May 31, 2004
May 30, 2004
May 28, 2004
In other news the HUCTW Union did manage to negotiate a 4.5% raise, as well as an extension of the Tuition Reimbursement policy to include any tuition and not just for courses related to one's job. Which is good thing because, while I myself can argue that literature classes hone my copyediting skills, the folks who work in the cafeterias and the janitors and others would have trouble making the same case, but now they don't have to.
May 27, 2004
May 26, 2004
Slapstick or egregious, there's something
in this blurred patch that doesn't quite
jibe with the totem animals, like say
there was something alive in the breakbeats
& that ghost has no particular
destination: a by-the-wind-sailor destined
to kick ass or take names & Trismegistos
is kissing up, furiously, that breeze. Decreed.
The black sun must be eclipsed by
something drastic, like say the fake
eyes of the devilray or the abandoned Tilt-A-Whirl.
Ultimately the black sun is a manowar;
monofilament halo of thin
stinging rhizomes, angelhair. Some say
paralytic, some say ecstatic--the cartographer
makes the same mark anyway. All aboard
that creaking bireme: the dark magician,
the kindly nymph & the shiny adorable
robot who can never die. The flag above:
a sail & the hold's full of gibbering
skeletons. You sure took your time
getting here, well where she wrote "dolphin"
in this light looks like "jellyfish" &
those cats don't haul ass for no-
body, no Our Lady of the Wounded
Eyes or ambivalent philosophers.
Look out kid, there's a mouth on the other
side of that thing & our hero's buried in the sand:
what once was all Wagner is now
all Duran Duran.
Gallery 108, Somerville, MA
Maudite Productions at 108 Presents:
A bilingual reading by Guillermo Juan Parra and Yelimar Becerra
Guillermo and Yelimar will read classic and contemporary poems from Venezuela in Spanish and English, as well as selections from their own work.
Yelimar Becerra was born in Caracas Venezuela. She grew up in the neighborhood of El Valle, where days start very early with salsa, boleros, merengue, bad news and a lot of obstacles to overcome.
Her first book, "Desórdenes que no he cometido" (Disorders I didn't commit), was published in 1994 in Caracas by the Circulo de Escritores Venezolanos. Her second book "Cuentas de agua" (Water Beads, 1996, unpublished) was awarded a Literary Prize at the School of Sociology of the Universidad Central de Venezuela.
In 2000 she graduated from UCV, with a degree in Sociology. She currently lives in Boston, where she is working on two different writing projects.
Guillermo Juan Parra was born in Cambridge, MA in 1970. He grew up in Venezuela, Mexico and Florida and now works as a teacher in Boston.
His poems can be found in the spring 2004 issue of 6x6 magazine. He is currently editing and translating an anthology of Venezuelan poetry in English. Excerpts from this anthology can occasionally be found at his blog "venepoetics" (http://venepoetics.blogspot.com).
Event is free and open to the public.
108 is located at 108 Beacon Street in Somerville, a block or so from Dali. For more information please contact Mark Lamoureux (617.460.0118 or firstname.lastname@example.org).
May 25, 2004
Say My Name Thrice & I Will Appear
I prefer "Undead" to "Post-Avant."
In case you were wondering.
It's nice, also, somehow, to have no sound but a musical score; you interact with the text of the title cards like you would a piece of writing or a poem. It's been said that watching a silent film requires more attention than a talkie, and I think it's true, I also think that due to this fact there was more meticulous attention paid to certain details of movement and expression, not cinematography per se, but something that seems more like dance (e.g. the physical comedy of Chaplin, etc.) Since I signed up for Netflix, I've watched "Modern Times," "City Lights," "It", and a documentary about Louise Brooks. They don't seem to have "Pandora's Box" (the film that gave birth to Brooks' nickname "Lulu," and the role that made her famous), or "Flaming Youth" (attributed to be the film that first defined the concept of the "flapper," though "It" is well known in this capacity)...which kind of bums be out. I don't know why they don't have "Pandora's Box" because it is one of the more famous silent films.
Incidentally, Clara Bow was a redhead (or so it is said)! Though obviously one can't know this from the films themselves...
May 24, 2004
The ghosts disperse in the glow of the lightning like daylight. Get some sleep at last, sung to sleep by thunder.
Am not terribly concerned with the lollygagging of the climate and the erstwhile progression into summer. The leather jacket I bought in April seems to maintain the optimum temperature for the current clime, and I didn't even think I was going to have a use for it until the fall.
Am swamped with work, as per usual. Difficult to get any of my own writing done except for the Harold Brainerd Hersey remixes. I have to admit that even I lost patience with ol' Harold yesterday--must he use the word "breasts" in every goddamn poem? I'm running out of (vaguely) non-smarmy ways to use the word. I may have to start tweaking them a little more. The poems, that is. Doing a little research on Hersey turns up that he was actually a staunch ally of Margaret Sanger, the early birth control pioneer and at one point had something to do with a proposed biography of her. (Not sure if this was an ideological or merely a practical alliance, given Hersey's apparent enthusiasm for...activities resulting in birth). He also seems to have written a book of cowboy ballads and edited a book on Pulp Novels. I'd sort of like to get my hands on the cowboy ballads, actually...
May 22, 2004
SLEIGHT OF HAND
Now she plays among conscious lilies,
White abandon; ivory
& falls again slim songs of
pale blood among
The moon-muted She remembered
sings her......fingers her strings
moon-pale its breasts
Upon youth carelessly bathing
the painted is Caressing
As though it were some strange instrument
Of the arms of the feet,
the hidden body The heart sings at
her fingers She bathes, Lifting her
white lilies, Caressing Yet returns,
to her clutches drips
Tearing out its place;
She the body.
she the heart drips
She The place her Then her.
...its she Without her;
May 21, 2004
What say you, dreamers?
On the way home, Aaron and I hypothesized that perhaps I'd be more emotionally stable if I didn't permanently have my iPod set on "shuffle."
My brain's a TV and the devil's got the clicker...
& the dim sockets, like
rose......her wax petals
Until a candle meets suddenly
That spirit of The
melted waters womb;
as her moon is Cleansing
the new acolytes
Before the old world
go Noiselessly into her eyes;
Bringing Her downward......even as her smooth bells
tinkle in shadow
She bows a Little
is inserting, like the voiced
Under a hill, Or
She is through Dropping
into the ever-still flame
May 20, 2004
Broken Of broken
face like trembling a dove's
wing a wrinkled wing
Thy hands secrets
hands of The
dawn forgotten body comes
The dove with Flies
stars are Discovering
Thy shadows are.
Where are thee
When falls the
& the I
& the have
I & my mind is the
May 19, 2004
NOTES ON JOHN COLTRANE'S "MARS"
Old trees make a million movements
below a monochrome sky:
palm of God
a green television static,
fury of neurons in panic.
Clouds billow in opposition,
chlorophyll trickles, branches twitch;
a beetle realights,
wings trill a minute, staccato.
Miles away another beetle does the same
May 18, 2004
May 17, 2004
May 16, 2004
Only the lonely can play...
May 15, 2004
For those of you doubting the veracity of the statement: "There's a palm tree in my living room," I give you the evidence. (Though the palm tree has since migrated to the space beside the stairs).
I don't even want to know where it came from.
Would that there were something like a microwave that went in the opposite direction with the same expediency. I suppose this would likely involve unhealthy amounts of freon or something. And the ability to flash-freeze things is probably not an ability one wants to have available to children.
I got in trouble once when I was a kid for freezing all of my Star Wars figures in glass jars in the freezer. Quoth my father, "I want to be able to get something from the freezer without having to move all of the goddamn frozen Wookies."
I don't recall, specifically, what possessed me to freeze the Star Wars figures. I used to bury my homework under a rock in the back yard, also. Why exactly I did not spend my early years in intensive therapy, I'll never know...
May 13, 2004
Brown Bread in a Can
The Northeast's version of cornbread? Though I would not call it a staple, it did appear with alarming regularity in the cuisine of my childhood. Always in the company of frankfurters and beans. This was the meal that Dad made when Mom was not home to make dinner, which, come to think of it, did not happen that often. But I believe at times the entire family would partake of the trinity of earth-toned cylindrical foods. I have to admit that I will still, on occasion, whip up this combination for myself. Though generally speaking, it is mainly just in order to break out the bread in the can. I've had roommates, other New Englanders, who have found this concept of canned bread to be utterly alien and revolting. Perhaps it is a socioeconomic or hyper-regional (CT and MA exclusively) thing. Or maybe it's not regional at all. I'm interested if any of you out in blogland are familiar with the BBIaC, and if so what your specific recollections of it are.
The non-raisin'ed version of it seems to have all but disappeared, but one still seems to be able to get the B&M can o' bread with raisins. Generally speaking, I find the concept of the raisin (in this context, specifically) to be abhorrent. However, BBIaC with raisins is better than no BBIaC at all.
In an unholy union that would most likely cause distress to eaters of either of the discrete foodstuffs, I've found that BBIaC goes very well with goat cheese...
Someone once called my enthusiasm for BBIaC (and also for foods that are the wrong color (blood oranges, white peaches, white chocolate, yellow tomatoes, purple peppers, etc., etc.)) "perverted."
May 12, 2004
May 11, 2004
it hurts me.
caught in this
black jade loop:
the shoals' air
off her sandal-blood &
of mealy apples,
arraigning arcs for
I hid it in
my sleeve, scatter
ashes or salt
behind the hydraulic
equipment, the swollen
a plastic tongue
pulls you down
to the weak earth,
the weaker sky,
the weakest of
all my darling you
you are a stickbug's
leg that breaks
in the goddamn
May 9, 2004
All of a sudden Blogger is different!
I simply cannot describe how exhausted I've been today. I managed to get a few things done (housework, some Fulcrum stuff, etc.), but really in the past 3 days I haven't been 20% as productive as I'd like to have been. Admittedly, I guess one has to rest at some point, but I have so much to do. Insomnia is kicking my ass, though. It seems I spend half the night freaking out and trying to sleep.
Also today mostly on the verge of screaming or crying. Naked, tortured prisoners on the news, my own nonsense piling up in my head. The tiredness, and a sense of my own aging. I've felt so out of synch with myself lately, even though I've been getting a fair amount accomplished. It's depressing, though, how the majority of my leisure time is spent "working" in one capacity or another, it's the price of trying to balance a day job and an entire second "career" as a writer. I can't remember the last time I had "fun," exclusively. Yes, I go to plenty of poetry events, etc. which are "fun," the Yartsale was also "fun," but it was also work in a certain capacity. I need to go to the beach or hiking or SOMETHING that is completely removed from my life as a worker drone and my life as a struggling writer. I don't even know what that would be at this point. I don't really have any "hobbies" (I suppose you have to count writing as a "hobby" of a sort, as it does not tend to make much money), I have been too exhausted to go to the gym, which is something I should really do since that would most likely help with the insomnia.
Thinking of some old Lemonheads lyrics "I'm too much with myself, I wanna be someone else." From "Drug Buddy," I believe. I'm becoming a strange recluse, if I had pets, I'd be turning into one of those weird "cat people" or "dog people" (no offense to those of you with cats or dogs, I'm talking about a very specific phenomenon here, which doesn't actually apply to any of you). Too exhausted today, even, to write. I need to catch up on about 3 weeks of sleep. There are lots of things I need. I need to go to the beach, I need a yellow pony, blah blah blah. Blogging as a form of talking to oneself. I suppose that, at least, is a good thing otherwise I'd probably be walking around muttering to myself, which is probably not too far away. Perhaps I need to start building model ships in bottles or becoming obsessed with geneology. When did I suddenly become 32 going on 60?
In the window under the beak of
the singing machine said
beautiful creature begets particolored
unnamed histories, stitching
strips cerulean & aubergine, the cleft
of night's erasure in the eyes of
the gasmask, the machine's fallen
F where fingers orbit the pneumatic
needle's thrum, crooked lines or
zigzag strokes knit contrapuntal
possibilities; coy, bespectacled before
the mannequin's glass pallor, pulls
off her arms gently, sings behind
a stilletoed emblem.
You've the right to remain
aghast, now I want to believe
in simple things: the window's glow,
shoulderblades, Arachne's last stand
given way to webbed silence, this
last gasp of something unreckoned,
grasping at quick silk, the present's
unspeakable cuneiform, a silver thread
for these nights, this high
lonesome, unconsoled. Be clad,
my armies of the dead, in tender
coats: each (of them), each word is naked,
a figment, no costume & no costume
jewelry or mute fabric, combustible;
these no pyre, sentences: no glib
innueundo, no story for the sky.
Polyurethane, too, my countenance:
I want you to pull & reattach
my limbs in that same
way: you spider, chimera,
cipher for the actual:
before you I'm also a dummy, no mouth,
May 8, 2004
Subject: Teahouseblossom hows it going? julie said you wanted this info
Date: Sun, 09 May 04 06:30:47 GMT
CHEAP CHEAP CHEAP CHEAP
"And all the raindrops keep on landin' on my face like spectre.
Each one brandin' me, showing me who I am.
Don' give a damn..."
I want to use it as an epigram at the beginning of my "Spectre" manuscript, but I feel like the nonironic use of pop music is somewhat suspect...
May 7, 2004
May 6, 2004
May 5, 2004
[Insert "Sports Training Montage" to the tune of Rob Zombie's "Dragula"]
Man, how bourgeoise is that? But I need to be in shape for the revolution...
May 4, 2004
on tiny feet &
cuts off your fucking head.
Where does the chin come from, and what does it want?
May 3, 2004
I bought a painting over the weekend. It is a work by Kate's sister that I've always loved; when it was on sale at the Yart Sale I knew that I had to be the one to buy it. It wasn't that expensive, but not cheap either.
I did realize that the amount of money I spent on the painting would be unthinkable to my parents, even though I'm sure they spend that on gas or other expensive and useless garbage on a weekly basis. To my father, the idea of someone who would spend money on something as "useless" as art is completely execrable. To my mom, the concept would merely be alien, as she would not be able to reckon the kind of time and energy that went into the painting and thus determines its value.
The strange thing is that, from a materialist perspective, my economic standing is considerably less than theirs was at my age. There are class issues, and there are culture issues. I wonder how much of what we attribute to "class" has also to do with culutre. Buying art is something that the bourgeoise does, yet I'm not bourgeoise. My impetus for purchasing the art differs signigificantly from the bourgeoise in context. The act of putting oneself *at risk* in the purchase of a work of art. Thus it is no longer about decoration or artifice, but rather a kind of truth. I felt that it was important to my life to obtain the painting, a certain intimacy at stake, I suppose, as opposed to "knowing" the painting, in memory, in a museum or in a photograph, I needed to "be with the painting," in its corporeality.
It is an alien concept to much of our society, buying art. This is in part what drives artist to charge exhorbitant amounts of money for their works, they have to. As it is perceived culturally that only the rich buy art, then only the rich will buy art; thus the artist adapts to this. Without this cultural appellation, the demand for art would be much greater and the artist would be able to charge less for an individual painting.
It's astonishing, really, given the number of Artists and their relative freedom and comfortability in the United States that the idea of art as a commodity or service, or as something that has a place in an average person's life is not more prevalent. We deify uniqueness, e.g. we must confirm that the beanie baby is 1 of 500, that they are real adidas sneakers, there's nothing wackier than Sprite Remix, etc. etc., yet we undervalue one of the most vital sources of uniqueness in our culture.
If you want to have something that Chet in Marketing doesn't , go buy a fucking painting...
May 2, 2004
Crimson And Clover
(T. James/P. Lucia)
Ah, now I don't hardly know her
But I think I could love her
Crimson and clover
Ah when she comes walking over
Now I've been waitin' to show her
Crimson and clover over and over
Yeah, my, my such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Crimson and clover over and over
Crimson and clover over and over
Crimson and clover over and over
Crimson and clover over and over
Crimson and clover over and over