the second time around in iraq? no, I suppose we didn’t. if the world blows up, I won’t be surprised. humanity is asking for it, if you want my opinion.
and all I am is holding back can’t you hear I’m not myself well go ahead and lie to me you could say anything small talk will be just fine your voice is everything and it all depends on you I refuse to believe that’s it only me I’m a slow motion accident lost in coffee rings and fingerprints
(I hate generalizing like that, because there are so many people that could be encompassed under ‘humanity’ that do not deserve to be incinerated, or that are doing their utmost to change the parody of a paradigm our international community has developed about “first” and “third” world interactions. there are plenty of people who recognize the hypocrisy of our policies, and are yelling. hollering. like the howler monkeys. [who are disappearing, by the way.] people like my profs. joe and catherine. you should all meet them someday. and mayor. my seventy year old ecuadorian pseudo-grandfather, who used to be a hunter, but now wanders around the jungle showing monos to hapless tourists without a clue about the ecosystem he understands better than anyone. these people are not asking for “it”.
but you! you who contribute to the continued deforestation in brasil, and indonesia, and the congo. you who contribute ignorantly I should say, because everyone contributes to this, as much as I hate to admit it. unless you live on a desert island and the only products you have consumed in the last fifteen years are your own tattered, dirty clothes, you are included as well. even conservationists use petroleum to get where they’re going. we should all listen to tommy the firefighter in “i heart huckabees”. the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I don’t even believe in hell, and I understand the sentiment of that sentence.
you! you who encourage the pet trade. you are included. monkeys and parrots and snakes should never be found outside of the their original habitats. you may not notice how lonely those amazons are when they sit on their perches, preening their feathers absentmindedly, or how terribly sad the capuchin babies are as they leap from hotel tree to hotel tree, waiting for a cast-off french fry, and being greeted instead by a skinny man with a scar above one eye and stick in his left hand. the toucans are the worst, because they hop along the ground, their flight feathers clipped, clacking their bills together in the air and staring at the walls. you may not notice how horrible all of this is because you haven’t seen these creatures in the wild. but I have. I’ve seen them. they are not supposed to be like that! they are supposed to be sitting in cecropia trees, and eating grasshoppers, and flying over the canopy under the sun. ) that was my ranting tangent.
I wish I knew how it would feel to be free I wish I could break all these chains holding me I wish I could fly like the birds in the sky I wish I could be all things that I could be then you’d see and agree everyone should be free
soundtrack for my rainforest serenade.
acetate prophets & lesson 6: jurassic 5
variation #2 on canon in d major: unknown
(this is) the dream of evan and chan: dntel
nature boy: david bowie
eleanor rigby: the beatles
i wish i knew how (it would feel to be free): nina simone
don’t come any closer: frou frou
post-war: unknown
gravel: ani difranco
lean on me: bill withers
track 9 from (black woman and child): sizzla
hoping for a miracle: bloc party
a distorted reality, pt II: elliott smith
whose blood is this?: unknown
ziggy stardust: seu jorge
the smoke too thick to breathe the tile floors glistened I slowly stirred my drink and when you started to sing you spoke with broken speech that I could not understand and then you grabbed me tightly I WON’T LET GO I WON’T LET GO even if you say so, oh no I’ve tried and tried with no results I won’t let go I won’t let go he then played every song from 1993 the crowd applauded and he curtsied bashfully your eyelashes tickled my neck with every nervous blink and it was perfect until the telephone started ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing off…
favorites: people with smiley eyes. the curly haired ecuadorian hippie and the old man in the canadian hat who lead native americans through the jungle. parahuaco, especially la playa of the tapir, the valley of socrates, and the log bridge. ceiba trees. tang (not really, but it became sort of traditional). real coffee. choclo, burrito night, and the biggest pizza slices in the world. olvidio and his hysterical laughter. monsanita. the monsanita vs. lucho debate (the only reason to choose lucho is because the name comes from louis armstrong, a trumpeter just like monsanita…or is it lucho?) watching the life aquatic with steve zissou in the station’s library, eating popcorn and reveling in the humor of pseudo-biologists gone crazy over jaguar sharks. reading to educate myself, but not forcibly (confessions of an economic hitman and song for a blue ocean). spit. egyptian rat screw. adventurous walks in the nighttime through vine tangles and leafcutter pass to the tower, and sleeping surrounded by the sounds of the canopy. sunrise with macaws, and woollys. banana pancakes with peanut butter. reese’s. raisins. bracelets made of chambira (palm) leaves. the matapalo. brown eyes. otters on the bank, and saving turtles by the trees. tortoise sex. trying to count painted conga ants (not). russian roulette over insect orders. meditating in the dark. heliconia, bauhinia, capirona, and duroia. reading genius indigenous literature (latin american literature in general). reminiscing on the chaotic events of last summer, and last semester. seeing the andes above the clouds. the huaorani in the dugout. debates. caciques and their mimicry. plotting paintings and epic memoirs and trying to decide what to do with my life this summer. wanting to ride on a fishing boat back to the west coast of the us and hitchhike/bus through the country back to wisconsin. my person.
put a dollar into the machine and you’ll remember when say the money just ain’t what it used to be man how we used to tear apart this town put a dollar into the machine and you’ll remember how
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
your name is the splinter inside me
hark I hear the harps eternal | ringing on the hollowed shore | as I hear the swollen waters | with their deep and solemn roar | hallelujah
there are many things that I wish I could record in my head, and replay later, on blank white walls, in three dimensional loops. bits and pieces. like the flashing by of
CRASH!
what was that?
we are silent, sneaking, creeping.
a toucan? a shy, stealthy, spectacled bear?
nothing.
bamboo in the nighttime looks like kelp in the sea. floating on currents, stillness, in the water which is actually only clouds come down to look for its lost light.
Plate Billed Mountain Toucan : Ramphastos laminirostris
Sangre de Drago: Croton magdalensis
Gorgeted Sunangel: Heliangelus strophianus
I love this. viscerally. breathing in this rainforest air, pressing my hands into the ground and soaking it in…
funneling pathways, down mudslicked slopes. we go to el pahuma (which, in quichua, means the flattened place). and it is, for the most part. mora, growing wild and purple on vines covered in prickles. hopefully they do not become hallucinogenic, because the pathway back could become treacherous under the influence of imagined things. to the lookout, where we can see down into the Andean valley, through the cordilleras, between a break in the clouds, before the fog rolls in once again. wanting to leap from the top, to fly across el piso del cielo [the floor of heaven] gliding along the surface, through all of those canopied trees.
orchids.
ngo’s, and the formation of orchid reserves, and the politics of crazy things.
candalosa: puntas (Ecuadorian moonshine, made from sugarcane) + jugo de naranjilla + fire. warms your soul, from the pit of your stomache way up into your nose.
mountain toucan sitings in the early morning hours, before walking meditations along mountain sides, and through the frigid cold waters of the waterfalls of the quichua persuasion. humming birds. toasts made of pilsener (the beer of the Ecuadorians) to things like salud, and amor, and la vida. choclo. tostados. besos de ciao.
Monday, January 15, 2007
overload.
the blacked hatted women, with multicolored skirts.
old, grey-haired men; tired shoulders, round bellies. mostly because of the altitude, and the blood that was pushed from their hearts under iron fisted rule.
the valley appears behind the twists and turns of the hills. these andean monsters who slumber and lull (with their rumbling, with their seismic rocking) all these millions of creatures to daily peace.
daily peace is different than what beauty queens wish for, that impossible state of human compassion, synergy, quiet madness in the face of unstoppably brutal reigns. daily peace is the feeling (hiding in the pit of your stomach, resonating a comfortable, throbbing pleasure) which only appears when the glittering lights of the city are calming and do not taunt from their distance, when the howling of street dogs is a symphony between the rusted telephone wire forest, sprouting from every angle and criss-crossing black through the air. {can you feel the buzz-buzzing?} it is there, in their silence, that daily peace resides. acceptance.
the buildings here, houses and high rises, press into each other, merging at the spine and becoming chaos. from the window of the bus, i see these walls take shape, come alive with moving people; as i imagine the woman in front of me walking along the broken sidewalk, and through the open air to her kitchen, which she cannot see as we curl and caress the asphalt with our rubber-bus wheels, but she knows it is there, has memorized the stain in the ceiling tile, the blush pink hibiscus bursting from the corner of the window above the sink. i can see her in it. i can see her walking, with the strain on her calves as she heads uphill, the smooth sliding stillness of her eyelids as she blinks. she knows the exact moment to stand, wave down the driver, because she has eaten this time. the twenty-seven minutes from cumbaya to the road side stop just below the market, they have been made into ice and eaten. frozen. and now they are hollow in her stomach, but singing, 'now! now is your time to escape!' and so she does.
at eight o'clock in the evening, every night, without fail, the dogs always start barking. not loud angry barking, or the kind no ear is able to ignore (the kind that comes when the dog is in pain, or afraid and backed, hackles raised into a corner). this barking is pure speech, for fun, or maybe not, but only between each other. the dogs are telling the night stories of the city. [this can be read two different ways, and both are correct. it is to the moment to determine which it will be. is the night a vast audience, soaking in the words like disappearing starlight? or is it the stories OF the night that the dogs are howling at us as we pass, as we sit in our vacant rooms, staring out windows and seeing nothing, when really, it is everything?] maybe i am wrong about everything. people are almost always wrong about everything. especially when it comes to each other, but even more so when it is things that we do not understand, cannot comprehend. maybe these dogs are only barking to make themselves heard. to make themselves hoarse. merely to hear their own voices echo off the walls, funnelling down their throats like burning sand. this is why it is called howling.
cuaron once said 'green is the only color i understand' and this is true for me, as well. of all things, green makes sense to me. don't ask me to explain my logic, because i won't be able to, but when i am drawn [to the weeds, we are brave like soldiers, falling down, under pale moonlight...] in, it is usually because of green. or the ocean.
Enhydra lutris: sea otter (lutra)
Bothrops asper: fer-de-lance
it's terrifying, really, how little sound you hear when there is no limitation to your speaking. when no one understands, when you recognize how loud everything is, everything is amplified.
the act of missing is painful. it is visceral, i don't care what anyone says. you are causing aches in my chest, in my eyes, in my mouth. when i return, you will be flattened. i will hug you so hard, you will break. be ready, for i will be leaping.
favorites:
-el parque el hjedo, and el mercado de artesanias.
-the circling pigeons of la plaza de santo agosto
-0,25 centavos for helado
-discotecas
-making friends with ecuadorian security guards
-dali dripping from the walls
-jugo de EVERYTHING
-el libro se llama 'cuentos del ecuador'
non-favorites:
-whistles
-feeling hunted after dark
-gringo bars
-clumsy words, clumsy tongues
-missing pieces
take me home tonight i don' wanna let you go 'til you see the light take me home tonight
old, grey-haired men; tired shoulders, round bellies. mostly because of the altitude, and the blood that was pushed from their hearts under iron fisted rule.
the valley appears behind the twists and turns of the hills. these andean monsters who slumber and lull (with their rumbling, with their seismic rocking) all these millions of creatures to daily peace.
daily peace is different than what beauty queens wish for, that impossible state of human compassion, synergy, quiet madness in the face of unstoppably brutal reigns. daily peace is the feeling (hiding in the pit of your stomach, resonating a comfortable, throbbing pleasure) which only appears when the glittering lights of the city are calming and do not taunt from their distance, when the howling of street dogs is a symphony between the rusted telephone wire forest, sprouting from every angle and criss-crossing black through the air. {can you feel the buzz-buzzing?} it is there, in their silence, that daily peace resides. acceptance.
the buildings here, houses and high rises, press into each other, merging at the spine and becoming chaos. from the window of the bus, i see these walls take shape, come alive with moving people; as i imagine the woman in front of me walking along the broken sidewalk, and through the open air to her kitchen, which she cannot see as we curl and caress the asphalt with our rubber-bus wheels, but she knows it is there, has memorized the stain in the ceiling tile, the blush pink hibiscus bursting from the corner of the window above the sink. i can see her in it. i can see her walking, with the strain on her calves as she heads uphill, the smooth sliding stillness of her eyelids as she blinks. she knows the exact moment to stand, wave down the driver, because she has eaten this time. the twenty-seven minutes from cumbaya to the road side stop just below the market, they have been made into ice and eaten. frozen. and now they are hollow in her stomach, but singing, 'now! now is your time to escape!' and so she does.
at eight o'clock in the evening, every night, without fail, the dogs always start barking. not loud angry barking, or the kind no ear is able to ignore (the kind that comes when the dog is in pain, or afraid and backed, hackles raised into a corner). this barking is pure speech, for fun, or maybe not, but only between each other. the dogs are telling the night stories of the city. [this can be read two different ways, and both are correct. it is to the moment to determine which it will be. is the night a vast audience, soaking in the words like disappearing starlight? or is it the stories OF the night that the dogs are howling at us as we pass, as we sit in our vacant rooms, staring out windows and seeing nothing, when really, it is everything?] maybe i am wrong about everything. people are almost always wrong about everything. especially when it comes to each other, but even more so when it is things that we do not understand, cannot comprehend. maybe these dogs are only barking to make themselves heard. to make themselves hoarse. merely to hear their own voices echo off the walls, funnelling down their throats like burning sand. this is why it is called howling.
cuaron once said 'green is the only color i understand' and this is true for me, as well. of all things, green makes sense to me. don't ask me to explain my logic, because i won't be able to, but when i am drawn [to the weeds, we are brave like soldiers, falling down, under pale moonlight...] in, it is usually because of green. or the ocean.
Enhydra lutris: sea otter (lutra)
Bothrops asper: fer-de-lance
it's terrifying, really, how little sound you hear when there is no limitation to your speaking. when no one understands, when you recognize how loud everything is, everything is amplified.
the act of missing is painful. it is visceral, i don't care what anyone says. you are causing aches in my chest, in my eyes, in my mouth. when i return, you will be flattened. i will hug you so hard, you will break. be ready, for i will be leaping.
favorites:
-el parque el hjedo, and el mercado de artesanias.
-the circling pigeons of la plaza de santo agosto
-0,25 centavos for helado
-discotecas
-making friends with ecuadorian security guards
-dali dripping from the walls
-jugo de EVERYTHING
-el libro se llama 'cuentos del ecuador'
non-favorites:
-whistles
-feeling hunted after dark
-gringo bars
-clumsy words, clumsy tongues
-missing pieces
take me home tonight i don' wanna let you go 'til you see the light take me home tonight
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
of busses, and voices, and quiet.
so here we are.
have you ever thought that the world was too big? that there were too many corners and crevices and cracks, too many spaces to fill in with light before you could catch it all in the lenses?
every day is an adventure. every second, even, because it´s all in another language. a foreign tongue. nobody tells you, before traversing across miles, over oceans and mountains, through cities with cracking pavement and all that nonsense - nobody tells you how hard it is. life is hard, we know that. college is hard, too. classes, yeah, but the people. people are hard to understand. but living in another country where you could hardly claim to be bilingual, where the culture and the politics and everything else is totally different, this is difficult. but so totally amazing! oh. it´s fantastic how hard everthing is. i´m not drifting through each day, completely oblivious to my own breathing. here i have to contemplate each step.
a las avenidas de zamora y brasil.
there goes a car
another.
another, but with a boy, maybe sixteen, seated in the back. he looks tired.
three busses, one of which i was supposed to be on.
[how do i say this is spanish? who should i ask? he looks nice. the one in the yellow sweatshirt. he has a long nose. strong. maybe i´ll ask him.]
step into the street, across -
there! there is my bus.
and there is the city. flashing past, through open doors. i am standing, praying to the floor with my toes that it will not let me go, and watching the street as we drive, me without a seat, without a tongue, without a voice.
around corners, clinging to the bar that will keep me inside, away from the pavement, above the crushing wheels. who would notice if i fell? would anyone stop the bus if i tumbled out, into the street?
(¡más libertad!) scrawled in red on the plain concrete sides, spilling their crumbling mortar into the street. the graffiti here means something. la voz de las murales.
sitting. three people, travellers. a beautiful woman, tall, wearing striped purple and blue pants, made of wool. indigenous. her lip is pierced. no, it is a scar. (from what? her blood was spilled for some reason, her mouth mangled. she was in a fight, when she was nine. maybe ten, but regardless, her older brother pushed her down, and she bled. it is an elegant scar, clean and straight.) her eyes follow the tumbling body of a four year old boy, con mullet. he is laughing, rolling on the floor of the bus. the eyes of everyone on the bus are drawn to his laughter, bouncing off of the dusty walls, but his eyes are attached to a box, which rests on the head of his father (his father? i don´t want to assume, but he shares the same nose, and perhaps they are a travelling family of gypsies, riding on busses across continents, wearing purple striped pants and singing songs about little black birds and rejoicing in their simplicity. no, this is too romantic. their bodies are tired, and they do not rejoice because it is all they have known. but it is enough. so maybe...) the man has curly black hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and brown boots. the box has holes. in a former life, it was used to transport tangerines. but now, now there is a sound coming from the box.
a kitten!
there is a small brown kitten climbing out of the box.
the woman sees me staring, watches my eyes follow her son, her lover, her cat. she blinks, and continues singing.
live here with me. voiceless.
i have never known what it is to be voiceless.
everyone should realize this someday.
in america, many have been silent for decades. their families
quiet, ignored, questioned.
we should all be made voiceless for
minutes
hours
months.
to understand the quiet.
we live in it.
"for beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us...
and so i hold myself back and swallow the call-note
of my dark sobbing. ah, whom can we ever turn to
in our need?"
-r. m. rilke
have you ever thought that the world was too big? that there were too many corners and crevices and cracks, too many spaces to fill in with light before you could catch it all in the lenses?
every day is an adventure. every second, even, because it´s all in another language. a foreign tongue. nobody tells you, before traversing across miles, over oceans and mountains, through cities with cracking pavement and all that nonsense - nobody tells you how hard it is. life is hard, we know that. college is hard, too. classes, yeah, but the people. people are hard to understand. but living in another country where you could hardly claim to be bilingual, where the culture and the politics and everything else is totally different, this is difficult. but so totally amazing! oh. it´s fantastic how hard everthing is. i´m not drifting through each day, completely oblivious to my own breathing. here i have to contemplate each step.
a las avenidas de zamora y brasil.
there goes a car
another.
another, but with a boy, maybe sixteen, seated in the back. he looks tired.
three busses, one of which i was supposed to be on.
[how do i say this is spanish? who should i ask? he looks nice. the one in the yellow sweatshirt. he has a long nose. strong. maybe i´ll ask him.]
step into the street, across -
there! there is my bus.
and there is the city. flashing past, through open doors. i am standing, praying to the floor with my toes that it will not let me go, and watching the street as we drive, me without a seat, without a tongue, without a voice.
around corners, clinging to the bar that will keep me inside, away from the pavement, above the crushing wheels. who would notice if i fell? would anyone stop the bus if i tumbled out, into the street?
(¡más libertad!) scrawled in red on the plain concrete sides, spilling their crumbling mortar into the street. the graffiti here means something. la voz de las murales.
sitting. three people, travellers. a beautiful woman, tall, wearing striped purple and blue pants, made of wool. indigenous. her lip is pierced. no, it is a scar. (from what? her blood was spilled for some reason, her mouth mangled. she was in a fight, when she was nine. maybe ten, but regardless, her older brother pushed her down, and she bled. it is an elegant scar, clean and straight.) her eyes follow the tumbling body of a four year old boy, con mullet. he is laughing, rolling on the floor of the bus. the eyes of everyone on the bus are drawn to his laughter, bouncing off of the dusty walls, but his eyes are attached to a box, which rests on the head of his father (his father? i don´t want to assume, but he shares the same nose, and perhaps they are a travelling family of gypsies, riding on busses across continents, wearing purple striped pants and singing songs about little black birds and rejoicing in their simplicity. no, this is too romantic. their bodies are tired, and they do not rejoice because it is all they have known. but it is enough. so maybe...) the man has curly black hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and brown boots. the box has holes. in a former life, it was used to transport tangerines. but now, now there is a sound coming from the box.
a kitten!
there is a small brown kitten climbing out of the box.
the woman sees me staring, watches my eyes follow her son, her lover, her cat. she blinks, and continues singing.
live here with me. voiceless.
i have never known what it is to be voiceless.
everyone should realize this someday.
in america, many have been silent for decades. their families
quiet, ignored, questioned.
we should all be made voiceless for
minutes
hours
months.
to understand the quiet.
we live in it.
"for beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us...
and so i hold myself back and swallow the call-note
of my dark sobbing. ah, whom can we ever turn to
in our need?"
-r. m. rilke
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
the messiest year in the world
seriously.
"how is the word, infinitely? i hate that word. forever. i can love forever."
12 december, 2006.
i am a techno-ballerina and this is my symphony. sympathy. symphony.
there is a sparrow in the fireplace, sitting on the piles of ash (cold for months) flying up the stairs in patches of sunlight that catch in the folds of the wrought-iron railing.
1 may, 2006.
things are precarious, and i am uneasy. but i am most loveable when i am rambling about random things that really do not connect, when i am being totally ridiculous, immediately after running when my face is flushed and i am full of energy, when you remember to ask little things that no one ever notices.
flying pink carnations, falling through the air in slow-motion, time erased.
14 february, 2006.
there is a dime in the dregs of my apple tea, and you're hiding behind the barbed wire fence that is covering the rabbit hole in your front yard. you called me alice, and i laughed, but it was bittersweet, because i spoke to the walrus the other day, and he told me there was a tea party in the abandoned hallway between your mousetrap and the laundry machine. too bad you forgot - i know the walls of your house are glass.
baby baby baby, there is nothing so fragile as me, when it comes to you. but this splinter here, spider cracked and spilling further along the side of my face, this splinter isn't made of matter, the shrapnel that you left me with. you can't call me alice anymore. there is a dime in the dregs of my apple tea, waiting to be uncovered, discovered, left in peppermint leaves.
14 october, 2006.
i want to dance. barefoot, for the rest of my life. wearing old slips, made of lace and satin [the kind the dressmakers used to place on their bodies, stiff and silent in the attic gloom;] bright red satin. or black. i will walk the curves in these roads, barefoot. letting the peculiar pieces of granite, and asphalt cling to the pads of my toes. soon, i would be three feet taller! if i didn't stop to take them out, that is. i will teach our children to climb trees (barefoot, all of us). when we reach the top, we will holler at the top of our lungs. about things like civil rights, and lung cancer, and underwear. we will scream obscenities into the wind [but only here, at the top of the world.]
27 july, 2006.
if i write it down, that means that's it. i'm done. no turning back. no ranting, no hoping, no thinking, no more. i'm done.
28 february, 2006.
bad habits die hard. summer of arms and legs entwined under a haze of blue smoke, or between sheets of seventy proof champagne skies. my hands are small and weary of being held, but from behind my back i'll let yours drift to my hips, passed my ribs, through my lungs. we're going to start a revolution, between the two of us. will you be that one i've been running towards? the one who doesn't hold on all the time?
2 september, 2006.
i came back for you, she said.
i know,
he looked at the flowers on the table - white and freshly cut. these smell horrible, he said. they smell like granite, and hospital gowns.
it was the thought that counts, kiddo, she sighed.
she hated lilies, he said.
no one but you knew that.
except for her.
except for her, she said.
they look like tumors, too. white, bulbous tumors.
she fell silent. there was nothing to say.
i didn't expect you to, come back, i mean. he said finally.
what else am i here for? she asked, and filled the room with light. he shut his eyes.
he swirled a glass of red wine and held it up, high in the air, as if he hoped, if he let it go, it might stay there, floating.
you'd have done the same, she said.
he grunted, said 'i don't know.'
true, she said.
the chiming of seventeen individual grandfather clocks echoed in his head, interrupted by the slow, wheezing gasp of the closing of a screen door.
he followed her into the street. i'm sorry, he said.
don't be, she said. sit in the dark for a while. i'll leave the light on for you.
5 august, 2006.
these tired eyes, that pirate smile; we were always good at being tired; he stays still; tight tight tight; body to body, he never stays still.
30 december, 2006.
crazy german ladies hiding yelling dogs following english toffee with the milwaukee folk. tornado warnings, lightning billowing, brewers games michaelangelos and the chocolate shoppe, and the squid and the whale, all over and everywhere. cacciato at the union in the mornings and by the fiberglass muralled cows, dance parties in the kitchen [FAKIN AMNESIA] james brown and rhythm is a dancer, singing soulful in the stairwell, the messiest orange in the world, and a mouse in the frying pan.
4 june, 2006.
you do what you can | when you can | why you can. | and when you can't | you can't.
23 september, 2006.
"now you just look over there, a'right? anything the matter, bru? yah yah. . . and if you ever threaten my life like that again, my friend, i'll peal your face back off your 'ead."
i'm yelling! i'll drown you out. you'll drown me out.
life is like the surf, so give yourself away like the sea.
28 december, 2006.
reading poetry in the morning. peanut butter and jelly. sudden violin outbreaks which sound like wailing after i've drawn on my toes and spoken to a pair of old men in houndstooth bowler hats and matching (each other, not the hats), decided to continue dancing wherever possible, regardless of the threats from mental health workers. love, whenever possible. love HARD and often.
13 january, 2006.
oh, this time we'll be infinite.
but not, like you said.
not forever.
that's too much time. it's just that the bound(arie)s will hold us down, and for
the time it takes to cross the space
we're in
we'll be infinite.
29 november, 2006.
the truth hurts. so we lie.
4 march, 2006.
we sit in the coffee shop, surrounded. on the couch, there is a man and a woman. she lays her head on his shoulder, talking straight into his ear. everyonce in a while, she flings her head sideways, her bouncy brown curls sliding across the rosy peach of her cheeks. she continues to chatter, laughing and explaining about how some man on the bus asked her where she'd gotten her boots (which are black and pointed, making click-clack sounds which echo on the tile when she walks) could she tell him where to find them? his wife would like them. she laughs when she tells her man this story, her arm pressed between his and his ribs, her hand resting quietly on his thigh. she laughs because she is comfortable in her love.
but he is not paying attention, watching instead the woman across from them, alone at a table reading a newspaper over her black-rimmed glasses. he does not love the woman who laughs.
17 november, 2006.
big things are occurring, and i don't even know if they're phasing me enough as they should. cliff jumping with the sidewalk revolutionaries of the yellow traffic lights (aka: the dead rabbits). el presidente (amsterdam), the secretary of war, the personal assassin, the secretary of propaganda, rocco, and i (the muse, the speechwriter)
the voice of pacifism in the chaos of anarchy.
3 august, 2006.
i am in espresso, and through the frame of the front windows, the overture centers' doors reign over the street. there is a line of men on bicycles, waiting for the stoplight in front of them to signal that they are free to go. one of them is looking down at his hand, wondering whether he will need to buy new gloves before winter's end. these men are splayed against the backdrop bricks of the building behind them, ivory and cream colored stone that reminds the busses not to exhale too much dust into the air. the stoplight turns green, and they are gone.
13 december, 2006.
you're singing, but i can't hear a word that you're saying.
it's all like a caucaphony of words, words and jumbled up birds
in my ears.
they're falling like glass through that turquoise blue lava you're spewing
true
why can't i hold on to you?
just let me sleep for a while, and maybe i'll hear what you're singing.
maybe i'll hear every word that you're praying...
25 march, 2006.
sepia tone loving. champagne. speaking in letters, and smoking out windows, and sailing into fits of giggles. charlie the unicorn. waking up in hotels, slipping in and out of sleep. coffee shop goodbyes. love HARD and often.
1 january, 2007.
seriously!
"how is the word, infinitely? i hate that word. forever. i can love forever."
12 december, 2006.
i am a techno-ballerina and this is my symphony. sympathy. symphony.
there is a sparrow in the fireplace, sitting on the piles of ash (cold for months) flying up the stairs in patches of sunlight that catch in the folds of the wrought-iron railing.
1 may, 2006.
things are precarious, and i am uneasy. but i am most loveable when i am rambling about random things that really do not connect, when i am being totally ridiculous, immediately after running when my face is flushed and i am full of energy, when you remember to ask little things that no one ever notices.
flying pink carnations, falling through the air in slow-motion, time erased.
14 february, 2006.
there is a dime in the dregs of my apple tea, and you're hiding behind the barbed wire fence that is covering the rabbit hole in your front yard. you called me alice, and i laughed, but it was bittersweet, because i spoke to the walrus the other day, and he told me there was a tea party in the abandoned hallway between your mousetrap and the laundry machine. too bad you forgot - i know the walls of your house are glass.
baby baby baby, there is nothing so fragile as me, when it comes to you. but this splinter here, spider cracked and spilling further along the side of my face, this splinter isn't made of matter, the shrapnel that you left me with. you can't call me alice anymore. there is a dime in the dregs of my apple tea, waiting to be uncovered, discovered, left in peppermint leaves.
14 october, 2006.
i want to dance. barefoot, for the rest of my life. wearing old slips, made of lace and satin [the kind the dressmakers used to place on their bodies, stiff and silent in the attic gloom;] bright red satin. or black. i will walk the curves in these roads, barefoot. letting the peculiar pieces of granite, and asphalt cling to the pads of my toes. soon, i would be three feet taller! if i didn't stop to take them out, that is. i will teach our children to climb trees (barefoot, all of us). when we reach the top, we will holler at the top of our lungs. about things like civil rights, and lung cancer, and underwear. we will scream obscenities into the wind [but only here, at the top of the world.]
27 july, 2006.
if i write it down, that means that's it. i'm done. no turning back. no ranting, no hoping, no thinking, no more. i'm done.
28 february, 2006.
bad habits die hard. summer of arms and legs entwined under a haze of blue smoke, or between sheets of seventy proof champagne skies. my hands are small and weary of being held, but from behind my back i'll let yours drift to my hips, passed my ribs, through my lungs. we're going to start a revolution, between the two of us. will you be that one i've been running towards? the one who doesn't hold on all the time?
2 september, 2006.
i came back for you, she said.
i know,
he looked at the flowers on the table - white and freshly cut. these smell horrible, he said. they smell like granite, and hospital gowns.
it was the thought that counts, kiddo, she sighed.
she hated lilies, he said.
no one but you knew that.
except for her.
except for her, she said.
they look like tumors, too. white, bulbous tumors.
she fell silent. there was nothing to say.
i didn't expect you to, come back, i mean. he said finally.
what else am i here for? she asked, and filled the room with light. he shut his eyes.
he swirled a glass of red wine and held it up, high in the air, as if he hoped, if he let it go, it might stay there, floating.
you'd have done the same, she said.
he grunted, said 'i don't know.'
true, she said.
the chiming of seventeen individual grandfather clocks echoed in his head, interrupted by the slow, wheezing gasp of the closing of a screen door.
he followed her into the street. i'm sorry, he said.
don't be, she said. sit in the dark for a while. i'll leave the light on for you.
5 august, 2006.
these tired eyes, that pirate smile; we were always good at being tired; he stays still; tight tight tight; body to body, he never stays still.
30 december, 2006.
crazy german ladies hiding yelling dogs following english toffee with the milwaukee folk. tornado warnings, lightning billowing, brewers games michaelangelos and the chocolate shoppe, and the squid and the whale, all over and everywhere. cacciato at the union in the mornings and by the fiberglass muralled cows, dance parties in the kitchen [FAKIN AMNESIA] james brown and rhythm is a dancer, singing soulful in the stairwell, the messiest orange in the world, and a mouse in the frying pan.
4 june, 2006.
you do what you can | when you can | why you can. | and when you can't | you can't.
23 september, 2006.
"now you just look over there, a'right? anything the matter, bru? yah yah. . . and if you ever threaten my life like that again, my friend, i'll peal your face back off your 'ead."
i'm yelling! i'll drown you out. you'll drown me out.
life is like the surf, so give yourself away like the sea.
28 december, 2006.
reading poetry in the morning. peanut butter and jelly. sudden violin outbreaks which sound like wailing after i've drawn on my toes and spoken to a pair of old men in houndstooth bowler hats and matching (each other, not the hats), decided to continue dancing wherever possible, regardless of the threats from mental health workers. love, whenever possible. love HARD and often.
13 january, 2006.
oh, this time we'll be infinite.
but not, like you said.
not forever.
that's too much time. it's just that the bound(arie)s will hold us down, and for
the time it takes to cross the space
we're in
we'll be infinite.
29 november, 2006.
the truth hurts. so we lie.
4 march, 2006.
we sit in the coffee shop, surrounded. on the couch, there is a man and a woman. she lays her head on his shoulder, talking straight into his ear. everyonce in a while, she flings her head sideways, her bouncy brown curls sliding across the rosy peach of her cheeks. she continues to chatter, laughing and explaining about how some man on the bus asked her where she'd gotten her boots (which are black and pointed, making click-clack sounds which echo on the tile when she walks) could she tell him where to find them? his wife would like them. she laughs when she tells her man this story, her arm pressed between his and his ribs, her hand resting quietly on his thigh. she laughs because she is comfortable in her love.
but he is not paying attention, watching instead the woman across from them, alone at a table reading a newspaper over her black-rimmed glasses. he does not love the woman who laughs.
17 november, 2006.
big things are occurring, and i don't even know if they're phasing me enough as they should. cliff jumping with the sidewalk revolutionaries of the yellow traffic lights (aka: the dead rabbits). el presidente (amsterdam), the secretary of war, the personal assassin, the secretary of propaganda, rocco, and i (the muse, the speechwriter)
the voice of pacifism in the chaos of anarchy.
3 august, 2006.
i am in espresso, and through the frame of the front windows, the overture centers' doors reign over the street. there is a line of men on bicycles, waiting for the stoplight in front of them to signal that they are free to go. one of them is looking down at his hand, wondering whether he will need to buy new gloves before winter's end. these men are splayed against the backdrop bricks of the building behind them, ivory and cream colored stone that reminds the busses not to exhale too much dust into the air. the stoplight turns green, and they are gone.
13 december, 2006.
you're singing, but i can't hear a word that you're saying.
it's all like a caucaphony of words, words and jumbled up birds
in my ears.
they're falling like glass through that turquoise blue lava you're spewing
true
why can't i hold on to you?
just let me sleep for a while, and maybe i'll hear what you're singing.
maybe i'll hear every word that you're praying...
25 march, 2006.
sepia tone loving. champagne. speaking in letters, and smoking out windows, and sailing into fits of giggles. charlie the unicorn. waking up in hotels, slipping in and out of sleep. coffee shop goodbyes. love HARD and often.
1 january, 2007.
seriously!
Thursday, December 28, 2006
lists.
5 day marathons with 20 hours sleep, total.
fettuchine alla crema di scampi, chocolate raspberry truffle, the italian, asian kitchen, and sunroom.
rain.
chicago, with green shoes, and busses.
trenchcoats.
sethela!
crazy, stress-induced explosions of wrestling madness, and being thrown about.
half-assed papers, and apathy.
naps on couches, involving dreams about missing babies, blocked stairwells, and yelling.
qdoba with cath, and the "but i want a STRAW" incident.
drunk (thanks, bradley).
drunk tour II.
the attic, and the drawer full of fire alarms.
fixing my doorknob, tipsy.
almost falling out the window, and the last sounds of the lake.
seeing 7 am from the otherside.
chopping garlic, drinking catabwa juice, and dreaming of international gun-running.
leinenkugel's apple cider.
the wife! the triangle! perfect christmas-going away-valentine's-st. patty's-birthday presents.
caribou.
tirades on conundrums, paradoxical problems, and boys.
kate!
seeing randoms, shopping wildly, and step up. mmm.
these are a few of my favorite things.
fettuchine alla crema di scampi, chocolate raspberry truffle, the italian, asian kitchen, and sunroom.
rain.
chicago, with green shoes, and busses.
trenchcoats.
sethela!
crazy, stress-induced explosions of wrestling madness, and being thrown about.
half-assed papers, and apathy.
naps on couches, involving dreams about missing babies, blocked stairwells, and yelling.
qdoba with cath, and the "but i want a STRAW" incident.
drunk (thanks, bradley).
drunk tour II.
the attic, and the drawer full of fire alarms.
fixing my doorknob, tipsy.
almost falling out the window, and the last sounds of the lake.
seeing 7 am from the otherside.
chopping garlic, drinking catabwa juice, and dreaming of international gun-running.
leinenkugel's apple cider.
the wife! the triangle! perfect christmas-going away-valentine's-st. patty's-birthday presents.
caribou.
tirades on conundrums, paradoxical problems, and boys.
kate!
seeing randoms, shopping wildly, and step up. mmm.
these are a few of my favorite things.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
say goodnight and go
he starts to say
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
non-favorite things:
male-chavinists and misogynism
7 hours sleep in 72 hours
16 page papers
being afraid of the dark
saying goodbye
favorite things:
imogen heap in the kitchen
drinking fat squirrel while dancing
making bread
hugs
cute TA's
eggers
1) thoughts are made of water and water always finds a way.
2) if you can't dodge the water, run.
Why d'ya have to be so cute? | It's impossible to ignore you | Must you make me laugh so much | It's bad enough we get along so well
Friday, December 15, 2006
all of this
how many birds have died in cages, thinking the ceiling was the sky?
use me c’mon and use me
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
and all again I wait for this to fill the hole, to shake the sky in two
wait...there is a light...there is a fire
illuminated attic.
Fate? or something better? i could care less,
just stay with me a while
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
a cloud hangs over this city by the sea
please do persist, boy its time we met and made a mess.
he would splash paint across the great back of that invisible elephant, beg her to watch as the color dripped down its sides,
as it was elucidated.
he would try to bring it up, saying
that he was sorry, that even though he couldn't explain why
all he could do was love her.
and she would sigh, sad.
she would move as if to walk away, and he would rise, she would push her hands against his chest, holding her palms steady for a moment,
pressing down hard.
don't, she would say.
the slow jangle of a banjo, the first chords, would drift from the stereo, 'for the widows' following her footprints through the sand as she disappears behind the shelf, climbing steady down the rock face toward the ocean.
that was how he would find her, an hour before sunrise.
illuminated by the reflection of the moon off the rough pacific surf, she would stand, there in the steaming wake of a beached whale.
its grey skin drying, sending
life
evaporating into thin air.
she would bend, hold her body to his massive side, and rise slowly as he inhaled.
he would ask if she could forgive him, and she would say
look how quiet he is.
he was lost, and panicked; somehow,
he found himself too far along to turn back,
and now he's dying.
we could push,
maybe call the coastguard, he says.
and she would say
but look how quiet he is.
…and people are always runnin around giving their forever away…
i gave me away
i could have knocked off the evening
but i lonelily loomed him into my bone
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum da da da da dum dum
use me c’mon and use me
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
and all again I wait for this to fill the hole, to shake the sky in two
wait...there is a light...there is a fire
illuminated attic.
Fate? or something better? i could care less,
just stay with me a while
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum
da da da da dum dum
a cloud hangs over this city by the sea
please do persist, boy its time we met and made a mess.
he would splash paint across the great back of that invisible elephant, beg her to watch as the color dripped down its sides,
as it was elucidated.
he would try to bring it up, saying
that he was sorry, that even though he couldn't explain why
all he could do was love her.
and she would sigh, sad.
she would move as if to walk away, and he would rise, she would push her hands against his chest, holding her palms steady for a moment,
pressing down hard.
don't, she would say.
the slow jangle of a banjo, the first chords, would drift from the stereo, 'for the widows' following her footprints through the sand as she disappears behind the shelf, climbing steady down the rock face toward the ocean.
that was how he would find her, an hour before sunrise.
illuminated by the reflection of the moon off the rough pacific surf, she would stand, there in the steaming wake of a beached whale.
its grey skin drying, sending
life
evaporating into thin air.
she would bend, hold her body to his massive side, and rise slowly as he inhaled.
he would ask if she could forgive him, and she would say
look how quiet he is.
he was lost, and panicked; somehow,
he found himself too far along to turn back,
and now he's dying.
we could push,
maybe call the coastguard, he says.
and she would say
but look how quiet he is.
…and people are always runnin around giving their forever away…
i gave me away
i could have knocked off the evening
but i lonelily loomed him into my bone
i feel like -
- we're caught in a cage, she finishes.
they were always good at finishing.
he smiles.
yea, he says.
da da da da dum da da dum da da dum dum da da da da dum dum
Sunday, December 10, 2006
the denial twist
if you think that a kiss is all in the lips | c'mon | you got it all wrong, man
peach riesling + cloves + race rants. j. newsom! at the union, in the great hall, for free. the threat of a hipster riot. accordians, banjos, bass drums, glockenspiels, and musical saws. oh, and the harp. oblivious celebrity sightings in bathrooms. moon conversations and back-route wanderings with 99 stabbers. bruised palms. sleeping in when i really shouldn't be, feeling guilty about it, and then falling asleep again. signing leases [meaning: i have somewhere to live next year.] accidentally calling my lovelies, and not realizing it. winding up to wind it way down, and being terrified to say goodbye.
and there was a booming above you | that night, black airplanes flew over the sea | and they were lowing and shifting like | beached whales
peach riesling + cloves + race rants. j. newsom! at the union, in the great hall, for free. the threat of a hipster riot. accordians, banjos, bass drums, glockenspiels, and musical saws. oh, and the harp. oblivious celebrity sightings in bathrooms. moon conversations and back-route wanderings with 99 stabbers. bruised palms. sleeping in when i really shouldn't be, feeling guilty about it, and then falling asleep again. signing leases [meaning: i have somewhere to live next year.] accidentally calling my lovelies, and not realizing it. winding up to wind it way down, and being terrified to say goodbye.
and there was a booming above you | that night, black airplanes flew over the sea | and they were lowing and shifting like | beached whales
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
i like a man who grins when he fights
three stories i loved when i was ten:
1) harriet the spy
2) a wind in the door
3) from the mixed-up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler
why?
who doesn't want to run away and live in the metropolitan museum of art? [see the royal tenenbaums for further evidence of the merit of such adventures; margot and richie tenenbaum, at ages similar to claudia and jamie of mrs. basil... ran away to the natural history museum in new york city and slept surrounded by dinosaur skeletons and the taxidermied bodies of mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and the {famous further thanks to wes anderson} "squid and the whale." man, what i wouldn't give to be a kid in new york city. everyone gets to hide somewhere fascinating!]
who didn't pretend to belong to an elite spy association? i did this while hiding in my bushes with a notebook, invisible-ink pen, and 'tape recorder' (actually a defunct-walkman), recording my every mundane observation about the obnoxiously-boringly-normal neighbors and the wonder-bread delivery man who came every wednesday afternoon. i also hid stores of ordinary stones, maple leaves, and paperbirch sticks in my shed. this was quite obviously for an emergency, in case i had to live there for an extended period of time, such as if i were to be discovered and had to run away. [i had no other choice of location, not living nearby a museum interesting enough to hide within.]
what child didn't want a drove of dragons hanging about in their garden, their mitochondrian/farandolae having mental breakdowns and needing internal adventures, and a black psychic garter snake named louise living in their stone wall? i sure did. also, further evidence of said desires: see the episode(s) of jim henson's muppet babies in which the babies must escape the nursery in order to adventure inside a) skooter and his broken immune system, taking trips into the memory files of his brain and flying around his bloodstream in a submarine, and b) in order to prevent the watermelon seed fozzie swallowed from becoming a sizeable fruit. those two really only refer to the internal adventures aspect, but i did write a paper in a.p. bio about a wind in the door, and ms. kahlstorf wanted me to research further on the existence/importance of farandolae, as scientists at this point in time are aware of only the importance of mitochondrian. ha!
sleeping in the library last night made me feel as if i partially experienced one of the three, even if it were not in a museum, not for an extended period of time, and not actually illegal. i'd still much rather hide out in the Met, much rather have to hide from security guards in toilets and under artifacts, than to sleep in awkwardly shaped armchairs and wake up to the janitors moving the furniture about. but at least i can pretend, right? right.
¿me deseas? necesito saber antes de salir por los bosques, antes de salir por las islas, porque me he vuelto muy loca, y te amo. esta es la verdad. no el tipo de amor que es en las pelÃculas, no entre las personas viejas que han casado por muchos años, no el tipo de amor que es profundo en el corazón. esta es un tipo de amor fugaz, y no quiero amarte. pero hago.
favorites: [charlie] and [hard to concentrate] by the red hot chili peppers. greys marathons. [emily] by j. newsom. tomato-basil-cheese pizza, after consuming nothing but (1) cup coffee in 24 hours. [violent pornography] by system of a down. being cranky. [for the widows...] by s. stevens. dark jeans that make a) my ass look good and b) me look tall + my houndstooth heels. [winter] by j. radin. hot tomales and peanut butter m&m's. [globalization and its discontents as sung by joseph stiglitz] by sean (unknown). having my window open again (even though its -3 degrees outside).
non-favorites: wisconsin winter weather and waiting to waltz my way to ecuador (oh, i am good. look at that alliteration!) the impending doom of finals week. making appointments at the ecuadorian consulate in chicago. trying to sign a lease in the midst of a shitstorm, all by myself. knowing i am going to miss people i don't want to be missing. knowing i am going to miss people i want to be missing. flakes. not sleeping.
i like a man who grins when he fights [ ear to ear. it's the irish in me. ]
1) harriet the spy
2) a wind in the door
3) from the mixed-up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler
why?
who doesn't want to run away and live in the metropolitan museum of art? [see the royal tenenbaums for further evidence of the merit of such adventures; margot and richie tenenbaum, at ages similar to claudia and jamie of mrs. basil... ran away to the natural history museum in new york city and slept surrounded by dinosaur skeletons and the taxidermied bodies of mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and the {famous further thanks to wes anderson} "squid and the whale." man, what i wouldn't give to be a kid in new york city. everyone gets to hide somewhere fascinating!]
who didn't pretend to belong to an elite spy association? i did this while hiding in my bushes with a notebook, invisible-ink pen, and 'tape recorder' (actually a defunct-walkman), recording my every mundane observation about the obnoxiously-boringly-normal neighbors and the wonder-bread delivery man who came every wednesday afternoon. i also hid stores of ordinary stones, maple leaves, and paperbirch sticks in my shed. this was quite obviously for an emergency, in case i had to live there for an extended period of time, such as if i were to be discovered and had to run away. [i had no other choice of location, not living nearby a museum interesting enough to hide within.]
what child didn't want a drove of dragons hanging about in their garden, their mitochondrian/farandolae having mental breakdowns and needing internal adventures, and a black psychic garter snake named louise living in their stone wall? i sure did. also, further evidence of said desires: see the episode(s) of jim henson's muppet babies in which the babies must escape the nursery in order to adventure inside a) skooter and his broken immune system, taking trips into the memory files of his brain and flying around his bloodstream in a submarine, and b) in order to prevent the watermelon seed fozzie swallowed from becoming a sizeable fruit. those two really only refer to the internal adventures aspect, but i did write a paper in a.p. bio about a wind in the door, and ms. kahlstorf wanted me to research further on the existence/importance of farandolae, as scientists at this point in time are aware of only the importance of mitochondrian. ha!
sleeping in the library last night made me feel as if i partially experienced one of the three, even if it were not in a museum, not for an extended period of time, and not actually illegal. i'd still much rather hide out in the Met, much rather have to hide from security guards in toilets and under artifacts, than to sleep in awkwardly shaped armchairs and wake up to the janitors moving the furniture about. but at least i can pretend, right? right.
¿me deseas? necesito saber antes de salir por los bosques, antes de salir por las islas, porque me he vuelto muy loca, y te amo. esta es la verdad. no el tipo de amor que es en las pelÃculas, no entre las personas viejas que han casado por muchos años, no el tipo de amor que es profundo en el corazón. esta es un tipo de amor fugaz, y no quiero amarte. pero hago.
favorites: [charlie] and [hard to concentrate] by the red hot chili peppers. greys marathons. [emily] by j. newsom. tomato-basil-cheese pizza, after consuming nothing but (1) cup coffee in 24 hours. [violent pornography] by system of a down. being cranky. [for the widows...] by s. stevens. dark jeans that make a) my ass look good and b) me look tall + my houndstooth heels. [winter] by j. radin. hot tomales and peanut butter m&m's. [globalization and its discontents as sung by joseph stiglitz] by sean (unknown). having my window open again (even though its -3 degrees outside).
non-favorites: wisconsin winter weather and waiting to waltz my way to ecuador (oh, i am good. look at that alliteration!) the impending doom of finals week. making appointments at the ecuadorian consulate in chicago. trying to sign a lease in the midst of a shitstorm, all by myself. knowing i am going to miss people i don't want to be missing. knowing i am going to miss people i want to be missing. flakes. not sleeping.
i like a man who grins when he fights [ ear to ear. it's the irish in me. ]
Sunday, November 26, 2006
beautiful songs, nervous hearts, and awkward jazz.
like a nervous heart that | is crazy beating | so back up back up | don’t you mess up mess up | wake up wake up this aint just a thing that you | give up give up don’t you say that I’d be | better off
hiding in my basement, drinking jazzy red wine and telling stories from the past three months. dunn brothers study sessions and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #1 [the elf lady]. stress-induced breakouts. happy feet! insomnia. unexpected and emotionally unsettling messages.
and all the gold dust in her eyes | won't reform into rain | you had and lost the one thing | of the girl who made you her own | and how you left her alone | over playing the blues with the light on
DEAD POETS SOCIETY (i still have a crush on nuanda). mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and being mistaken for my cousin repeatedly by my grandfather. impromptu meetings in the living room when he goes missing, and reappears at the park. tiny relations attempting to leap from platforms and dinner tables.
tense hour long dramas involving (future) baby-doctors and surgeons with shaky fingers.
m: please? please please please? [cute rocking]
mcd: you know what would say thank you better than anything? [mouths] "sex."
m: the-boy-induced-giggle giggling
babe here's your song | babe it took too long | you're nina simone | when you talk on the phone
really bad movies about gymnastics. travel clinic appointments in which i am told repeatedly of the many ways in which i could die. and also of the many ways in which the vaccinations i am receiving [ouch!] could also kill me. but that 95% of people who go adventuring into the jungle have a wonderful time. thanks. caribou, and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #2 [the old man with the broken zipper]. to rookies! for the playing bosbens and crowds of drunken ex-high school hotshots. awkward? hilarious? both?
come on put a little love here in my void| he said, "It's all in your head"| and I said, "so's everything'" but he didn't get it| hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
to kate's, for conan. in which there is a comic who tells the following jokes:
"now, i'm one of those people who has a tendency to make awkward situations even more awkward. so i was moving into my apartment, and i'm carrying my mattress. this old woman opens the door for me, which i thought was nice. then she says to me, 'i let you in because i know you're not a rapist. rapists don't have beds like that.' that's a pretty awkward way to start a conversation. what i should of said - nothing. what did i say? 'you'd be surprised.'"
"i'm not a republican, but i guess george w. is a pretty likeable guy. i mean, he's one of those guys you'd invite to a barbeque. but then things could start to get out of control. he'd probably want to play wiffel ball, but he'd get a little competitive, and he'd hit the wiffel balls into the neighbors' yards. tell them they should play wiffel ball too. some people just don't like wiffel ball! but he wouldn't care. if they didn't play with him, he'd start throwing hamburgers at them. dare them to throw hamburgers back. and the thing is - some of them don't even have hamburgers!'"
every word you say | i think | i should write down | don't want to forget come daylight
to my cousin's house. where 3 giant dogs sit on my lap and cover me in kisses. hugs from dominic, panera baked potato soup and awkward cole-aversions. waiting for hours, photo shoots in the mummy sack, gollum, scene it! and annoying orders about parked cars. breakfast at brueggers. sledge-hammering my doorknob off.
[the little things] and [bubbly] : c. caillat.
[star mile] [these photographs] and [paperweight] : j. radin (feat. schuyler fisk).
[paper bag] : f. apple.
[bleeker street] [the times...] [go tell it...] and [peggy-o] : simon & garfunkel
[elias w. beautiful soul & if i am] : the bosbens
[peach, plum, pear] : j. newsom
voices leaking from a sad cafe | smiling faces try to understand | i saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand | on bleeker street
hiding in my basement, drinking jazzy red wine and telling stories from the past three months. dunn brothers study sessions and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #1 [the elf lady]. stress-induced breakouts. happy feet! insomnia. unexpected and emotionally unsettling messages.
and all the gold dust in her eyes | won't reform into rain | you had and lost the one thing | of the girl who made you her own | and how you left her alone | over playing the blues with the light on
DEAD POETS SOCIETY (i still have a crush on nuanda). mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie and being mistaken for my cousin repeatedly by my grandfather. impromptu meetings in the living room when he goes missing, and reappears at the park. tiny relations attempting to leap from platforms and dinner tables.
tense hour long dramas involving (future) baby-doctors and surgeons with shaky fingers.
m: please? please please please? [cute rocking]
mcd: you know what would say thank you better than anything? [mouths] "sex."
m: the-boy-induced-giggle giggling
babe here's your song | babe it took too long | you're nina simone | when you talk on the phone
really bad movies about gymnastics. travel clinic appointments in which i am told repeatedly of the many ways in which i could die. and also of the many ways in which the vaccinations i am receiving [ouch!] could also kill me. but that 95% of people who go adventuring into the jungle have a wonderful time. thanks. caribou, and awkwardly adorable crazy elderly person #2 [the old man with the broken zipper]. to rookies! for the playing bosbens and crowds of drunken ex-high school hotshots. awkward? hilarious? both?
come on put a little love here in my void| he said, "It's all in your head"| and I said, "so's everything'" but he didn't get it| hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love
to kate's, for conan. in which there is a comic who tells the following jokes:
"now, i'm one of those people who has a tendency to make awkward situations even more awkward. so i was moving into my apartment, and i'm carrying my mattress. this old woman opens the door for me, which i thought was nice. then she says to me, 'i let you in because i know you're not a rapist. rapists don't have beds like that.' that's a pretty awkward way to start a conversation. what i should of said - nothing. what did i say? 'you'd be surprised.'"
"i'm not a republican, but i guess george w. is a pretty likeable guy. i mean, he's one of those guys you'd invite to a barbeque. but then things could start to get out of control. he'd probably want to play wiffel ball, but he'd get a little competitive, and he'd hit the wiffel balls into the neighbors' yards. tell them they should play wiffel ball too. some people just don't like wiffel ball! but he wouldn't care. if they didn't play with him, he'd start throwing hamburgers at them. dare them to throw hamburgers back. and the thing is - some of them don't even have hamburgers!'"
every word you say | i think | i should write down | don't want to forget come daylight
to my cousin's house. where 3 giant dogs sit on my lap and cover me in kisses. hugs from dominic, panera baked potato soup and awkward cole-aversions. waiting for hours, photo shoots in the mummy sack, gollum, scene it! and annoying orders about parked cars. breakfast at brueggers. sledge-hammering my doorknob off.
[the little things] and [bubbly] : c. caillat.
[star mile] [these photographs] and [paperweight] : j. radin (feat. schuyler fisk).
[paper bag] : f. apple.
[bleeker street] [the times...] [go tell it...] and [peggy-o] : simon & garfunkel
[elias w. beautiful soul & if i am] : the bosbens
[peach, plum, pear] : j. newsom
voices leaking from a sad cafe | smiling faces try to understand | i saw a shadow touch a shadow's hand | on bleeker street
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
j. newsom is a genius
That means no Where i come from I am cold, out waiting for the day to come
I chew my lips And i scratch my nose Feels so good to be a rose
Oh don't Don't you lift me up Like i'm that shy no-no-no-no-no, just give it up
See, there are bats all dissolving in a row Into the wishy-washy dark that can't let go I cannot let go
So i thank the lord And i thank his sword Though it be mincing up the morning, slightly bored Oh
oh oh, morning Without warning Like a hole Oh, and i watch you go
There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road There are some dragons who were built to have and hold And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly And some great bellies ache with many bumblebees And they sting so terribly
I do as i please Now i'm on my knees Your skin is something that i stir into my tea And i am watching you And you are starry, starry, starry
(and you will never Ever know how Very sorry you will be ... I am)
And i'm tumbling down And i check a frown Well just look around That's why i love this town To see me;
Serenaded hourly Celebrated sourly Dedicated dourly
Waltzing with the open sea Clam, crab, cockle, cowrie
Will you just look at me! Oh, oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh, oh
[clam crab cockle cowrie] - j. newsom
I chew my lips And i scratch my nose Feels so good to be a rose
Oh don't Don't you lift me up Like i'm that shy no-no-no-no-no, just give it up
See, there are bats all dissolving in a row Into the wishy-washy dark that can't let go I cannot let go
So i thank the lord And i thank his sword Though it be mincing up the morning, slightly bored Oh
oh oh, morning Without warning Like a hole Oh, and i watch you go
There are some mornings when the sky looks like a road There are some dragons who were built to have and hold And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly And some great bellies ache with many bumblebees And they sting so terribly
I do as i please Now i'm on my knees Your skin is something that i stir into my tea And i am watching you And you are starry, starry, starry
(and you will never Ever know how Very sorry you will be ... I am)
And i'm tumbling down And i check a frown Well just look around That's why i love this town To see me;
Serenaded hourly Celebrated sourly Dedicated dourly
Waltzing with the open sea Clam, crab, cockle, cowrie
Will you just look at me! Oh, oh, oh, oh Oh, oh, oh, oh
[clam crab cockle cowrie] - j. newsom
Sunday, November 19, 2006
cocktail cascading chaos
you ask why i rebel | why i am loud and angry, bursting.
trust me | there is no answer that could
satisfy
the feeling | in words. perhaps when we are old
[if we are old together] i | will explain everything.
in this moment, all i can say | is that your eyes drive me
crazy.
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
nottingfeast.
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
clementines
green houses on triangle corners
peppermint stick ice cream + amaretto coffee
don't feed me violence | just run with me | through rows of speeding cars
[i always thought the words were "don't feed me violins." somehow, i think either way it's sung is so terribly, tragically beautiful.]
trust me | there is no answer that could
satisfy
the feeling | in words. perhaps when we are old
[if we are old together] i | will explain everything.
in this moment, all i can say | is that your eyes drive me
crazy.
things to remember:
flying black russians
quiet stovetop conversation
the dirty three
2-for-1 caramel macchiatos
nottingfeast.
alliances, and throwing a martini in my eye.
clementines
green houses on triangle corners
peppermint stick ice cream + amaretto coffee
the banquet was in shambles, the velveteen curtains in flames.
twelve young men in suit coats walked in to the middle of the ballroom and starting throwing porcelain. at first, no one knew whether or not to blink, as if perhaps this sort of thing happens all the time beneath actual crystal chandeliers.
[they were wrong. this sort of thing never happens.]
one by one, we joined in. there was stomping. our feet pounded the floor til
rings of sound echoed through the walls, shattering the stems of every wine glass held high. the chaos was thick like smoke, as the chef was crying in the kitchen, clutching the remains of her piano keys. we stayed up all night watching the explosion. you could see it from miles.
don't feed me violence | just run with me | through rows of speeding cars
[i always thought the words were "don't feed me violins." somehow, i think either way it's sung is so terribly, tragically beautiful.]
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
i am crying for wisconsin.
i don't even know what to say.
i'm disgusted.
outraged.
i want to run around the streets and scream.
GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.
marriage as defined: between a man and a woman; is not only discriminatory, but filled with ignorance and blind homophobic hatred. AND not to mention...a deviation on the separation of church and state.
i am crying for wisconsin.
i am raging for wisconsin.
this is the civil rights fight of our generation. there was the suffrage era [thanks, susan b, for the right to VOTE in the first place.] then there was the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. [martin, malcom, rosa...you will be remembered forever for what you've done for this country, and ALL of its people.] now it's OUR turn. OUR turn to fight for the rights of the opressed, those who the state, the government (which is supposed to provide freedoms and equality to all beneath its umbrella of supposed democracy) has passed judgement on, and found wanting, found unwanted, found unworthy of equality. it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that, regardless of bigoted religious-right mouthpieces, regardless of ignorant, cowardly politicians, regardless of the over 1 MiLLiON wisconsinites who voted yes - regardless of every last one, it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that GAY RIGHTS are HUMAN RIGHTS.
i seem angry.
i am angry.
you should be angry, too.
and in this | we find exactly not what we have been searching for | but what we have lost.
those things so beautiful we have forgotten them | and their glorious way of tearing our hearts out.
even in between fragments of time | these things have become like ghosts.
go now | and live in them.
i dare you.
i'm disgusted.
outraged.
i want to run around the streets and scream.
GAY RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS.
marriage as defined: between a man and a woman; is not only discriminatory, but filled with ignorance and blind homophobic hatred. AND not to mention...a deviation on the separation of church and state.
i am crying for wisconsin.
i am raging for wisconsin.
this is the civil rights fight of our generation. there was the suffrage era [thanks, susan b, for the right to VOTE in the first place.] then there was the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s. [martin, malcom, rosa...you will be remembered forever for what you've done for this country, and ALL of its people.] now it's OUR turn. OUR turn to fight for the rights of the opressed, those who the state, the government (which is supposed to provide freedoms and equality to all beneath its umbrella of supposed democracy) has passed judgement on, and found wanting, found unwanted, found unworthy of equality. it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that, regardless of bigoted religious-right mouthpieces, regardless of ignorant, cowardly politicians, regardless of the over 1 MiLLiON wisconsinites who voted yes - regardless of every last one, it is OUR turn to stand up and howl that GAY RIGHTS are HUMAN RIGHTS.
i seem angry.
i am angry.
you should be angry, too.
and in this | we find exactly not what we have been searching for | but what we have lost.
those things so beautiful we have forgotten them | and their glorious way of tearing our hearts out.
even in between fragments of time | these things have become like ghosts.
go now | and live in them.
i dare you.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
yea, that's the story of the hurricane
you raise up your head and ask "is this where it is?" | and somebody points to you and says
"it's his"
and you say "what's mine?" | and somebody else says
"where what is?"
and you say "oh my god
am i here all alone?"
because something is happening here
but you don't know what it is
do you, mister jones?
"it's his"
and you say "what's mine?" | and somebody else says
"where what is?"
and you say "oh my god
am i here all alone?"
because something is happening here
but you don't know what it is
do you, mister jones?
Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood | With his memories in a trunk | Passed this way an hour ago With his friend, a jealous monk | He looked so immaculately frightful | As he bummed a cigarette | Then he went off sniffing drainpipes | And reciting the alphabet | Now you would not think to look at him | But he was famous long ago | For playing the electric violin | On Desolation Row
Friday, October 27, 2006
the amazon trail
las islas y los bosques tropicales estan llamando...
when i was little, my parents bought my brother and i three computer games for our old school acer windows 95 system. all three were in the vein of adventure-educational-psuedo creativity inspiring (now, in retrospect, also ridiculous animated depiction of american manifest 'bullshit' destiny and colonization) and they were as follows : the first was the oregon trail [old standard, no explanation needed for any child of the 90s]. the second was the yukon trail [go digging for gold with the klondikes and the 49ers of san fransisco in the rugged alaskan wilderness. use a dog sled! play at a shooting gallery in an oldtime saloon! meet old grizzly men named mountain ted! seriously.] the third, my personal favorite, was the amazon trail.
in this particular version of global exploration, the character meets up with an english speaking 'mestizo' guide [of the gender of your choosing] in the headwaters of the amazon river, and after buying supplies, both set off in a canoe down the fabled waters of the south american lifeblood. upon your journey, you had free choice to stop along the banks of the river to explore further in the jungles [los bosques tropicales] and enjoy the extreme biodiversity. i must admit, combined with many hours of discovery channel rapture, 20+ trips to the minnesota zoo (which has a tropical rainforest exhibit, albeit rather small) and a lust for books some would refer to as unnatural [hush!], i garnered much of my preliminary knowledge of south american flora and fauna while navigating the amazon trail.
the purpose of the game (besides educating youngsters about bromeliads, the dangers of malaria, and the supposed [i.e. mangled] accents of latinoamerica) was to complete a collection of photographs of a specified (50?) number of animals, plants, and locations throughout the amazon. some of these (the bromeliad, fire ants, and red bellied piranhas, etc.) were terribly easy to find, and often sprang unwanted into the frame of your shot, interrupting the act of photographing some other creature. [you think i'm kidding? it's a good thing that the film was magically unlimited. i can't even count how many times i took pictures of trees or slow-moving lizards when i was really aiming for the elusive black-banded anteater, or the hyperactively spastic scarlet tanager.] others were not so easy to find (as i mentioned) and were often found only once or twice throughout the game. as one could not continue navigation without obtaining the photograph (which would then be placed on a mayan shield to be given and studied to indigenous kings at the end of the game, apparently...) it was often a game of patience and frustration.
me: we've been on this section of the river for three weeks!
guide: [in a calm, accented, computerized voice] oops! we already have a picture of that one. let's go back to the river and try again later.
me: i was aiming for the bird!
guide: maybe we will have better luck tomorrow.
the game also included the navigation and exploration of the amazon itself. this was often frustrating as well, because pre-2000 computer animation made it difficult for a trolling mouse movement to navigate a canoe around a giant log deceptively close to the image on the screen.
me: the jaguar was in the tree! [the jaguar was particularly difficult to find, and often turned up swimming in the middle of the amazon, disguised as a log. however, unlike an annoying leak which would appear in your canoe when running across a log, the canoe and all of its contents would tip into said river when running across a jaguar. i'm surprised they didn't design graphics of violent jaguar-eating-humanflesh type scenarios. it would have been more realistic. what self-respecting jaguar wouldn't eat the stupid person who ran over her in the river?!]
there was also the typical 'death news' update from the guide, similar to the 'gary has dysentary' message that occured frequently in the oregon trail. however, this also included side trips and backtracking to various larger villages along the river. which meant that supplies were run-low, money disappeared, and the guide became impatient. also, valuable photographic time was lost, and jaguars and pink river dolphins swam tauntingly close to the boat as you turned in the other direction, and whilst you were unable to photograph them.
guide: you don't look so good. maybe you have a fever.
me: i don't have a fever!
guide: uh oh. you have malaria. we have to find a village, so that you can trade for medication.
me: but i haven't taken a picture of the bird yet!
another part of the amazon trail similar to that of its north-american counterpart was the fish-hunt for food. done with harpoons, there were various types of fish available for consumption along the river.
guide: our supplies are running low. if we don't fish soon, we will starve.
some were as small as the piranha (aka the squirrel of the river), but others were so large as to go about promptly capsizing the canoe if you attempted to catch them (most likely meant to mirror the charging buffalo). and guess what! you can catch weeds. woo. or, even better, electric eels. and rays. which means, aha...
guide: oh no! you have been electrocuted by an eel. your burns require attention. we have to turn back.
just when you thought you were making progress down the river.
i promise i'm not bitter. i LOVED this game. i'm just rather frustrated, as i must admit, i never made it to the end. it was hard! the birds were too quick for my camera. i was much too susceptible to malaria and dengue fever. and my computer froze occasionally, coming back to life only when it was much too late for me to navigate away from a giant waterfall (thus ensuring that i, and my obnoxiously emotionless guide juliana, would have to resume at the beginning of the river. sans all photographs, and carrying harpoons.)
but, all of that will be remedied. as this girl is going to ecuador.
when i was little, my parents bought my brother and i three computer games for our old school acer windows 95 system. all three were in the vein of adventure-educational-psuedo creativity inspiring (now, in retrospect, also ridiculous animated depiction of american manifest 'bullshit' destiny and colonization) and they were as follows : the first was the oregon trail [old standard, no explanation needed for any child of the 90s]. the second was the yukon trail [go digging for gold with the klondikes and the 49ers of san fransisco in the rugged alaskan wilderness. use a dog sled! play at a shooting gallery in an oldtime saloon! meet old grizzly men named mountain ted! seriously.] the third, my personal favorite, was the amazon trail.
in this particular version of global exploration, the character meets up with an english speaking 'mestizo' guide [of the gender of your choosing] in the headwaters of the amazon river, and after buying supplies, both set off in a canoe down the fabled waters of the south american lifeblood. upon your journey, you had free choice to stop along the banks of the river to explore further in the jungles [los bosques tropicales] and enjoy the extreme biodiversity. i must admit, combined with many hours of discovery channel rapture, 20+ trips to the minnesota zoo (which has a tropical rainforest exhibit, albeit rather small) and a lust for books some would refer to as unnatural [hush!], i garnered much of my preliminary knowledge of south american flora and fauna while navigating the amazon trail.
the purpose of the game (besides educating youngsters about bromeliads, the dangers of malaria, and the supposed [i.e. mangled] accents of latinoamerica) was to complete a collection of photographs of a specified (50?) number of animals, plants, and locations throughout the amazon. some of these (the bromeliad, fire ants, and red bellied piranhas, etc.) were terribly easy to find, and often sprang unwanted into the frame of your shot, interrupting the act of photographing some other creature. [you think i'm kidding? it's a good thing that the film was magically unlimited. i can't even count how many times i took pictures of trees or slow-moving lizards when i was really aiming for the elusive black-banded anteater, or the hyperactively spastic scarlet tanager.] others were not so easy to find (as i mentioned) and were often found only once or twice throughout the game. as one could not continue navigation without obtaining the photograph (which would then be placed on a mayan shield to be given and studied to indigenous kings at the end of the game, apparently...) it was often a game of patience and frustration.
me: we've been on this section of the river for three weeks!
guide: [in a calm, accented, computerized voice] oops! we already have a picture of that one. let's go back to the river and try again later.
me: i was aiming for the bird!
guide: maybe we will have better luck tomorrow.
the game also included the navigation and exploration of the amazon itself. this was often frustrating as well, because pre-2000 computer animation made it difficult for a trolling mouse movement to navigate a canoe around a giant log deceptively close to the image on the screen.
me: the jaguar was in the tree! [the jaguar was particularly difficult to find, and often turned up swimming in the middle of the amazon, disguised as a log. however, unlike an annoying leak which would appear in your canoe when running across a log, the canoe and all of its contents would tip into said river when running across a jaguar. i'm surprised they didn't design graphics of violent jaguar-eating-humanflesh type scenarios. it would have been more realistic. what self-respecting jaguar wouldn't eat the stupid person who ran over her in the river?!]
there was also the typical 'death news' update from the guide, similar to the 'gary has dysentary' message that occured frequently in the oregon trail. however, this also included side trips and backtracking to various larger villages along the river. which meant that supplies were run-low, money disappeared, and the guide became impatient. also, valuable photographic time was lost, and jaguars and pink river dolphins swam tauntingly close to the boat as you turned in the other direction, and whilst you were unable to photograph them.
guide: you don't look so good. maybe you have a fever.
me: i don't have a fever!
guide: uh oh. you have malaria. we have to find a village, so that you can trade for medication.
me: but i haven't taken a picture of the bird yet!
another part of the amazon trail similar to that of its north-american counterpart was the fish-hunt for food. done with harpoons, there were various types of fish available for consumption along the river.
guide: our supplies are running low. if we don't fish soon, we will starve.
some were as small as the piranha (aka the squirrel of the river), but others were so large as to go about promptly capsizing the canoe if you attempted to catch them (most likely meant to mirror the charging buffalo). and guess what! you can catch weeds. woo. or, even better, electric eels. and rays. which means, aha...
guide: oh no! you have been electrocuted by an eel. your burns require attention. we have to turn back.
just when you thought you were making progress down the river.
i promise i'm not bitter. i LOVED this game. i'm just rather frustrated, as i must admit, i never made it to the end. it was hard! the birds were too quick for my camera. i was much too susceptible to malaria and dengue fever. and my computer froze occasionally, coming back to life only when it was much too late for me to navigate away from a giant waterfall (thus ensuring that i, and my obnoxiously emotionless guide juliana, would have to resume at the beginning of the river. sans all photographs, and carrying harpoons.)
but, all of that will be remedied. as this girl is going to ecuador.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
. . . yesterday i got lost in the circus . . .
never mind that the nanoseconds in between
are some of the darkest darkness that you've ever seen
i was emotionally healed, for a time. [thanks, ani.]
staying awake for forty hours straight has a tendency to give the world a surreal sort of glow. something about the day rising from the other side of midnight is essential to this surreality - i can't quite wrap my words around the sensation, but it's in between the oxygen and the carbon dioxide that keep out the reflections of the sun for long enough to send a warm buzz across the lake. and by warm, i mean in color, in emotion, in hope and happiness and anthropomorphic imagery, not temperature. it is cold in this city.
but oh, oh, oh what can I say. . . I adore you
i wish i was cold. but then you go and give me that look, the one with the tired eyes, the pirate smile, and somehow, i manage to find myself apologetic. how does that happen? i wish i was angry. it's exhausting, though. i think that's mostly why i give it up; i'm too sleep deprived to deal with anything more emotionally taxing than a rainy day.
but you can't fool the queen, baby
nancy died in september. the last time i saw her, i knew it was the last time. she knew it was the last time. we reached across the counter top and clung to each other. . . she was so frantically happy, it broke my heart. she kept saying,
"'it's so good to see you!
it's so good to see you!
look at you,
you're beautiful,
and all grown up."
neither of us said anything about it. but it was there, hovering. the reason we were both so terribly sad. how could i have known? do you get that feeling every time, when you have seen someone for the last time? because i've never felt that way before. does that mean i'll see everyone i've ever known again? somehow i don't think that is true. those five minutes, in the rushing chaos of a saturday at work, some clearance sale and a mass of people, and noise, and one giant fucking mess of a blurred time four years ago...those five minutes are stuck to the inside of my heart. and it hurts.
that is, according to light and gravity | and baby this is you, according to me
october is sinking into my bones. i used to love october. i have a jar of dried leaves from freshman year in high school, and they still smell like brittle yellow oak. they still smell that way, the way that fall smells. six years ago, i carried a handfull of leaves in my sweatshirt from the douglas trail. that scent swept into my nose and i had to get off of my bike, i had to stop right there in the middle of the trail, to keep it in, soak it into my skin. i picked them up, all crispy and fallen and fragile, and i pushed them into my pocket. carried them home. and they still smell that way. every time i come home from school, i smell the jar, just to find it again, that feeling. that sense of urgency, of terrible violent beauty. i used to love october.
i am holding my breath | i am feigning my death | when I'm looking in your direction
[moments]
quiet heaving, gentle rocking.
the path of one leaf through the air, from the tree to the ground.
warm hands on soft stomache flesh.
falling in to sleep.
sonic resonance in a stairwell.
hot water early in the morning.
being bare, and watching trust seep.
making up songs and words and singin from the soul | he got up to his feet and he sang hallelujah
are some of the darkest darkness that you've ever seen
i was emotionally healed, for a time. [thanks, ani.]
staying awake for forty hours straight has a tendency to give the world a surreal sort of glow. something about the day rising from the other side of midnight is essential to this surreality - i can't quite wrap my words around the sensation, but it's in between the oxygen and the carbon dioxide that keep out the reflections of the sun for long enough to send a warm buzz across the lake. and by warm, i mean in color, in emotion, in hope and happiness and anthropomorphic imagery, not temperature. it is cold in this city.
but oh, oh, oh what can I say. . . I adore you
i wish i was cold. but then you go and give me that look, the one with the tired eyes, the pirate smile, and somehow, i manage to find myself apologetic. how does that happen? i wish i was angry. it's exhausting, though. i think that's mostly why i give it up; i'm too sleep deprived to deal with anything more emotionally taxing than a rainy day.
but you can't fool the queen, baby
nancy died in september. the last time i saw her, i knew it was the last time. she knew it was the last time. we reached across the counter top and clung to each other. . . she was so frantically happy, it broke my heart. she kept saying,
"'it's so good to see you!
it's so good to see you!
look at you,
you're beautiful,
and all grown up."
neither of us said anything about it. but it was there, hovering. the reason we were both so terribly sad. how could i have known? do you get that feeling every time, when you have seen someone for the last time? because i've never felt that way before. does that mean i'll see everyone i've ever known again? somehow i don't think that is true. those five minutes, in the rushing chaos of a saturday at work, some clearance sale and a mass of people, and noise, and one giant fucking mess of a blurred time four years ago...those five minutes are stuck to the inside of my heart. and it hurts.
that is, according to light and gravity | and baby this is you, according to me
october is sinking into my bones. i used to love october. i have a jar of dried leaves from freshman year in high school, and they still smell like brittle yellow oak. they still smell that way, the way that fall smells. six years ago, i carried a handfull of leaves in my sweatshirt from the douglas trail. that scent swept into my nose and i had to get off of my bike, i had to stop right there in the middle of the trail, to keep it in, soak it into my skin. i picked them up, all crispy and fallen and fragile, and i pushed them into my pocket. carried them home. and they still smell that way. every time i come home from school, i smell the jar, just to find it again, that feeling. that sense of urgency, of terrible violent beauty. i used to love october.
i am holding my breath | i am feigning my death | when I'm looking in your direction
[moments]
quiet heaving, gentle rocking.
the path of one leaf through the air, from the tree to the ground.
warm hands on soft stomache flesh.
falling in to sleep.
sonic resonance in a stairwell.
hot water early in the morning.
being bare, and watching trust seep.
making up songs and words and singin from the soul | he got up to his feet and he sang hallelujah
Monday, October 09, 2006
elephants > people.
their hearts and minds are bursting with emotion, and all the world sees is ivory and a circus tent.
if they live long enough, they forget everything.
most of them don't live that long. nine out of ten are slaughtered in their prime, decades before their memories have started to drain. i speak of the majority, then, when i say it is true what you've heard: they never forget.
they themselves think this accounts for their size. some go so far as to claim that under that thunderhead of flesh and those huge rolling bones they are memory. they contain memory, yes, but what may not be so well known is that they are doomed without it. when their memories begin to drain, their bodies go into decline, as if from a slow leakage of blood.
before then, every odour they have ever sucked into their trunks, every flicker of sunlight they have ever doused with their tremendous shadows is preserved inside them as a perfect and instantly retrievable moment. they rarely ask, do you remember? the remembering is taken for granted. it is the noticing that they question: did you smell that? did you see it?
they see better than you may imagine. don't believe the stories about their being half blind. they gaze at the horizon, make out what's there, and unlike the carnivores are never dazzled by a herd of moving zebras. if the herd is close enough they can pick out individuals, knowing them by their stripes alone and from a brief look years earlier. the precise tenor of the wind that lowed in the acacias that day, how the sun slammed down through the foliage - these accompany the memory and are re-experienced, and what was scarcely noticed at the time can now be dwelt upon.
suppose, off to one side, waves of salt dust had swirled up from the pan. in memory, they can turn their gaze on the waves and ponder this phenomenon of a lake bed dreaming its lost lake.
which may start them weeping. to a degree that we would call maudlin they are sentimental; even the big bulls are. any kind of loss or yearning breaks their hearts.
- prologue from THE WHITE BONE [barbara gowdy]
if they live long enough, they forget everything.
most of them don't live that long. nine out of ten are slaughtered in their prime, decades before their memories have started to drain. i speak of the majority, then, when i say it is true what you've heard: they never forget.
they themselves think this accounts for their size. some go so far as to claim that under that thunderhead of flesh and those huge rolling bones they are memory. they contain memory, yes, but what may not be so well known is that they are doomed without it. when their memories begin to drain, their bodies go into decline, as if from a slow leakage of blood.
before then, every odour they have ever sucked into their trunks, every flicker of sunlight they have ever doused with their tremendous shadows is preserved inside them as a perfect and instantly retrievable moment. they rarely ask, do you remember? the remembering is taken for granted. it is the noticing that they question: did you smell that? did you see it?
they see better than you may imagine. don't believe the stories about their being half blind. they gaze at the horizon, make out what's there, and unlike the carnivores are never dazzled by a herd of moving zebras. if the herd is close enough they can pick out individuals, knowing them by their stripes alone and from a brief look years earlier. the precise tenor of the wind that lowed in the acacias that day, how the sun slammed down through the foliage - these accompany the memory and are re-experienced, and what was scarcely noticed at the time can now be dwelt upon.
suppose, off to one side, waves of salt dust had swirled up from the pan. in memory, they can turn their gaze on the waves and ponder this phenomenon of a lake bed dreaming its lost lake.
which may start them weeping. to a degree that we would call maudlin they are sentimental; even the big bulls are. any kind of loss or yearning breaks their hearts.
- prologue from THE WHITE BONE [barbara gowdy]
Thursday, October 05, 2006
hard to concentrate
ceramic mugs of turquoise and brown, with broken handles.
dangerous hugs.
having fabulously precocious breasts. [i meant precocious.]
extremely vivid dreams, seven days straight.
peppermint-eyebright-lavender-lemon verbana tea.
"the europeans were awarded five points because sergio garcia was happy" - the onion.
amusing my parents.
procrastinating my ass off, and being completely apathetic about it.
impulsively buying things from amazon.com. things being namely grey's anatomy.
molly, and her infatuation with mohawked men.
running six miles [minus the terrible muscle cramps the next day.]
greenbush donuts and coffee.
tofu.
having small yet meaningful moments remembered by others.
awkward situations in library easy chairs.
morning dog kisses.
And finally you have found | Here we go.
dangerous hugs.
having fabulously precocious breasts. [i meant precocious.]
extremely vivid dreams, seven days straight.
peppermint-eyebright-lavender-lemon verbana tea.
"the europeans were awarded five points because sergio garcia was happy" - the onion.
amusing my parents.
procrastinating my ass off, and being completely apathetic about it.
impulsively buying things from amazon.com. things being namely grey's anatomy.
molly, and her infatuation with mohawked men.
running six miles [minus the terrible muscle cramps the next day.]
greenbush donuts and coffee.
tofu.
having small yet meaningful moments remembered by others.
awkward situations in library easy chairs.
morning dog kisses.
And finally you have found | Here we go.
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