rollercoaster, of love

I sat on a bench across from the big drop of the rollercoaster. I liked listening to the people scream. Some of the screams were enthusastic, like the man who went down with a series of monosyllables – something like whoa-hoo-ya-di-ya! Others seemed sincerely surprised - one guy erupted in a kind of gurgling wind-up at the top of the drop, then paused, then resumed screaming halfway down. Of course there were the glass-shatterers, mostly female, who let loose at one rippling pitch all the way to the bottom.

I had a sinus headache that kept me off the ride, but the rest of the family went on. The line was long, and I’d experienced a great deal of screaming by the time their turn came. Still I laughed like hell when I saw my husband round the uppermost curve, and heard him scream bloody murder into the plunge.


(this is a re-post in honor of finally getting the photo scanned)

Opium is the opium of the people

A man walks into a bar.
The man walks out of the bar.
The man crosses the street in front of the bar.
The man is a comedian.

Afternoon of an acquaintance of a faun

I’m not living virtually much right now. My computer broke. It wasn’t me.

My computer “broke” a couple days before the washing machine took the same route and a few days before my husband had a small (one-vehicle) accident with the car. He pleads “no comment” when asked about the repair cost. I didn’t pursue the query, especially as we’re having a jillion-dollar heating system put in this week and are thus very brokely.

The accident took place just a day or two before another of my son’s teachers called to complain about his work habits. I grounded him.

The teacher (the English teacher, no less) called the same day I stupidly left my 1,000-page copy of The Kindly Ones on the train. It’s only as big as an elephant. Somehow I just overlooked it.

There is the feeling I’ve had my share of bad luck.
Or at least my capacity for surprised dismay has diminished.

In any case, I went to the lost & found at the train station Monday and they had found my book! Bookmark still tucked in p. 280. And, with a little arm-twisting, my son has been good the last few days. Ok, so he has nothing else to do.

Still, one can hope. The computer repairman is at the house …

like a cat in the dark

There’s nothing really new about downloading music. More than 30 years ago my sister and I were doing it in our bedrooms and then sharing “files.” The downloading process in those days was all about being poised for opportunity. It was low-tech. It was done with one of those old tabletop cassette recorders, the kind that lie flat, and we’d sit like birds of prey in front of the radio waiting for a song we liked to come on. When it did, click! Push play/record and you had the world’s crappiest download on a shitty cassette with plenty of fuzz, the DJ interrupting the end of the song, the dog barking and your mother calling you to dinner somewhere in middle of Stevie Nicks’ “Rhiannon.” This operation was probably just as illegal as downloads nowadays. You are allowed, however, to download music directly into your brain via memorization. You can even write the words down, as long as you don't try to pass them off as your own. And you are welcome to sing them very loudly in front of the mirror in your room with your high-tech hairbrush microphone bristling with static, as long as the door is closed.

Friday Chapter Summary

A Very Long Chapter of Little Significance
A Heavy Brush with Foreshadowing
Wherein We Encounter Juan, Whom We’ll Never Meet Again
The Hour between Sardines
Nothing Happens in Geometry
Things That Matter Not One Whit
Lather, Rinse, Repeat (if necessary)
Employing A Scientific Metaphor
Chapter 9
Being A Short But Pivotal Chapter, Perhaps Too Hastily Staged
In Which We Are Annoyed by The Word ‘Boudoir’
Sing O God of Fury
Chapter Meant To Atone for The Bad Writing of The Previous Ones
A String of Seemingly Irrelevant Events
DNA in the Argentinian Criminal Justice System
The End

if death smells like nutmeg

I have a poem called “Training” up today at Linebreak, the clean, well-lighted site that offers its poets a whole week in the sun. Click on the sound icon you’ll hear Aran Donovan read the poem (thanks!).

It took me years to write this poem, literally, from writing down the first few ideas, to revising, to putting the poem in the ice file, to revising, to throwing up my hands, to finally coming up with a way to “solve” the poem, which is what I call finding the wording that lets the poem say and do what it wants to.

I was inspired to write it way back when after reading a poem by David Ignatow that began “I must train myself to no longer exist…” You can see where the title comes from. His poem is here! Read it. He’s one of those wonderful, unique poets no one reads enough of.

Such a long wait for a poem to finish itself I also had with “Curtains.” I had the beginning in my notebook forever and ever, and slowly built a body but never seemed able to find a satisfying ending. It languished for a long time even though I was fond of it. Finally, I don’t remember how, but the heart’s “monstrous socket,” came to me, the pain caused by having to be involved emotionally with the world, and not being able, really, to wrap yourself up in heavy curtains.

friday confession

budge BULGE budge BULGE budge
BULGE bugde BULGE budge BULGE
budge BULGE budge BULGE budge
BULGE budge BULGE budge BULGE
budge BULGE budge BULGE budge
BULGE bugde BULGE budge BULGE
budge BULGE budge BULGE budge
**

So goes the slug.

I need to atone for one I killed when I was a kid. I sprinkled the poor thing with salt. It was a self-dare meant to impress my stepbrothers, which achieved nothing but disgust. Still, despite the self-loathing it inspired, it also perversely heightened my revulsion for slugs.

When I learned the German word for slug, I originally thought it was called the Nachtschnecke, or “night snail.” After literally years of wondering what slugs had to do with the night, I realized the real word is the Nacktschnecke, or “naked snail.” Nacht and Nackt sound very very similar. In any case, mystery explained! It seems so obvious now.

Maybe I’d like slugs more if they didn’t creep about crazy naked. Or if they limited their nakedness to the night. They’d look better in snug slug sweaters, like the one above. I’m thinking of adopting one from this knitter, who likewise suffers a slug obsession.

big rock candy mountain

I’m reading The Kindly Ones, a holocaust novel. I ordered a used hardcover, and wasn’t prepared for how huge it is – just a few pages shy of 1000. Still, despite the time I know it will take, did I scare off? No. Call me a glutton. I love books where you have to make a chart of characters inside the back cover, complete with arrows, nicknames, time lines, maps and family trees. I love referring to glossaries of terms provided by the publisher, especially in a foreign language. Books that can be used as doorstops, books that deflect bullets. Books with which to press my shirts. Balanced on the head, bulging books can improve your posture. I love sprawling, war-torn landscapes littered with wayward morality, shame, death and big questions. Big books are good for toning the arm muscles. A large, stable hardcover in itself makes an excellent bookend, and a handy portable chair. I love long sentences, lengthy paragraphs and chapters seemingly without end. It’s good to know the author didn’t skimp on the adjectives. Keep those novellas for the easily cowed. I like a book that won’t fit in my purse – a book that is its own suitcase. Bring on rich, leisurely and long-winded profusion! Get that editor out of here! Reading a tome like this makes me feel like I’m taking a long night flight with no one in the neighboring seat. The stars are out. Here comes the Japanese stewardess with my scotch, a pillow, and my plush white washcloth, steaming with lemon-scented water. Be prepared for turbulence. After all, we’re orbiting earth.

photo: Abelardo Morell

Eamonn's model bio

Eamonn was born in 1970.
Eamonn has written hundreds of stories.
Eamonn is a he, with two n’s.
He was born in New Jersey.
He is of Connecticut.
He is a two-and-a-half-hour drive from the beach.
Eamonn is of two minds.
Eamonn is insanely happily married.
Eamonn lives inside his wife with three cats.
On top of Old Smokey.
Eamonn was born for San Diego.
Eamonn’s work has appeared, or will appear.
Eamonn has been published in one hundred magazines.
He comes from contented.
His auspicious.
His auspicious beginning.
His auspicious beginning has not been snuffed.
His limp is the product of a childhood crush.
He was born and bred like a sheepdog.
On a dude ranch. On the moon. In rapid succession.
Eamonn has been born again and again.
His is the numberless, and at random.
He takes place in the plural.
When the mood strikes, he sits down like Salvador Dali.
All covered with snow.
Eamonn is the awkward author of this sentence.
Then suddenly he’s not.

Downright rude, chance of b.o.

The other day the forecast said "sunny and beautiful," and the Wednesday Addams in me who likes kohl clouds and branches swooshing in the rain would like to ask "beautiful to whom?"

The forecast for the next day said "sunny and pleasant," and I’d like to know why one day is “beautiful” and the next merely “pleasant.” The sun was at work in both cases and the predicted temperatures were only two degrees apart, so the weatherman must be choosing adjectives without much backthought. What happened to unbiased journalism? Are weathermen journalists? Should they be forcing their opinions on us? Weathermen should stick to the facts, which include "sunny," "cloudy," "xx% chance of precipitation," "temps in the mid-xxs," etc. Facts don’t include "fabulous" or "crappy."

Some late fall days have been so “unseasonably warm” that I don’t find them beautiful, but frightening. I think I’ll make that part of my forecasts. “Partly sunny and angst-ridden.” “Clear with 80% chance of neurosis.”

If I’m driving west late in the afternoon I’m not going to find full sun beautiful, but blinding. And if I put on a wool turtleneck in the chill morning only to find it’s pushing 70 degrees later in the day, that is not "pleasant," not for me, and not for anyone in my sniffing vicinity.

Awesome in America

I figured I’d share a couple of my real-life encounters with Awesome in America. The first sighting was at a Hanes shop, where I bought a pair of pondgreen polka-dot pajama bottoms. As I was paying, the salesclerk told me “those pants are Awesome.” It seems she had the same pair at home. You can bet I was mighty proud of my choice!

The second sighting took place at the legendary Dreamaway Lodge in Becket, Mass. We were ordering dinner, and my father chose the spicy Thai salmon. “That’s Awesome,” the waitress assured him. We had a good chuckle about this after she left. Seems I’m not the only one in the family with a thing for the Awesome. I’m considering making Awesome a regular part of my life.

Big in Japan

My bus passes a stop called Casual Male XXL.
Is there anything casual about being an extra-extra-large male?
Perhaps among elephants?

funk is not enough

I'm traipsing around massachusetts and new york state but wanted to drop in to say I have three pieces up at Apparatus Magazine - First Thing, Tinder Box and a techno poem.

My Money is on Fire

Whenever I read the newspaper
I learn my money is going to hell.
It’s lubricating a chute to the furnace
every time I eat meat or sip whiskey.
Every time I wear green or live
my secret life, no matter what
innocence I’m up to,
I’m sponsoring a disease
somewhere, making
souvenirs of the populace.

My money is minted clean
but the moment I open my purse
to buy a popsicle, it trickles down
as acid rain. I sit sunning myself
in the park while my money
is felling the redwoods, adding rage
to hurricanes. I’m going to tell
the drunk approaching my bench
I can’t give him a red cent. Look
at us. My money has done enough.

ode to rudolf diesel

The east coast is beautiful and I can overlook traffic and superfluous strip malls but I can’t forgive the ubiquitous muzak (read: 80's innocuous pop) being pumped like gas into parking lots and shops. If we could ban smoking. If we could mandate seat belts. I come out of Pepperidge Farm and can it be that the back of the Goldfish bag says “Challenge yourself to find something GOOD in every situation?” (caps theirs) So much baloney. I think prohibiting consumer muzak would be a giant step towards improving American health care. If we could invent the air bag. If we can bomb the moon. Of course, if it happened that I -walking across the parking lot, forced to process Huey Lewis and the News- burst into gaseous flame, I might find some good in that.

the great oxgoad

It’s Wednesday and I’m feverishly reading The Private Life of Chairman Mao. It’s a mission. 635 pages, not including notes. I’m on page 268, which brings us to early 1958, right after “Let 100 Flowers Bloom” and The Great Leap Forward. Despite the title, there aren’t all that many juicy details. Lots of political infighting and plenty of reason for disillusionment. The book was written by Mao’s personal doctor, and so far the most lurid segment had to do with the Great Helmsman’s teeth.

“As I looked into Mao’s mouth, I saw his teeth were covered with a heavy greenish film. A few of them seemed loose. I touched the gums lightly and some pus oozed out.”

I have a couple more decades of sleazy hygeiene to cram before I return the book to a friend who used to work in our Frankfurt office and now works in our New York office. I’ll see him in NY next week, and hell if I’m lugging Mao’s formaldehyde corpse across continents again.

of thee I

First five songs I heard in America

1. Live & Let Die - Paul McCartney & Wings
2. What Do All the People Know - The Monroes
3. Brown-Eyed Girl - Van Morrison
4. Accidents Will Happen - Elvis Costello
5. Feel Like Making Love - Bad Company


Thanks for the photo: Futurowoman

An apparently senseless thing I'm doing

I’m saving corks. One of the markets downtown collects them. “Recycles” them. Honestly, I didn’t know cork was endangered, but as soon as I found out, I began filling all available receptacles with them. I like to do my bit. I have flower vases in the cellar full of corks, cookie tins and plastic bags. I add about two or three corks a week to my collection. The problem being that I never seem to get around to taking them to the store. If God decides to flood the world again, and I understand this is not a ridiculous notion, I hope he chooses to let me know. I could build one badass cork ship.

bermuda triangle

Aside from narcolepsy, the only reason to stop on the highway is to use the bathroom. And the only decent highway rest stops are those with gas and restaurant emporiums. Such stops have trim, litter-free grounds and sparkling bathrooms with a middle-aged Eastern European lady who charges 50 cents per pee. I don’t begrudge the 50 cents, even per person, but I do dislike the 16 euros we end up spending on gummibears and Coke. So, although I hate them, I advocate the downgrade to the pull-off stop with picnic benches and toilets. This isn’t without its price. The company, for one, is way bad. The grounds are filthy and the bathrooms smell like a septic tank upchucked. This could be bearable if you look straight ahead and shallowly breathe. But you have to touch the door to the bathroom, the lock on the stall and you have to push the flush button (unless you are truly inconsiderate). This will compel you to wash your hands. If the faucet works you’ll have to touch it. There will be no soap in the dispenser. You’ll have to screw the dirty faucet knob back off and and then open the enormous bathroom door with the handle that all the people who haven’t washed their hands have pawed. You could use a paper towel as a glove but there won’t be any because the dispenser has been vandalized. You’ll want to wash your hands again. Before you know it you could be stuck.

sugarfist

I got my share of rejections over the past couple weeks and if you seem to be missing some, I got yours, too. But Whiskey Island accepted two poems that I was really happy about – “To Long Division,” and “Riding Backwards on the Train,” and RHINO recently accepted two of my home totem poems - “Steam” and “sPonge.” I've been in both journals once before, and they're terrific. That's RHINO's rhino that I've borrowed.

Elsewhere, Literary Bohemian also wrote to say they nominated my prose poem(s) “Attending the Tasting” for Best of the Net. Literary Bohemian is a beautiful and novel publication, so I was heartened. In a last bit of news, I have some fragments up in the new issue of Fraglit.

I’m counting down the days until the kids and I fly to Amerika for our annual family shindig. Today the number is 3!

Can't we put them all there

It had been a long time since I’d been to the ceiling and I figured I'd better pay a visit. It’s like the Empire State building for New Yorkers – you could go there anytime, so you never do. I leaned the ladder against the wall, checked the rubber grip of the feet and set off, lickety-split. Before long I’d arrived. The ceiling was as I remembered it – clean enough but somewhat desolate, the angle where it meets the wall long and empty as a hospital corridor. I brought some roses along as a small apology. Apology accepted, the head nurse said, going to hunt down a vase. It’s the least I could do, I said, you know, if we can put a man on the moon.

book as magic box

This is "Pandora's Box" by Su Blackwell, an artist who cuts sculptures out of books, making delicate, mysterious scenes. I can't help but think of Pandora herself, except instead of a box it's a book and what you find there is the product of your own mind. Check out her site. My favorites are the dark ones with light installed, but they're all extremely interesting. I'd love to wander into one.

so help me rhonda

I wrote a short piece on Mairéad Byrne’s offbeat book of prose poems “Talk Poetry” for ReadWritePoem today. I highly recommend the book, which is occasionally wild and often hilarious.

At the last minute I emailed to ask if RWP needed a photo of the poet. To my relief, the answer was no; they’d be using an image of the book. Personally I can be put off by poet photos, especially when it’s placed right next to a poem. It disturbs my reading. I’m easily influenced, and people often look confusingly different than what I want them to look like.

Here some famous writers, looking sensitive: Exhibit A, B, C, D, E.
(This is the interactive part - put them in order: Louise Glück, Ian McEwan, Lola Haskins, Schiller, Kathryn Harrison)

That said, I’m usually more than happy to provide a photo of myself if a publication asks. Maybe because I’m a cross between knock-out gorgeous and hillbilly fugly, and I’m amassing a middle-aged roll in my middle which never appears in the photo, and if there’s a camera around I either address it or avoid it, but don’t stand still and gaze longingly towards the horizon.

If you’d like to see a moving picture of Mairéad Byrne with a poem coming out of her mouth, click here.

serial comma

The neighbors all said he seemed like a nice enough guy. If you went by his yard when he was out mowing the lawn, sometimes he'd wave, or shout "hello!" or "have a good one!" But mostly he kept to himself. One lady remembered he came to a barbecue two summers ago, bringing with him a real nice layer cake.

Cape

The wind is my little cape,
all smoke-ring theatrical.
The cape is my wing,
steering me onto 4th street,
into weekends and kiosks.
Once the clasp's fastened,
it's a small leap to the catwalk,
the bullfight, to knighting
sidewalks with my footfall,
or staging Dracula's black madness.
Out and about in it, shopwindows
reveal my inner magician.
My cape is not much to look at.
Some don't even see it.
I wear it walking
to my day job, and when
moonlighting as me.

fall, dark and handsome

October is creeping up, which means I’ll be visiting the states for a couple weeks. To ensure a pleasant arrival I’ve ordered some books and had them sent to my mom’s house, where they’ll be waiting for me in two weeks.

Varieties of Disturbance – Lydia Davis : I love Lydia Davis.

Fabulae – Joy Katz : I’ve read a few of her poems and been intrigued. So, for 88 cents, I ordered a used copy of this.

High Wind in Jamaica – Richard Hughes : My friends at GoodReads are wild about this and enthusiasm is contagious.

New Collected Poems – George Oppen : I was definitely splurging at this point. Oppen has been put in and taken out of the Amazon cart many times.

How to Be Perfect – Ron Padgett : I like him. I read this the other day and figured I’ve waited long enough.

Every Man Dies Alone – Hans Falluda : Gestapo story. Sounds gruesome.

The Kindly Ones – Jonathan Littell : There's a chance I'll hate this. But maybe not.

The Stray Dog Cabaret – A Book of Russian Poems : Hoping for poemliness.

They say I shot a man named Gray

Blue is widely accepted among men and is considered a masculine color. It is associated with stability and is the color most often chosen for corporate logos: Cobalt– Baby Blue – Cadet Blue – Blue Chip

Blue represents the sky, sea and all bodies of water, symbolizing depth and striving, faith, confidence and truth: Aquamarine – Sky Blue – Azure – True Blue – Sapphire

Blue is considered salubrious to body and soul. It slows down the metabolism and exudes calm. It is associated with serenity and spirituality, quietude and boredom: Cerulean – Pale Blue – Indigo – Pacific - Kansas Blue

While often used to connote health, blue also suggests psychological sadness and depression. It is also the color of illness affecting the respiratory tract and sinuses: Moody Blue – Chronic Blue – Fluesy Blue – Bell Bottom Blues

Blue is not tasty. Liquid, yes, but not juicy. Blue suppresses the appetite and should not be used to promote cooking and food. Blue sits at the right hand of God and that is why God created no blue foods. (For food, please refer to the chapter on deep reds and gold/brown.)

Blue is the color of trust and bonding, determination, strength and endurance: Steel Blue – Bondage Blue – Black-n-Blue – Backlash Blue – Blue Velvet

Blue is the color of drunkeness and stupor: Frost Blue – Vodka – Periwinkle – Nocturnal Blue

Blue is suited to promoting products relating to cleanliness and comfort, like cleaning fluids, air conditioners, spas and sparkling water: Turquoise – Blue Green – Ultramarine – Mineral Blue

Blue is the color of mystery and of sleep, both soft and profound: Powder Blue – Cornflower – Midnight Blue – Bluesuede Blue – Smoke

Blue is a conservative color and can represent jingoism and an inability to change: RedWhite& Blue – French Blue – RedWhite&Blue – Navy – RedWhite&Blue

On the color spectrum, blue epitomizes cold, especially as it approaches white: Arctic Blue – Bluelips Blue – Icicle – Blizzard Blue

Blue is the color of innocence: Alice Blue – Robin’s Egg Blue – Lapis – Faience

i've taken up with the shape of the grass

The new issue of Right Hand Pointing is out, which includes three short poems of mine: Library, What I Read in the Paper and Infidelity.

Welcome you reading!

I've used up my face and worn out my stare

I have an uplifting poem called Despair up today at Juked.

1 of the 1,000 Pieces of Bullshit You May Have to Eat Before You Die

I was reading a wine column the other day and this guy wrote in for advice about a wine he found in his deceased uncle’s cellar, saying what year it was, which region, which grape and which vintner, and asking all worried like whether the wine expert thought it would be okay to drink. It sounded like he’d been pondering this for weeks if not months. The columnist replied with his well-considered opinion, as well as two book recommendations and some lore about the vineyard the wine came from. Jesus, I thought, what is wrong with you people? Yadda yadda.

Taste and see.

Death of the Marlboro Man

His wounds were sewn with smoke. His coma embraced the smell of suede and anise, cordwood, and all the stars stuck in tar. The prognosis was not good: one moment he’d look sound, the next he’d vaporize. The cowboys gathered round his bedside couldn’t know that just then he was having the sweetest dream; his stitches scarcely twitched to show it. Mist tangled the valley grasses. It nested in his beard and mustache; it permeated his pelt of hair, settling around him like ropes. Those old boys left the room, teary-eyed, switching off the overhead on the way out. From behind the curtain, the nurse spoke. “Let me tell you about my addiction,”she said, patting her book of matches, drying her hands on a side of beef.

Adverbsaries

Mr. Swayze was a balletically athletic actor who rose to stardom in the films “Dirty Dancing” and “Ghost,” and whose battle with pancreatic cancer drew wide attention. – NYT

Balletically? Is this a word? I guess it is now. But it’s a goofy word and I promise not to use it. I’m sure the French won’t touch it either. I’m with them. What’s really sad about this supposed word is you are now forced to pronounce the /t/. Ballet. This is wrong.

Are you balletically inclined? Balletically oriented? Balletically pathetic?

I asked my colleague Geoff if balletically is a word. He assured me balletic is a word, but that balletically is not. I didn’t want to believe it, but Webster’s backs him up on both counts. Another online dictionary acknowledges balletically. Either way, I agree with Geoff when he says: “The question is not whether it’s a word. The question is whether or not the NYT can’t express it less awkwardly.” Thank you, Geoff. (Who then sheepishly added, “I guess he had the time of his life,” and ran off.)

It’s no surprise that words morph, and what was a noun is suddenly a verb (I knifed him) and vice-versa (That’s a miss), which then becomes an adjective (The poem is wordy), then the adjective becomes an adverb (just add -ly), or an adjective becomes a noun (My bad!) and so on. The surprising thing in terms of balletically is this usually happens at the vernacular level through the speech of ordinary people. Who are not often discussing ballet.

excerpted

of cummings

wild trump of April, sudden parody of snow,
currency of faint cities, dangerous looseness of doom,
thin despair of violin, undream of anaesthetized impersons,
measureless cool flames of making, early flowers of all things,
bulge and nuzzle of the sea, picker of buttercups,
subliminal fern of her delicious voice, rubbish of human rind,
soft adventure of undoom, frown of the grave great sensual knees,
tiny hinge of flesh, long flower of unchastity, lump of twilight,
cadence of our grey flesh, dooms of love, dooms of feel,
peaceful theorems of the flowers, god of everlasting war,
tree of jubilee, cheerfulest goddamned sonofabitch,
chuckling rubbish of pearl weed coral and stones,
treasure of tiniest world, time of daffodils(who know,
genuine delusion of embryonic omnipotence, depths of guess,
cringing ecstacies of inexistence, whisper of a whisper,
strictly scientific parlourgame of real unreality,
sharp soft worms of spiraling, Big postmaster of the Art of Jigajag,
the top of notwithstanding, power of your intense fragility,
white eyes of elsewhere, dim deep sound of rain, broken odds of yes,
new england fragrance of pasture, lucky fifth of you,
virginal immediacy of precision, busted statues of your motheaten forum,
leaping greenly spirits of trees, nobel mercy of proportion,
all matterings of mind, echo of the flower of dreaming,
ghostly nevers of again, bliss of one small lady,
din of wallowing male, (children of)dirtpoor (popes

month of sundays

Saul Foarster is without a doubt one of the most important writers to emerge in the last decade. One of the most important writers working in English, I mean, in the decade that began in 2000. One of the most important writers in English in the decade that started in 2000 who is from the southwest. Specifically, from Mayes County, OK. Of the male writers from there. Hell, you can forget the “one of” – Foarster is the most important mustachioed male writer to emerge in the decade beginning in 2000 writing in English born on a Thursday in Mayes County, OK. In the science fiction genre, of course.

butta la pasta

In China I knew a guy who was a real foodie, meaning food was pretty much all he talked about. Somehow every conversation morphed into a monologue on broccoli, or parsley, or new things to do with peanut butter. Eventually people started cutting him off. You’d ask him what time it was and it was either breakfast or lunch time, or Peking duck season. I’m not one of those people who think cooking is a work of art, though it’s nice to have friends who do. Mostly I’d rather be doing something else. It’s a let-down to cook for 2-3 hours to have people finish eating in 10 minutes. Then the clean-up. To be honest, I’m not even that much into eating. But I do like looking at pictures of food in glossy cookbooks. It must be akin to what a teenage boy feels leafing through Playboy, and the objects of desire are just as unattainable. Mostly if I don’t have to feed anyone but myself I just take down the box of cornflakes and spread a handful out on the table. No bowl or anything, though I might wash it down with milk. From the carton. This saves doing dishes. I pick through the cornflakes, eating and browsing, searching for the jackpot piece that looks like Illinois.

I appear briefly on the balcony to curse the meadow

friday confession, on saturday

I really like the word dude. I know it reeks of creeps and is mostly a joke, and I never use it, but I think it is hysterical. I laugh just thinking about it. Sometimes when I'm down, I start pronouncing it all kinds of ways in my mind. I would like to use it aloud sometime, but I’m afraid. What if someone thought I was serious?! Sheesh, that would be that! Elsewhere, whenever I go to America I’m surprised how widespread the use of the word awesome is, at least among the under-40s, but also among some over-40s I know. I really don’t like the word awesome. I think it’s hyperbolic and kind of fake, like when you bite into a croissant and all these flakes go flying and you think, well, goodbye, I wasn’t destined to eat you. I guess it’s a generational thing. I have maybe once used awesome as a test. Which is more than I can say for dude. Other than that, I read something recently that said only middle-aged people (and older) use the expression “Jesus Christ!” I have to say I use that expression whenever I need it, but other than in movies I can’t recall any other living person saying it. I must be the oldest person left alive.

spamiasma

Your old watch is getting on your nerves? Get a new one.
Confirmation Confirmed!
You ruin your health
Naked Pamela complilation
We Provide Nice Choice Of Affordable Soft
Bigsize your device
Heard news about Andrew?
Quality narcotic support
Looks infernally, huh?
Satyr ardor dozed!
Exhausted of instant headaches?
Is Bush a rapist?
Your male strength will come back to you like a boomerang
Wow-arouse-maker for you
Change your look to more fashionable and become more popular
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eavesdropsy

I was practicing my eavesdropping today. It started at the doctor’s office where I went to get my tick vaccination. I was waiting to give the assistant my insurance card but she was on the phone with a woman whose period was one day late. Apparently the woman had forgotten to take the pill every day and with her period one day late she wanted an immediate appointment and pregnancy examination. This must have been a young woman. I felt kind of bad for her having her problem broadcast all over the doctor’s office, but she was of course anonymous. The assistant didn’t exactly generate any warmth, either. She treated her like a dumb cow. Why doesn’t Germany have a higher suicide rate, I sometimes wonder.

My second attempt was on the train. There was a boy of about 9 telling a girl that his cousin had been shot, shot to death, he stressed. He was talking pretty low so I didn’t catch the whole thing and I’d already moved as close as possible without being obvious. But I did find out the two guys who killed the cousin escaped. I also found out that the cousin’s great-grandfather also died, but that he was 100 years old. I found this way of winding up of the conversation - the "light note" - very sophisticated for a 9-year old.

I'm doing this eavesdropping for a prompt over at Read Write Poem. Don’t know if I’ll get a poem out of it, though, despite the decent material.

superbia

Two funny brunettes have birthdays today: Lily Tomlin and my dog Stella!

Stella's all of four today. I got her a huge bone that took at least an hour to chew through, working alone and all.

I don't know what Lily Tomlin got - surely something else.

In any case, she couldn't have been as excited as Stella, who was happily exhausted when it was all over.

Stella occasionally turns up in a poem. Although she can be a pain in the ass, in poems she usually appears as a force for good. Here's one in which she's the main figure rather than a supporting actress.

the next to last straw

I was sick of being myself so I went to the museum to soak up the old masters. The ceilings were high, the light diffuse and the temperature-test machines were ticking. There was a wonderful Ernst Ludwig Kirchner I wanted to get close to, one of his Fränzi paintings. The problem was the digital cameras. It’s not like the days where someone was taking a picture and you’d politely wait until they got the shot before passing in front of their lens. No. Now everyone is taking a picture of everything. And people are not just doing goofy imitations of sculptures, they’re also taking 12 photos of their girlfriend next to Fränzi. Folks, I don't have time for all this acquisitive art-loving. In trying to save my soul by staying out of everyone’s schlock photo, by the time I went home I was more myself than ever before. So much for that.

Figure, Disfiguring

The candle began as a simple tool, just wick and molded wax, but soon morphed into the ultimate object of contemplation. Long after the electric light and back-up generator, the candle was at work with new purpose. People saw themselves in the flame, the even burn that quickly turned to thrash and panic, the wax relinquishing its form, the good posture collapsing, sloughing off and going cold. Up sprouted candle shops, beeswax farmers, candle match makers, votives, floaters, tea lights, candelabras and menorahs. There were candles for birthdays and candles for the dead. There were candle-making kits for kids, candlelight dinners and Candlelight Drive in Glastonbury, CT. Everyone knows the fascination of fire, but it was more than that. It was a body, the supposedly sole abode, taking itself apart, a controlled experiment in transformation, self-contained, solid to liquid, and back again.

Lieber Vlad,

Our Siberian aupair’s year is up. It doesn’t matter: we tied him up in the attic and are keeping him as a slave. Just kidding. He’s bigger than all of us put together. Good old Dmitry. He’s still living with us, doing the Tuesday baked noodle dinner, dog-walking and channel-surfing while looking for a job that will help him avoid the suicidal Russian army. The first thing Dima needs is some money. So what’s the first thing he does? He signs up for exclusive membership at the local fitness club. 70 euros a month. No exit. He tried to explain that he has no income and his visa status is shaky so that free 2-month membership trial shouldn’t have been automatically extended. They didn’t care, just showed him his signature on the contract. I wonder if mandatory fitness club membership is a legitimate reason to be exempt from Russian military service. I could write to Mr. Putin and say Dima is a “required member” at the club. The Russian army is mean but these fitness club instructors are pretty heartless themselves.

cutlery

the spoon in the knife drawer
with its face punched in.

honey pie

I was writing a poem recently about pain, and the weird similes we reach for in trying to describe it. It didn’t go far because of my penchant for the gruesome. Nevertheless, I got wind of this book The Body in Pain, which I've just started reading. One of the first things the author notes is how we’re largely unable to describe pain without expressions like “as if” or “as though.” There are some adjectives used frequently, such as “searing,” “burning” or “throbbing,” but often we resort to constructions like “It was as though someone stuck a knife in my side and twisted it,” or “It was as if my head were in a vice.”

The Body in Pain also mentions pain scales used by doctors, the most famous being the McGill Index. But I found another related to insect bites from an entomologist named Justin O. Schmidt, which is vivid and whimsical. He rates the pain from insect bites from 1-4, 4 being the worst. It makes you almost want to get bitten. Here it is:

1.0 Sweat bee: Light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.
1.2 Fire ant: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet & reaching for the light switch.
1.8 Bullhorn acacia ant: A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.
2.0 Bald-faced hornet: Rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door.
2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W.C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.
2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.
3.0 Red harvester ant: Bold and unrelenting. Somebody is using a drill to excavate your ingrown toenail.
3.0 Paper wasp: Caustic & burning. Distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut.
4.0 Tarantula hawk: Blinding, fierce, shockingly electric. A running hair drier has been dropped into your bubble bath.
4.0+ Bullet ant: Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like fire-walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heel.