The First Dream
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning
as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.
He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,
how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.
Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,
except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,
you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
by billy collins
6.30.2009
Onset by Kim Addonizio. plus footnote.
Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers,
bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of
is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.
Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.
And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately
I can’t stand them, the shelves of canned beans and soups, freezers
of identical dinners; then the snowflake-diamond-snowflake of the rug
beneath my chair, rows of books turning their backs,
even my two feet, how they mirror each other oppresses me,
the way they fit so perfectly together, how I can nestle one big toe into the other
like little continents that have drifted; my God the unity of everything,
my hands and eyes, yours; doesn’t that frighten you sometimes, remembering
the pleasure of nakedness in fresh sheets, all the lovers there before you,
beside you, crowding you out? And the scouring griefs,
don’t look at them all or they’ll kill you, you can barely encompass your own;
I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring
and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.
Footnote:
in general i dont write much if anything about a poem when i post it, if it grabs me by the gut then i throw it up here as much to keep track of for myself as for anyone else. but someone who saw this asked me what i liked about the piece - because she wasnt as jazzed as i was. and as much as i loathe to break down or explain a piece, particulaly one that i didnt write, i didnt mind working through this one so here's what i wrote just because maybe the poems appeal wasnt as universal as i thought:
"well i love the way it calls out the flipside of springs "renewal" that everyone gushes about... seen from another (her) perspective, it's an almost frenzied over-sexed repetitive replication... the way she writes i got this image of spring on fast forward, buds popping out, blossoming, everything growing dying growing, birthing, bunnies humping... so repetitive its almost like manufacturing... and that brings her to the frozen dinners and the repetition all around us, patterns, molds. the way we repeat our patterns, our loves, our pains of losing love, the way we, as humans, are a pattern, repeated, fitting together in a pre-ordained way, interlocking, both with lovers and with ourselves, we see the inverse shape of ourself in another, like continents "drifted apart."
i adored how it zoomed in to detail and out to the bigger picture, tying it all together through pattern.
i guess im also just tired of how my emotions are begining to feel repetative, both good and bad emotions, im not surprised by them anymore. and i think i identify that sentiment in her poem."
and then she asked me how long its been since i was surprised by an emotion.
and that was a hard question. for me to answer and, i imagine, for her to hear.
"honestly, for a little while now i've felt a little bit like an over-planted field... like if my emotions are they soil theyve got very few nutrients left. i dont think it makes me a worse friend or less caring, maybe it does, and that would suck if its true, but its more in terms of really being surprised by some strong emotion that wells up in me... i just dont feel capable of it. It's really REALLY out of character for me. I tend to live very much in my emotions... i always have. but these days i get depressed and i know it will pass. I get happy and I know it will pass. I feel like i used up so much of myself emotionally last year i need to go out into the wilderness and feel nothing for a while. but barring that i can only hope that it passes or that something jump starts me."
bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of
is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.
Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.
And the wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups in the grocery, lately
I can’t stand them, the shelves of canned beans and soups, freezers
of identical dinners; then the snowflake-diamond-snowflake of the rug
beneath my chair, rows of books turning their backs,
even my two feet, how they mirror each other oppresses me,
the way they fit so perfectly together, how I can nestle one big toe into the other
like little continents that have drifted; my God the unity of everything,
my hands and eyes, yours; doesn’t that frighten you sometimes, remembering
the pleasure of nakedness in fresh sheets, all the lovers there before you,
beside you, crowding you out? And the scouring griefs,
don’t look at them all or they’ll kill you, you can barely encompass your own;
I’m saying I know all about you, whoever you are, it’s spring
and it’s starting again, the longing that begins, and begins, and begins.
Footnote:
in general i dont write much if anything about a poem when i post it, if it grabs me by the gut then i throw it up here as much to keep track of for myself as for anyone else. but someone who saw this asked me what i liked about the piece - because she wasnt as jazzed as i was. and as much as i loathe to break down or explain a piece, particulaly one that i didnt write, i didnt mind working through this one so here's what i wrote just because maybe the poems appeal wasnt as universal as i thought:
"well i love the way it calls out the flipside of springs "renewal" that everyone gushes about... seen from another (her) perspective, it's an almost frenzied over-sexed repetitive replication... the way she writes i got this image of spring on fast forward, buds popping out, blossoming, everything growing dying growing, birthing, bunnies humping... so repetitive its almost like manufacturing... and that brings her to the frozen dinners and the repetition all around us, patterns, molds. the way we repeat our patterns, our loves, our pains of losing love, the way we, as humans, are a pattern, repeated, fitting together in a pre-ordained way, interlocking, both with lovers and with ourselves, we see the inverse shape of ourself in another, like continents "drifted apart."
i adored how it zoomed in to detail and out to the bigger picture, tying it all together through pattern.
i guess im also just tired of how my emotions are begining to feel repetative, both good and bad emotions, im not surprised by them anymore. and i think i identify that sentiment in her poem."
and then she asked me how long its been since i was surprised by an emotion.
and that was a hard question. for me to answer and, i imagine, for her to hear.
"honestly, for a little while now i've felt a little bit like an over-planted field... like if my emotions are they soil theyve got very few nutrients left. i dont think it makes me a worse friend or less caring, maybe it does, and that would suck if its true, but its more in terms of really being surprised by some strong emotion that wells up in me... i just dont feel capable of it. It's really REALLY out of character for me. I tend to live very much in my emotions... i always have. but these days i get depressed and i know it will pass. I get happy and I know it will pass. I feel like i used up so much of myself emotionally last year i need to go out into the wilderness and feel nothing for a while. but barring that i can only hope that it passes or that something jump starts me."
6.29.2009
FREE Free Iran print.
just came across this: Ashkahn Shahparnia is spreading the word about the repression in Iran right now. he's made a FREE Iran print to download to get the message out. if i were on a college campus i would paper the place. as it were im in an office where no one cares. theres a t-shirt available as well, the cost of the T covers just the making of the shirt. i think ill write to him and see if hell offer stickers by the roll. that could catch on. i'd be happy to sticker a town but paper is so hard to put up and gets all gross in the rain. well see.
update, Ash's site offers his AIM and since thats how i communicate with my colleagues around the world i added him and noticed he was online and we just talked! and now we're facebook friends! he seems like a lovely person and uses the word beautiful frequently as an adjective and an exclaimation and was so excited about the sticker idea BECAUSE Its allready in the works! and theyre going to be free! sometimes technology is flippin amazing!
the intersection of boston and crazy.
i walked a total of 18 miles this weekend, thoroughly exploring the love out of inman square, porter square, union square, fenway and the south end, both on my own and with company. one of the cool things i saw was the mapparium at mary baker eddy library. check this out. its a fully circular stained glass globe designed by winston churchill in 1835 that you walk INTO, back lit and delineated with the territories and colonization of that time period...
my feet are blistered and my brain is a little swimmy from the number of squares and streets i saw, craft booths i sauntered by, parks i lallygagged through, hipsters i oogled, cafes and sandwich shops and bakeries i um, tested... i feel like i went on a trip but it was all in my backyard and thats why i love this city, its walkable and the cultures of the various areas are so diverse but what unites cambridge with jp with somerville with backbay are some of my favorite things in the world: indie cafes, used book stores, thrift shops, hidden parks, old school diners.
and then of course there are the few thinks you're guaranteed to encounter that i could live without: psychotic red sox fan(atic)s and mindboggglingly senseless streets. and if you think i'm just being a spoiled yankee-loyal grid-oriented new yorker... let me just mention that saturday i encountered the intersection of tremont... and tremont.
wait but- but thats- you cant- thats cant be- my brain is shaking in my skull- ARGHHHH!
thats all.
my feet are blistered and my brain is a little swimmy from the number of squares and streets i saw, craft booths i sauntered by, parks i lallygagged through, hipsters i oogled, cafes and sandwich shops and bakeries i um, tested... i feel like i went on a trip but it was all in my backyard and thats why i love this city, its walkable and the cultures of the various areas are so diverse but what unites cambridge with jp with somerville with backbay are some of my favorite things in the world: indie cafes, used book stores, thrift shops, hidden parks, old school diners.
and then of course there are the few thinks you're guaranteed to encounter that i could live without: psychotic red sox fan(atic)s and mindboggglingly senseless streets. and if you think i'm just being a spoiled yankee-loyal grid-oriented new yorker... let me just mention that saturday i encountered the intersection of tremont... and tremont.
wait but- but thats- you cant- thats cant be- my brain is shaking in my skull- ARGHHHH!
thats all.
6.26.2009
mask of life, feeling insane.
yesterday as the world was finding out about michale jacksons death i was in the first sun of june in brookline and a line of cars drove slowly down harvard ave windows down blaring thriller.it was chilling and beautiful. people loved him so much. and who cares what he did or didnt do...
...he did this:
i always picked the creepy songs to love when i was a kid. i remember loving this, dancing to it in my room, wondering what the KGB was...
rip mj.
...he did this:
i always picked the creepy songs to love when i was a kid. i remember loving this, dancing to it in my room, wondering what the KGB was...
rip mj.
theres a lot of things i dont understand....
but i do know this might be one of the most successful songs of all times. in my book. i dont care if i've posted it before, i'm feeling it again.
Empty
ray lamontagne, empty
Empty
ray lamontagne, empty
6.24.2009
home remedies
my grandmother is an herb wizard so last night when i was telling her about my recent worse-than-usual insomnia and general bluesiness she was all over looking up anti-blues brews in her ancient herb book. im making her sound like a witch... ah well witches are cool. anyway today i went to look up whether there was any validity in what she ended up recommending and came across this awesome list of basic herbal remedies. i'm gonna be SO frickin HEALTHY now!
Allspice: Relieves muscle aches and pains. First grind Allspice into a powder then add water to make a paste. Spread on a strip of clean muslin and apply to sore area.
Anise: Helps congestion from allergies, colds or flu, and settle upset stomach with gas. Make a tea by steeping 1 teaspoon of anise seeds in 1 cup of boiling water. Strain before drinking. Also chew a couple anise seeds as needed for bad breath.
Basil: For relief of cough, make a tea of dried basil (1 teaspoon) per 1 cup boiling water. Steep then strain, add a spoonful of honey then drink.
Bay Leaves: Helps with dandruff. Make a rinse by crushing a handful of bay leaves to one liter water (first brought to boiling then removed from heat). Cover and steep for 20 minutes. Strain and cool. Apply to hair and leave for 45 minutes to 60 minutes. Rinse clean.
Black Ground Pepper: Stops bleeding, sprinkle a generous amount on a cut and voila! painfree (see Stop Bleeding With Ground Black Pepper).
Caraway Seeds: Chew on a few seeds to help with flatulence. You can also make a tea by steeping 1 tsp seeds per cup of boiling water. Strain before drinking.
Cardamom: Digestive aid, brew a tea with 1 teaspoon cardamom and 1 cup boiling water. Steep. Drink tea with meals.
Cayenne Pepper: Sprinkle a pinch of Cayenne Pepper on meals to clear sinuses. Also a natural appetite suppressant and increases metabolism. Sprinkle cayenne pepper on a toothbrush or add to a glass of water to gargle/rinse mouth–helps prevent gum disease and speeds up healing gingivitis (also see Gingivitis Home Treatments & Tips). For toothaches, make a paste with cayenne pepper and water, apply to sore area.
Celery Seed: Relief from fluid retention: Make a diuretic tea by roughly crushing 1 1/2 teaspoons celery seed and steep in 1 cup boiling water (20 minutes). If you’re menstruating late, this infusion can be used to bring on menstruation. Also helps with high blood pressure and anxiety.
Cinnamon: Mix 1/2 tsp of cinnamon to coffee or tea to help raise good cholesterol levels. Arthritis pain: try 1/2 tsp cinnamon mixed with 1 tsp honey. To help with heavy menstruating, add a bit of cinnamon to tea, coffee or sprinkle on foods.
Cloves: Chew one clove for bad breath. For toothache pain, rest a clove against the sore area until pain goes away. You can also chew on a 3 or 4 cloves to relieve nausea. To relieve a sore throat, slowly chew on a few cloves.
Coriander: Boil one teaspoon of coriander seeds in 1 cup of water, drink. Helps with high cholesterol.
Cumin: Boil 1 cup of water with a teaspoon of cumin seeds, simmer for a few seconds. Strain and cool. Drink for cold relief.
Dill Seed: Try swallowing a teaspoon of dill seed to stop hiccups. Also see this tip for hiccup relief: How To Stop Hiccups. Mask bad breath by eating a bit of dill seed.
Fennel Seeds: Chew a couple fennel seeds for bad breath. For stomach cramp relief, you can brew a tea by steeping 1 teaspoon seeds per cup of boiling water. Strain before drinking. Crush seeds slightly when making tea and is good for flatulence.
Garlic Powder: Mosquito Repellent: Make a garlic powder and water paste. Apply to pulse points, behind knees, on shoes and ankles and a dab or two on your cheeks or somewhere on your face and neck–-keep out of eyes. See How to Prevent Mosquito Bites for more ideas.
Ginger: Brew a tea with 1/2 teaspoon ginger per cup of boiling water. Strain before drinking. Helps with nausea (also see 12 Home Remedies for Nausea). If you have fresh ginger on hand, chewing a bit is more effective than ginger tea. For headache relief, make a paste of ground ginger and water, apply to temple area, also see this headache soother: Home Remedy: Headache Soother Sachets. Mix 1/2 teaspoon of ground ginger with 1 teaspoon of honey for cough relief. Drink tea to fight motion sickness (or chew on a fresh piece).
Mustard Powder: To relieve congestion, mix 1 tablespoon of mustard powder with 1 liter of hot water then soak feet.
Mint (peppermint or spearmint): Brew a tea with 1 1/2 teaspoons dried mint per cup of boiling water. Strain before drinking. Helps with stomach aches and cramps.
Sage: Control hot flashes (caused by menopause) by drinking sage tea three times a day. Boil 1/2 teaspoon sage per 1 cup boiling water. Steep (10 minutes), strain and drink.
Salt: Canker sore remedy: Apply salt directly to the sore or rinse your mouth a couple times a day with a strong salt water solution–stings. See Home Remedies For Canker Sores for more remedies. For mosquito bite relief, make a salt and water paste then apply to bite area (see Over 40 Mosquito Bite Itch Relief Tips).
Thyme: Sooth a cough with thyme tea. Brew 1 tablespoon dried thyme in 1 cup boiling water. Strain then drink (for sore throats, gargle with this tea). Helps relieve gas and stomach cramps. Brew a tea with 1 tsp dried thyme per 1 cup boiling water. Strain before drinking.
Turmeric: Fever relief: Mix 1/2 teaspoon turmeric powder with 1 cup of warmed milk, add a teaspoon of honey.
6.23.2009
so much to get good at, so little natural talent...
this guy asked his cartoonist friends to draw what they would look like at 100.
MAN i want to be able to draw like some of these guys.
and sing like people who can open their mouth and have a bird fly out.
and dance like people who look like they're made of silly putty. all soft and snappy...
and cook like my mother. just... like my mother.
MAN i want to be able to draw like some of these guys.
and sing like people who can open their mouth and have a bird fly out.
and dance like people who look like they're made of silly putty. all soft and snappy...
and cook like my mother. just... like my mother.
The Uniform Project
i'm a big fan of the idea, the way it correlates to the cause and the way this girl is all KINDSA creative.
Check it out here
and a description from the site:
The Idea
Starting May 2009, I have pledged to wear one dress for one year as an exercise in sustainable fashion. Here’s how it works: There are 7 identical dresses, one for each day of the week. Every day I will reinvent the dress with layers, accessories and all kinds of accouterments, the majority of which will be vintage, hand-made, or hand-me-down goodies. Think of it as wearing a daily uniform with enough creative license to make it look like I just crawled out of the Marquis de Sade's boudoir.
The Uniform Project is also a year-long fundraiser for the Akanksha Foundation, a grassroots movement that is revolutionizing education in India. At the end of the year, all contributions will go toward Akanksha’s School Project to fund uniforms and other educational expenses for slum children in India.
The Story of Uniforms
I was raised and schooled in India where uniforms were a mandate in most public schools. Despite the imposed conformity, kids always found a way to bend the rules and flaunt a little personality. Boys rolled up their sleeves, wore over-sized swatches, and hiked up their pants to show off their high-tops. Girls obsessed over bangles, bindis and bad hairdos. Peaking through the sea of uniforms were the idiosyncrasies of teen style and individual flare. I now want to put the same rules to test again, only this time I'm trading in the catholic school fervor for an eBay addiction and relocating the school walls to this wonderful place called the internet.
The Dress
How do you design a dress that can be worn all year around? The mastermind behind the uniform dress is my friend and designer, Eliza Starbuck. We took inspiration from one of my staple dresses, improving upon the shape and fit to add on some seasonal versatility. The dress is designed so it can be worn both ways, front and back, and also as an open tunic. It’s made from a durable, breathable cotton, good for New York summers and good for layering in cooler seasons. With deep hidden pockets to appease my deep aversion for carrying purses. More photos of the dress and the dressmaking process coming soon to the Uniform Blog.
one of my favorites:
Check it out here
and a description from the site:
The Idea
Starting May 2009, I have pledged to wear one dress for one year as an exercise in sustainable fashion. Here’s how it works: There are 7 identical dresses, one for each day of the week. Every day I will reinvent the dress with layers, accessories and all kinds of accouterments, the majority of which will be vintage, hand-made, or hand-me-down goodies. Think of it as wearing a daily uniform with enough creative license to make it look like I just crawled out of the Marquis de Sade's boudoir.
The Uniform Project is also a year-long fundraiser for the Akanksha Foundation, a grassroots movement that is revolutionizing education in India. At the end of the year, all contributions will go toward Akanksha’s School Project to fund uniforms and other educational expenses for slum children in India.
The Story of Uniforms
I was raised and schooled in India where uniforms were a mandate in most public schools. Despite the imposed conformity, kids always found a way to bend the rules and flaunt a little personality. Boys rolled up their sleeves, wore over-sized swatches, and hiked up their pants to show off their high-tops. Girls obsessed over bangles, bindis and bad hairdos. Peaking through the sea of uniforms were the idiosyncrasies of teen style and individual flare. I now want to put the same rules to test again, only this time I'm trading in the catholic school fervor for an eBay addiction and relocating the school walls to this wonderful place called the internet.
The Dress
How do you design a dress that can be worn all year around? The mastermind behind the uniform dress is my friend and designer, Eliza Starbuck. We took inspiration from one of my staple dresses, improving upon the shape and fit to add on some seasonal versatility. The dress is designed so it can be worn both ways, front and back, and also as an open tunic. It’s made from a durable, breathable cotton, good for New York summers and good for layering in cooler seasons. With deep hidden pockets to appease my deep aversion for carrying purses. More photos of the dress and the dressmaking process coming soon to the Uniform Blog.
one of my favorites:
6.22.2009
used bookstore philosophy: hope
i threw a lot of feathers in the air last year when i somewhat accidentally revealed my feelings on this thing called 'hope' and solidified a few friends suspicions that i was adopted from the addams family. i really dont subscribe to hope. or what i believe to be what most people mean when they say hope. or at least, i struggle to get behind that concept as a motivator or comforter.
i think the toughest part of this argument is the slickness of the term, the many ways it can be specified or generalized without being technically right or wrong... i cant add much to the discussion and i can see how Pema Chodron (an american female buddhist monk) holds hope to a definition that others might not, or at least excludes some of its various menaings, but i will post what i read in her book that i found in cambridge on saturday. i was just flipping through and this stood out on the open page like a pop up:
"The difference between theism and nontheism is not whether one does or does not believe in God. It is an issue that applies to everyone, including both Buddhists and nonBuddhists. Theism is a deep-seated conviction that there ís some hand to hold: if we just do the right things, someone will appreciate us and take care of us. It means thinking there ís always going to be a babysitter available when we need one. We are inclined to abdicate our responsibilities and delegate our authority to something outside ourselves.
Nontheism is relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect ourselves. We sometimes think that dharma is something outside of ourselves; something to believe in, something to measure up to. However, dharma isn't a belief; it isn't a dogma. It is total appreciation of impermanence and change. The teachings disintegrate when we try to grasp them. We have to experience them without hope. Dharma gives us nothing to hold on to at all. Nontheism is realizing that it ís not just babysitters that come and go. The whole of life is like that. This is the truth, and the truth is inconvenient.
For those who want something to hold on to, life is even more inconvenient. From this point of view, theism is an addiction. We're all addicted to hope; hope that the doubt and mystery will go away. This addiction has a painful effect on society: a society based on lots of people addicted to getting ground under their feet is not a very compassionate place.
The first noble truth of the Buddha is that when we feel suffering, it doesn't mean that something is wrong. What a relief. Finally somebody told the truth. Suffering is part of life, and we don't have to feel it's happening because we personally made the wrong move. As long as weíre addicted to hope, we feel that we can tone our experience down or liven it up or change it somehow, and we continue to suffer.
In a nontheistic state of mind, abandoning hope is an affirmation, the beginning of the beginning. You could even put "Abandon hope" on your refrigerator door instead of more conventional aspirations like "Every day in every way I'm getting better and better."
Hope and fear come from feeling that we lack something; they come from a sense of poverty. We can't simply relax with ourselves. We hold on to hope, and hope robs us of the present moment. We feel that someone else knows what ís going on, but that there ís something missing in us, and therefore something is lacking in our world. Rather than letting our negativity get the better of us, we could acknowledge that right now we feel like a piece of shit and not be squeamish about taking a good look."
yeah! she actually said 'peice of shit.' it took me back a step too. and then i decided i liked her very, very much.
away we go
see it
what an incredibly well rounded highly awesome film. funny vulnerable utterly human.
the entire scene with maggie gylenthal and the stroller had me rolling ROLLING in my seat. and slapping L. of course. because its not funny unless i pummel the nearest person into a pulp. the trailer does NOT do it justice, it looks like another campy indie self discovery movie. its more than that.
but as beautiful as it was to watch two people work out their insecurities about the kind of parents, partners, life companions they would be, it basically just underscored that if i cant be with someone who teaches me about myself, who demands the best out of me but will accept me at my worst, who awes me and keeps me humble, then i would be better off by myself
i wish loneliness didnt factor into my decisions as much as it does.
i'm also reading eat pray love. towards the begining of the book she has escaped to italy and she writes that her demons track her down in the villa borghese.
i remember walking through the borghese gardens myself, 18 and completely isolated, lost, baffled by my existence in the midst of all that grandeur. these days, even as far as i've come since that winter in rome, even as beautiful as boston is in the spring, even as fun and warm as the people i pass my time with are, i still often feel like im back wandering the grounds of those gardens.
an excerpt from the book:
They come upon me all silent and menacing like Pinkerton Detectives, and they flank me- Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right. They don't need to show me their badges. I know these guys very well. We've been playing a cat-and-mouse game for years now. Though I admit that I am surprised to meet them in this elegant Italian garden at dusk. This is no place they belong.
I say to them, "How did you find me here? Who told you I had come to Rome?"
Depression, always the wise guy, says, "What- you're not happy to see us?"
"Go away," I tell him.
Loneliness, the more sensitve cop, says "I'm sorry ma'am. But I might have to tail you the whole time you're travelling. It's my assignment."
"I'd really rather you didn't," I tell him, and he shrugs almost apologetically, but only moves closer.
Then they frisk me. They empty my pockets of any joy I had been carrying there. Depression even confiscates my identity; but he always does that. Then Loneliness starts interrogating me, which I dread because it always goes on for hours. He's polite but relentless, and he always trips me up eventually. He asks if I have any reason to be happy that I know of. He asks why I am all by myself tonight, yet again. He asks (though we've been through this line of questioning hundreds of times already) why I can't keep a relationship going, why I ruined my marriage, why I messed things up with David, why I messed things up with every man I've ever been with. He asks me where I was the night I turned thirty, and why things have gone so sour since then. He asks why I can't get my act together, and why I'm not at home living in a nice house and raising nice children like any respectable woman my age should be. He asks why, ecaxtly, I think I deserve a vacation in Rome when I've made such a rubble of my life. He asks me why I think that running away to Italy lika college kid will make me happy. He asks where I think I'll end up on my old age, if I keep living this way.
I walk back home, hoping to shake them, but they keep following me, these two goons. Depression has a firm hand on my shoulder and Loneliness harangues me with his interrogation. I don't even bother eating dinner; I don't want them watching me. I don't want to let them up the stairs to my apartment, either, but I know Depression, and he's got a billy club, so there's no stopping him from coming in if he decides that he wants to.
"It's not fair for you come come here," I tell Depression. "I paid you off already. I served my time back in New York."
But he just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favourite chair, puts his feet on my table and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs, then climbs into my bed and pulss the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all. He's going to make me sleep with him again tonight, I just know it."
what an incredibly well rounded highly awesome film. funny vulnerable utterly human.
the entire scene with maggie gylenthal and the stroller had me rolling ROLLING in my seat. and slapping L. of course. because its not funny unless i pummel the nearest person into a pulp. the trailer does NOT do it justice, it looks like another campy indie self discovery movie. its more than that.
but as beautiful as it was to watch two people work out their insecurities about the kind of parents, partners, life companions they would be, it basically just underscored that if i cant be with someone who teaches me about myself, who demands the best out of me but will accept me at my worst, who awes me and keeps me humble, then i would be better off by myself
i wish loneliness didnt factor into my decisions as much as it does.
i'm also reading eat pray love. towards the begining of the book she has escaped to italy and she writes that her demons track her down in the villa borghese.
i remember walking through the borghese gardens myself, 18 and completely isolated, lost, baffled by my existence in the midst of all that grandeur. these days, even as far as i've come since that winter in rome, even as beautiful as boston is in the spring, even as fun and warm as the people i pass my time with are, i still often feel like im back wandering the grounds of those gardens.
an excerpt from the book:
They come upon me all silent and menacing like Pinkerton Detectives, and they flank me- Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right. They don't need to show me their badges. I know these guys very well. We've been playing a cat-and-mouse game for years now. Though I admit that I am surprised to meet them in this elegant Italian garden at dusk. This is no place they belong.
I say to them, "How did you find me here? Who told you I had come to Rome?"
Depression, always the wise guy, says, "What- you're not happy to see us?"
"Go away," I tell him.
Loneliness, the more sensitve cop, says "I'm sorry ma'am. But I might have to tail you the whole time you're travelling. It's my assignment."
"I'd really rather you didn't," I tell him, and he shrugs almost apologetically, but only moves closer.
Then they frisk me. They empty my pockets of any joy I had been carrying there. Depression even confiscates my identity; but he always does that. Then Loneliness starts interrogating me, which I dread because it always goes on for hours. He's polite but relentless, and he always trips me up eventually. He asks if I have any reason to be happy that I know of. He asks why I am all by myself tonight, yet again. He asks (though we've been through this line of questioning hundreds of times already) why I can't keep a relationship going, why I ruined my marriage, why I messed things up with David, why I messed things up with every man I've ever been with. He asks me where I was the night I turned thirty, and why things have gone so sour since then. He asks why I can't get my act together, and why I'm not at home living in a nice house and raising nice children like any respectable woman my age should be. He asks why, ecaxtly, I think I deserve a vacation in Rome when I've made such a rubble of my life. He asks me why I think that running away to Italy lika college kid will make me happy. He asks where I think I'll end up on my old age, if I keep living this way.
I walk back home, hoping to shake them, but they keep following me, these two goons. Depression has a firm hand on my shoulder and Loneliness harangues me with his interrogation. I don't even bother eating dinner; I don't want them watching me. I don't want to let them up the stairs to my apartment, either, but I know Depression, and he's got a billy club, so there's no stopping him from coming in if he decides that he wants to.
"It's not fair for you come come here," I tell Depression. "I paid you off already. I served my time back in New York."
But he just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favourite chair, puts his feet on my table and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs, then climbs into my bed and pulss the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all. He's going to make me sleep with him again tonight, I just know it."
6.19.2009
memo: use blog as a memo
sometimes i get all shy around my blog. i get intimidated by the idea that what i put up, stays up, (even if i take it down, as i've realized since posting a coworkers full name and then googling the coworker for an unrelated project and finding my blog and almost choking. not ok. HR will fire my butt so fast my ass will look like seared tuna steak. hoping no one googles his name any time soon.)
anyway, i'm going to get a little more careful about using work names but a lot less careful about what i put up here.
1. my, um, 'readership' is 99% my closest friends so they're stuck with me even if i sound like a dweeb on this thing.
2. the only benefit of spending my life on a computer is this whole self-education thing ive got going on using as my syllabus the NYT and about twenty blogs written by a variety of people i respect ranging from highly opinionated pundits to bookstore owners to farmers market hoppers to poets to unidentified bright spiritual fascinating people as my syllabus. i cant really turn their pages down and if i bookmark them seperately on two different computers ill never keep track of them so the only common space i have is this blog. so to the best of my ability it will hereby become my things-of-note note pad.
so my brilliant roomie made a brilliant strawberry rhubarb pie last week and i was bemoaning how limited the uses of rhubarb are and then i came across this recipe for Rhubarb Syrup, from 10thirty, a site i adore.
4 cups chopped rhubarb
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
Combine everything in a heavy-bottomed sauce pan and bring to a boil. Lower the heat to a simmer and cook gently until the fruit is soft and the liquid has thickened slightly, about 20 minutes. Ladle into a fine strainer (or a coarse strainer lined with cheesecloth) that has been placed over a large bowl. Strain until most of the liquid is in the bowl. Give a little press on the solids with a spoon to extract more syrup. Carefully pour the syrup into a clean bottle, cover or cork the bottle and refrigerate. It should keep for quite some time in the fridge.
Notes: Don’t throw away the rhubarb pulp! Try mixing it into some Greek yogurt in the morning or dropping it onto a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Personally, I like to spoon the pulp onto a piece of whole wheat bread that I’ve covered with crumbled goat cheese; then I sprinkle it with finely-chopped rosemary, crack some black pepper over it all and slide it into the toaster oven until the bread crisps up. As I wait for it to cool, I drizzle some olive oil across the top.
Additional uses for syrup:
Whisk with powdered sugar for a rhubarb-flavored glaze as a frosting substitute on cakes and cookies.
Mix with Champagne or sparkling wine for rhubarb bellinis.
Drizzle over French toast in lieu of maple syrup.
Make rhubarb sundaes!
Rhubarb Mojitos
For each beverage:
4 tablespoons rhubarb syrup
1 ounce white rum
5-6 large mint leaves, torn
Seltzer or club soda
Ice
Add rhubarb syrup and mint to each small highball glass. Add 1 ounce of white rum. Stir to mix. Top with seltzer or club soda and add ice.
I'm going to a farmers market in cambridgeport tomorrow and going nuts on some rhubbarb. nuts i tell you. maybe ill look for some cool bottles and give it away to coworkers... yesss. that would be niiiiice.
Poem by Bruce Snyder that i can certainly relate to. as can my algebra teacher.
The Certainty of Numbers
It’s not the numbers you dislike—
the 3s or 5s or 7s—but the way
the answers leave no room for you,
the way 4 plus 2 is always 6
never 9 or 10 or Florida,
the way 3 divided by 1
is never an essay about spelunking
or poached salmon, which is why
you never seemed to get the answer right
when the Algebra teacher asked,
If a man floating down a river in a canoe
has traveled three miles of a twelve mile canyon
in five minutes, how long will it take him
to complete the race? Which of course depends
on if the wind resistance is 13 miles an hour
and he’s traveling upstream
against a 2 mile an hour current
and his arms are tired and he’s thinking
about the first time he ever saw Florida,
which was in seventh grade
right after his parents’ divorce
and he felt overshadowed
by the palm trees, neon sun visors,
and cheap postcards swimming
with alligators. Nothing is ever simple,
except for the way the 3 looks like two shells
washed up on last night’s shore,
but then sometimes it looks like a bird
gently crushed on its side.
And the 1—once so certain
you could lean up against it
like a gray fence post—has grown weary,
fascinated by the perpetual
itch of its own body.
Even the Algebra teacher
waving his formulas like baseball bats,
pauses occasionally when he tells you
that a 9 and a 2 are traveling in a canoe
on a river in a canyon. How long
will it take them to complete their journey?
That is if they don’t lose their oars
and panic and strike the rocks,
shattering the canoe. Nothing is ever certain.
We had no plan, the numbers would tell us,
at the moment of our deaths.
It’s not the numbers you dislike—
the 3s or 5s or 7s—but the way
the answers leave no room for you,
the way 4 plus 2 is always 6
never 9 or 10 or Florida,
the way 3 divided by 1
is never an essay about spelunking
or poached salmon, which is why
you never seemed to get the answer right
when the Algebra teacher asked,
If a man floating down a river in a canoe
has traveled three miles of a twelve mile canyon
in five minutes, how long will it take him
to complete the race? Which of course depends
on if the wind resistance is 13 miles an hour
and he’s traveling upstream
against a 2 mile an hour current
and his arms are tired and he’s thinking
about the first time he ever saw Florida,
which was in seventh grade
right after his parents’ divorce
and he felt overshadowed
by the palm trees, neon sun visors,
and cheap postcards swimming
with alligators. Nothing is ever simple,
except for the way the 3 looks like two shells
washed up on last night’s shore,
but then sometimes it looks like a bird
gently crushed on its side.
And the 1—once so certain
you could lean up against it
like a gray fence post—has grown weary,
fascinated by the perpetual
itch of its own body.
Even the Algebra teacher
waving his formulas like baseball bats,
pauses occasionally when he tells you
that a 9 and a 2 are traveling in a canoe
on a river in a canyon. How long
will it take them to complete their journey?
That is if they don’t lose their oars
and panic and strike the rocks,
shattering the canoe. Nothing is ever certain.
We had no plan, the numbers would tell us,
at the moment of our deaths.
6.15.2009
moment of gratitude
to have someone
who gets in at 5 AM from a five day climbing and camping trip
the pale red residue of canyon rock still under her nails
settled in the wavering line of her scalp
and jumps on a T for half an hour to surprise me
with sandwiches from my favorite cafe
black coffee that tastes like liquid earth
lucky me to return to my desk,
full, filled, finding
a hint of the red rocks of utah still on my lips
all this possible only because i'm finally accepting
that i can't -won't- ever shed love
like some kind of dead skin to be sloughed off
realizing, finally, how strong and weightless skin really is
the endless layers i am capable of carrying
who gets in at 5 AM from a five day climbing and camping trip
the pale red residue of canyon rock still under her nails
settled in the wavering line of her scalp
and jumps on a T for half an hour to surprise me
with sandwiches from my favorite cafe
black coffee that tastes like liquid earth
lucky me to return to my desk,
full, filled, finding
a hint of the red rocks of utah still on my lips
all this possible only because i'm finally accepting
that i can't -won't- ever shed love
like some kind of dead skin to be sloughed off
realizing, finally, how strong and weightless skin really is
the endless layers i am capable of carrying
6.12.2009
What Goes On, by Stephen Dunn
After the affair and the moving out,
after the destructive revivifying passion,
we watched her life quiet
into a new one, her lover more and more
on its periphery. She spent many nights
alone, happy for the narcosis
of the television. When she got cancer
she kept it to herself until she couldn't
keep it from anyone. The chemo debilitated
and saved her, and one day
her husband asked her to come back —
his wife, who after all had only fallen
in love as anyone might
who hadn't been in love in a while —
and he held her, so different now,
so thin, her hair just partially
grown back. He held her like a new woman
and what she felt
felt almost as good as love had,
and each of them called it love
because precision didn't matter anymore.
And we who'd been part of it,
often rejoicing with one
and consoling the other,
we who had seen her truly alive
and then merely alive,
what could we do but revise
our phone book, our hearts,
offer a little toast to what goes on.
after the destructive revivifying passion,
we watched her life quiet
into a new one, her lover more and more
on its periphery. She spent many nights
alone, happy for the narcosis
of the television. When she got cancer
she kept it to herself until she couldn't
keep it from anyone. The chemo debilitated
and saved her, and one day
her husband asked her to come back —
his wife, who after all had only fallen
in love as anyone might
who hadn't been in love in a while —
and he held her, so different now,
so thin, her hair just partially
grown back. He held her like a new woman
and what she felt
felt almost as good as love had,
and each of them called it love
because precision didn't matter anymore.
And we who'd been part of it,
often rejoicing with one
and consoling the other,
we who had seen her truly alive
and then merely alive,
what could we do but revise
our phone book, our hearts,
offer a little toast to what goes on.
6.11.2009
Bee Stuck Between Screen Door and Front Door- going F*ing Nuts
THIS ARTICLE in the Onion caused a bathroom-trip inducing side holding laughing fit during a really important meeting. i dont know why but it was litterally the funniest thing i'd read in like a year.
was i trolling the onion at work during a meeting you ask? no. my boss sent it to me. and then took great pleasure in the silent tears streaming down my face.
HUNTSVILE, AL—Users of the front door at 1418 Sycamore Avenue report the appearance of a common bumblebee ricocheting back and forth between the front and screen doors in a manner described as "pissed." According to witnesses, no one has been able to ascertain how the bee became trapped between the two portals, but it is totally losing it and will absolutely sting someone if it gets out, most likely in the eye. "Look at the size of that thing," homeowner Tony Paris said. "He's just going nuts. Just fly out of there, bee, come on." At press time, the bee was resting for a moment before resuming flipping the fuck out.
was i trolling the onion at work during a meeting you ask? no. my boss sent it to me. and then took great pleasure in the silent tears streaming down my face.
HUNTSVILE, AL—Users of the front door at 1418 Sycamore Avenue report the appearance of a common bumblebee ricocheting back and forth between the front and screen doors in a manner described as "pissed." According to witnesses, no one has been able to ascertain how the bee became trapped between the two portals, but it is totally losing it and will absolutely sting someone if it gets out, most likely in the eye. "Look at the size of that thing," homeowner Tony Paris said. "He's just going nuts. Just fly out of there, bee, come on." At press time, the bee was resting for a moment before resuming flipping the fuck out.
6.08.2009
pshh and they say we do the devils PR...
Chase(3:52:49 PM): such a wide range of emotions this job brings
Chase (3:52:53 PM): sleep, suicide
Chase (3:52:58 PM): suffering
daisy (3:53:17 PM): serenity now, stupidity,
daisy (3:53:26 PM): survival, self-mutilation
daisy (3:54:20 PM): as we are writing this, ellen is currently tearing her hair out to my right and yelling into the phone. its like.. see exhibit A.
Chase (3:54:35 PM): hahhh
Chase (3:54:44 PM): every time you say Ellen I think of the one on TV
daisy(3:55:35 PM): sadly theyre about as far apart on the female spectrum as two ellens can be.
daisy(3:57:03 PM): who will this recap go to?
Chase (3:57:53 PM): we should double check with Thekla first, but my thoughts are Mary, Jos, Ian, Abby, Michelle, Peter, Shari, Senta, Sarah and God
daisy(3:58:32 PM): very good. do we have an email for Him? i'm sure, being B-M, that we do.
Chase(3:58:45 PM): God@bm.com
daisy(3:59:02 PM): oh he works here does he... take that, maddow.
Chase (3:59:07 PM): not to be confused with GoodGod@bm.com
daisy (3:59:17 PM): or sweetjesus@bm.com
Chase (4:00:04 PM): I would pay you in the e-mail line to address it to Mary, Jos, God
Chase (4:00:13 PM): Mary Joseph and God
Chase (4:00:24 PM): now that you're all together, I'd like to share our wonderful coverage
Chase (4:01:08 PM): in addition, if you think about it... Jesus only had three kings come to his birthday. Is one journalist for a non-news event really that bad?
Chase (3:52:53 PM): sleep, suicide
Chase (3:52:58 PM): suffering
daisy (3:53:17 PM): serenity now, stupidity,
daisy (3:53:26 PM): survival, self-mutilation
daisy (3:54:20 PM): as we are writing this, ellen is currently tearing her hair out to my right and yelling into the phone. its like.. see exhibit A.
Chase (3:54:35 PM): hahhh
Chase (3:54:44 PM): every time you say Ellen I think of the one on TV
daisy(3:55:35 PM): sadly theyre about as far apart on the female spectrum as two ellens can be.
daisy(3:57:03 PM): who will this recap go to?
Chase (3:57:53 PM): we should double check with Thekla first, but my thoughts are Mary, Jos, Ian, Abby, Michelle, Peter, Shari, Senta, Sarah and God
daisy(3:58:32 PM): very good. do we have an email for Him? i'm sure, being B-M, that we do.
Chase(3:58:45 PM): God@bm.com
daisy(3:59:02 PM): oh he works here does he... take that, maddow.
Chase (3:59:07 PM): not to be confused with GoodGod@bm.com
daisy (3:59:17 PM): or sweetjesus@bm.com
Chase (4:00:04 PM): I would pay you in the e-mail line to address it to Mary, Jos, God
Chase (4:00:13 PM): Mary Joseph and God
Chase (4:00:24 PM): now that you're all together, I'd like to share our wonderful coverage
Chase (4:01:08 PM): in addition, if you think about it... Jesus only had three kings come to his birthday. Is one journalist for a non-news event really that bad?
a great post on madness. i'd say "anger" but that doesnt quite work in this context. its true though, people do get off on getting mad.
I'm Not Mad
by imperturb on dailykos
Mon Jun 08, 2009
When Diogenes was asked why he was walking around with a candle looking for an honest man, he is reported to have remarked that he thought it would be easier than his previous failed attempt to find a man who wasn't angry. Some accounts of his response, which I'm inclined to accredit, have it that he appended to the forgoeing, "not that it's any of your fucking business, dipshit".
Now, this is likely to get some people mad, but I'm not mad. No, I'm not mad, or fucking mad, or so fucking mad, or livid, or incensed, or apoplectic, or pissed, or furious, or enraged, or any of those things. I'd open up the window and scream, "I'm not mad as hell," but that would risk waking the baby downstairs, and, besides, people who are not mad do not scream out of windows. And I won't pretend rage just to try to fit in--to avoid being seen as heretical for cultivating an unseemly placidity.
Diogenes, my man, what with your special candle and all, you should have easily seen past my unconvincing feigned rage and realized I was always your guy-- the not-angry man. And, hey, if that candle of yours is so unhelpful in your cute little quests, maybe we can think of something else you can do with it...
Seems everyone is mad. Always. Brown, white, black, old, young, male, female, or whatever-- everybody is mad. Madness is not a state we enter into intermittently in response to a provocation but a permanent condition that varies only in its intensity (although it's usually maximal) and object. We "mad" in the same way we respirate, hydrate and sleep--it is basic to our existence. And, so, it is inarguably the case that the tent of mad is the biggest of all big tents; everybody is there, and even the most implacable foes stand shoulder to shoulder, allied in their commiment to the logic of anger.
In the tent, "doing mad" has become a kind of performance art. Tee up any object as the target of anger, say, fudge, for example, and the maddening crowd will so savagely and comprehensively attack and pummel it (the fudge) that it will come to bear almost no resemblance to the innocent little sweet we all took it to be. Now, I know fudge sucks, but I never imagined it was at the root of all civilization's ills. And, speaking of fudge, whose bright fucking idea was it that fudge was a good thing to sell at beach resorts?--it's 93 bleeding degrees and I'm supposed to want to bring some fudge down to the beach with me? Why?-- to watch it melt into a brown glop and intermingle with the sand like a fuckin chocolate oil spill?
And then it all just devolves into one of those execrable and unforgiveable TV talent contest things, America Does Mad--my mad is the maddest mad ever madded; my mad is the best a mad can get; my mad is asylum-ready-caliber mad; compared to my magisterial mad your weak-assed mad is really nothing more than a miffedness, a pique, or, on your best days, maybe an irkedness. And what a wonderful chance to parade our most withering profanity-laced putdowns. Oooh, did she just say "laminated, lip-synching ultramegadouchenozllete?" And during the ritual of maddening, the object of the madness quietly recedes into the wings, eclipsed by the ritual itself. Hey, who was it that we just flambeed so exquisitely? Was it McConell, a bankstah or just some media blowhard? Don't know, but does it matter?
I've put in my time in the big tent of madness, written my share of fulminous rants and lobbed my share of contemptuously derisive condemnations, many of them, I'll have you know, plucked from the rich Yiddish tradition of insult--shmuck, gonif, pisher, putz, etc-- but I'm moving on and pitching my one-man yurt outside the circle of anger and onto the arid and uninviting plain of flat affect and willed imperturbability. I'm giving up on madness because, frankly, I suck at it and always lose in the my madness is bigger than your madness contests I'm giving up madness in the way that Arianna Huffington gave up conservatism-- because it is too crowded. I'm giving up madness in the way that a NYC resident gives up smoking-- because it is too expensive(nearly ten bucks a pack). I'm giving up madness in the way I gave up sex--because it was unavailable to me. I'm giving up madness to spend more time with my family.
From this moment on, I vow not to call Phil Gramm a pustule, though he most assuredly is a pustule, as, by the way, is his wife. My only regret is that I never got to tell anyone "zol der vaksen tzibbeles fun pupik" --which translates as, "onions should grow from your naval." Perhaps a site member who has not forsworn anger as I have and has a taste for exravagant imprecation will do me the honor of laying the onion thing on a particularly vile winger scumbag.
by imperturb on dailykos
Mon Jun 08, 2009
When Diogenes was asked why he was walking around with a candle looking for an honest man, he is reported to have remarked that he thought it would be easier than his previous failed attempt to find a man who wasn't angry. Some accounts of his response, which I'm inclined to accredit, have it that he appended to the forgoeing, "not that it's any of your fucking business, dipshit".
Now, this is likely to get some people mad, but I'm not mad. No, I'm not mad, or fucking mad, or so fucking mad, or livid, or incensed, or apoplectic, or pissed, or furious, or enraged, or any of those things. I'd open up the window and scream, "I'm not mad as hell," but that would risk waking the baby downstairs, and, besides, people who are not mad do not scream out of windows. And I won't pretend rage just to try to fit in--to avoid being seen as heretical for cultivating an unseemly placidity.
Diogenes, my man, what with your special candle and all, you should have easily seen past my unconvincing feigned rage and realized I was always your guy-- the not-angry man. And, hey, if that candle of yours is so unhelpful in your cute little quests, maybe we can think of something else you can do with it...
Seems everyone is mad. Always. Brown, white, black, old, young, male, female, or whatever-- everybody is mad. Madness is not a state we enter into intermittently in response to a provocation but a permanent condition that varies only in its intensity (although it's usually maximal) and object. We "mad" in the same way we respirate, hydrate and sleep--it is basic to our existence. And, so, it is inarguably the case that the tent of mad is the biggest of all big tents; everybody is there, and even the most implacable foes stand shoulder to shoulder, allied in their commiment to the logic of anger.
In the tent, "doing mad" has become a kind of performance art. Tee up any object as the target of anger, say, fudge, for example, and the maddening crowd will so savagely and comprehensively attack and pummel it (the fudge) that it will come to bear almost no resemblance to the innocent little sweet we all took it to be. Now, I know fudge sucks, but I never imagined it was at the root of all civilization's ills. And, speaking of fudge, whose bright fucking idea was it that fudge was a good thing to sell at beach resorts?--it's 93 bleeding degrees and I'm supposed to want to bring some fudge down to the beach with me? Why?-- to watch it melt into a brown glop and intermingle with the sand like a fuckin chocolate oil spill?
And then it all just devolves into one of those execrable and unforgiveable TV talent contest things, America Does Mad--my mad is the maddest mad ever madded; my mad is the best a mad can get; my mad is asylum-ready-caliber mad; compared to my magisterial mad your weak-assed mad is really nothing more than a miffedness, a pique, or, on your best days, maybe an irkedness. And what a wonderful chance to parade our most withering profanity-laced putdowns. Oooh, did she just say "laminated, lip-synching ultramegadouchenozllete?" And during the ritual of maddening, the object of the madness quietly recedes into the wings, eclipsed by the ritual itself. Hey, who was it that we just flambeed so exquisitely? Was it McConell, a bankstah or just some media blowhard? Don't know, but does it matter?
I've put in my time in the big tent of madness, written my share of fulminous rants and lobbed my share of contemptuously derisive condemnations, many of them, I'll have you know, plucked from the rich Yiddish tradition of insult--shmuck, gonif, pisher, putz, etc-- but I'm moving on and pitching my one-man yurt outside the circle of anger and onto the arid and uninviting plain of flat affect and willed imperturbability. I'm giving up on madness because, frankly, I suck at it and always lose in the my madness is bigger than your madness contests I'm giving up madness in the way that Arianna Huffington gave up conservatism-- because it is too crowded. I'm giving up madness in the way that a NYC resident gives up smoking-- because it is too expensive(nearly ten bucks a pack). I'm giving up madness in the way I gave up sex--because it was unavailable to me. I'm giving up madness to spend more time with my family.
From this moment on, I vow not to call Phil Gramm a pustule, though he most assuredly is a pustule, as, by the way, is his wife. My only regret is that I never got to tell anyone "zol der vaksen tzibbeles fun pupik" --which translates as, "onions should grow from your naval." Perhaps a site member who has not forsworn anger as I have and has a taste for exravagant imprecation will do me the honor of laying the onion thing on a particularly vile winger scumbag.
6.05.2009
asunder
On the fire escape of your rented room
we sat and felt the empty city
sweat and fret we passed a cigarette
back and forth as once we passed
words like these between us without
hope of keeping
Now I write
without hope of answer to say
that what we gave each other nakedly
was too much and not enough
to say that since we last touched
I am not empty but I hear you named
and my heart stalls the pieces of your voice
you left are interleaved with mine
with this quick spark in the emptiness
to say Yes i miss how love
may make us otherwise.
-craig arnold
we sat and felt the empty city
sweat and fret we passed a cigarette
back and forth as once we passed
words like these between us without
hope of keeping
Now I write
without hope of answer to say
that what we gave each other nakedly
was too much and not enough
to say that since we last touched
I am not empty but I hear you named
and my heart stalls the pieces of your voice
you left are interleaved with mine
with this quick spark in the emptiness
to say Yes i miss how love
may make us otherwise.
-craig arnold
6.04.2009
The EMA Fund's response to Dr. Tiller's murder from the Boston Globe
read it here
now that i'm finally doing the work myself i'm so impressed with the women who run and work for the EMA fund, i cant even tell you. its emotionally gruelling but incredibly productive and critical to the community. They are under appreciated, under funded and under a ton of pressure.
if for whatever reason you have like ten extra bucks hanging around and feel like contributing to the fund- its all based on small private donations- it has never been more important than it is now with abortions becoming less and less accessible as hospitals, medical programs and even clinics become wary of getting dragged into the debate and potential danger.
here's more info on them and an easy way to donate online: The Eastern Massachusetts Abortion Fund
now that i'm finally doing the work myself i'm so impressed with the women who run and work for the EMA fund, i cant even tell you. its emotionally gruelling but incredibly productive and critical to the community. They are under appreciated, under funded and under a ton of pressure.
if for whatever reason you have like ten extra bucks hanging around and feel like contributing to the fund- its all based on small private donations- it has never been more important than it is now with abortions becoming less and less accessible as hospitals, medical programs and even clinics become wary of getting dragged into the debate and potential danger.
here's more info on them and an easy way to donate online: The Eastern Massachusetts Abortion Fund
6.02.2009
office aim snippet
(we're calling ellen "heals" now both because her last name is healy and because she is always teetering around in heels that she cant quite walk in. and, between you and me, she's the closest thing the human race has come to a pug. not that we dont love her, because we do, but i'm convinced she's at least 23 percent pug.)
daisy (5:49:03 PM): it seems we have some competition in the annoying laugh competition.
heals (5:49:10 PM): omg
heals (5:49:19 PM): freaking russian hat woman
heals (5:49:29 PM): have you seen her all-denim ensemble toda
daisy (5:49:39 PM): oh no.
heals (5:49:41 PM): oh yes.
daisy (5:49:42 PM): not all denim
daisy (5:49:43 PM): anything but that
heals (5:49:48 PM): denim hat
heals (5:49:50 PM): denim jacket
heals(5:49:52 PM): denim jeans
daisy (5:49:52 PM): no! head to toe!?
heals (5:49:56 PM): i am not even kidding you
heals (5:50:01 PM): HEAD to TOE.
daisy (5:50:05 PM): that is not just a no no, thats a no no no.
heals (5:50:15 PM): HA! precisely.
daisy (5:50:42 PM): is the denim all the same color?
heals(5:50:56 PM): YES
daisy (5:51:25 PM): apparently thats called a canadian tuxedo.
daisy (5:51:30 PM): vanessa just informed me. i learn something every day at this job.
heals (5:51:31 PM): good god. the horror.
daisy (5:49:03 PM): it seems we have some competition in the annoying laugh competition.
heals (5:49:10 PM): omg
heals (5:49:19 PM): freaking russian hat woman
heals (5:49:29 PM): have you seen her all-denim ensemble toda
daisy (5:49:39 PM): oh no.
heals (5:49:41 PM): oh yes.
daisy (5:49:42 PM): not all denim
daisy (5:49:43 PM): anything but that
heals (5:49:48 PM): denim hat
heals (5:49:50 PM): denim jacket
heals(5:49:52 PM): denim jeans
daisy (5:49:52 PM): no! head to toe!?
heals (5:49:56 PM): i am not even kidding you
heals (5:50:01 PM): HEAD to TOE.
daisy (5:50:05 PM): that is not just a no no, thats a no no no.
heals (5:50:15 PM): HA! precisely.
daisy (5:50:42 PM): is the denim all the same color?
heals(5:50:56 PM): YES
daisy (5:51:25 PM): apparently thats called a canadian tuxedo.
daisy (5:51:30 PM): vanessa just informed me. i learn something every day at this job.
heals (5:51:31 PM): good god. the horror.
6.01.2009
This moat will be two hundred feet wide with red-hot magma and also contain anthrax and perhaps some lemon juice.
My favorite writer on the daily kos, known for sarcasm saturation, discusses how obama should be building a "Super Extreme Maximum Security Prison" for the Guantanamo detainees that no one trusts in american prisons. because after all they are terrorists. "The very word invokes visions of unknown superpowers; who is to say that these giants of worldwide terror do not have the ability to mind-meld with prison guards, disabling them, or the ability to walk through solid steeel, or do not have nuclear weapons stashed in their prison-supplied orange pants even as we speak?"
why he is excellent:
"...After this third moat, the terrorists will be met with a wide queue of normal, everyday American citizens. Half of these citizens will have been told they are in line for American Idol auditions; the other half will be told they are in line for the newest version of a Sony-produced game console. Upon any terrorist reaching this point, a designated lookout will point at the escapee, shouting "look, it's Paula Abdul, and she's got the only console!"
If the prisoner survives the resulting melee, they will find themselves within a normal, everyday elementary school. Being in solitary confinement for so long, the terrorists will have little immunity to the dozens of viruses floating around any typical elementary school environment; they will soon be rendered feverish, delusional, and blinded by the glitter of several hundred Hannah Montana-branded shirts.
The seventh circle of the prisoner's hell will contain more lava. Through loudspeakers, the songs from Mama Mia will play continuously. They will be accosted by an individual asking them to define ennui, and another who will draw a brutally sketched caricature of them, making them feel bad..."
why he is excellent:
"...After this third moat, the terrorists will be met with a wide queue of normal, everyday American citizens. Half of these citizens will have been told they are in line for American Idol auditions; the other half will be told they are in line for the newest version of a Sony-produced game console. Upon any terrorist reaching this point, a designated lookout will point at the escapee, shouting "look, it's Paula Abdul, and she's got the only console!"
If the prisoner survives the resulting melee, they will find themselves within a normal, everyday elementary school. Being in solitary confinement for so long, the terrorists will have little immunity to the dozens of viruses floating around any typical elementary school environment; they will soon be rendered feverish, delusional, and blinded by the glitter of several hundred Hannah Montana-branded shirts.
The seventh circle of the prisoner's hell will contain more lava. Through loudspeakers, the songs from Mama Mia will play continuously. They will be accosted by an individual asking them to define ennui, and another who will draw a brutally sketched caricature of them, making them feel bad..."
pazienza
Today i was on the T for an hour and 13 minutes. thats 13 minutes longer than it would have taken me to walk to work. it was 15 minutes creeping along at the Green line's usual glacial speed and then ten minutes at a stand still with the conductor telling us there was "heavy traffic" ahead, then ten yards of movement, ten more minutes at stopped, ten yards, ten minutes etc. i got off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way making me a solid hour late to work.
there is only one reason i did not turn into a screetching monkey and swing up and down the stopped subway car on the hand rails:
Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters To A Young Poet
by a stroke of luck and genius at the last minute on my way out i shoved the book, recently gifted to me by my dads girlfriend, into my bag. its one of those books that i keep dancing around, kind of like pride & prejudice or one flew over the cuckoo's nest, that i really should have read by now and sort of feeeel like i've read just from having heard it quoted or references 2394738 times so i guiltily pass it over in bookstores, imagining there wouldnt be enough surprise in the experience of reading it and there are so many other new books i want to read and i'm almost too embarassed to pick it up and start it because it feels a little like being taught how to tie a shoe and yet this is no goodnight moon were talking about, this is ken kesey and jane austin and many others who i have skipped over due to a false sense of familiaity and in reality one doesnt know a book unless one's read it regardless of how many critical essays one has bashed one's head against and i ought to read them start to finish and fill in the gaping holes in my education so i can stop tripping on my literary shoe laces.
anyway, letters to a young poet has been personally recommended so many times in my life that i cant keep ignoring it so when teh T ground to a halt for the second time i wrenched the book out of my bag and began reading. and reading. and reading. and underlining and flagging and tagging and dogearing and my god how have i lived this long without these words?
i'm only on page 41 and rilke has allready discussed patience, poetry, irony, love, sex and career with words that connected the plug of my heart to the socket of my brain and made both light up.
Here is a passage in which rilke responds to his young correspondant's impatience with his life's direction, his impatience with his ability to do or even find, what he loves doing:
"You are so young, so before all beginning, and i want to beg you, as much as i can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything."
and a poem of his that i really enjoyed as a side order to the maincourse of the book
I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder
there is only one reason i did not turn into a screetching monkey and swing up and down the stopped subway car on the hand rails:
Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters To A Young Poet
by a stroke of luck and genius at the last minute on my way out i shoved the book, recently gifted to me by my dads girlfriend, into my bag. its one of those books that i keep dancing around, kind of like pride & prejudice or one flew over the cuckoo's nest, that i really should have read by now and sort of feeeel like i've read just from having heard it quoted or references 2394738 times so i guiltily pass it over in bookstores, imagining there wouldnt be enough surprise in the experience of reading it and there are so many other new books i want to read and i'm almost too embarassed to pick it up and start it because it feels a little like being taught how to tie a shoe and yet this is no goodnight moon were talking about, this is ken kesey and jane austin and many others who i have skipped over due to a false sense of familiaity and in reality one doesnt know a book unless one's read it regardless of how many critical essays one has bashed one's head against and i ought to read them start to finish and fill in the gaping holes in my education so i can stop tripping on my literary shoe laces.
anyway, letters to a young poet has been personally recommended so many times in my life that i cant keep ignoring it so when teh T ground to a halt for the second time i wrenched the book out of my bag and began reading. and reading. and reading. and underlining and flagging and tagging and dogearing and my god how have i lived this long without these words?
i'm only on page 41 and rilke has allready discussed patience, poetry, irony, love, sex and career with words that connected the plug of my heart to the socket of my brain and made both light up.
Here is a passage in which rilke responds to his young correspondant's impatience with his life's direction, his impatience with his ability to do or even find, what he loves doing:
"You are so young, so before all beginning, and i want to beg you, as much as i can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything."
and a poem of his that i really enjoyed as a side order to the maincourse of the book
I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder
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