Friday, December 28, 2007
"Lick the roof of your mouth," she said.
He took too big of a sip - too big of a sip too quickly. The third factor leading to his gulp that swallowed him is that he doesn't often drink these and they're strong. Extreme. They are the type of refreshment only voracious individuals indulge in. And indulging in such risky liquid takes courage. Just a sip is like a quick dip into the low end; a straw suck is much different. When thirsty, when craving for the all-consuming swirl of its intoxicants, it is near impossible for such a man, a man with such curiosity, such passion, to not take much too much on the initial sip.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
STORY OF STUFF
with Annie Leonard> <-----click here for the exposé.
* When speaking as "we" in this post, I mean to speak of the average American. Of course everyone varies in terms of their degree of being part of the "we".
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The most prevalent problems in American society are interrelated:
- our economic cycle is linear in all the wrong ways.
- our social line of thinking is cyclical to the point of mindless sickness.
- our political power is in the hands of puppeteers and we are allowing ourselves to be the marionettes. We've attached ourselves to their strings by listening submissively.
Instead of creating a system of reproduction, we have a system of Production - Consumption - Disposal. The product is made, used and disposed of when a new product comes along to be consumed, used and disposed of. The problem is the disposal rarely contributes positively toward reproduction. Sure, we've all learned about our blue bins and bottle & can centers, but it is not anywhere near 100 percent and the flow of production - consumption - disposal surges so rampantly, it mostly just goes in ONE direction.
Instead of thinking linearly - rationally - toward an action worth executing, we think cyclically: Work - Watch - Buy. The mindset used for this cycle is ingrained and unchanging; we must Work more to Purchase more, and the ads in between propagate these inclinations by telling us we are not important unless we have more STUFF. We are being duped.
We need to switch: shift gears out of our cyclical ways of thinking and create more of a circular flow for our environment.
And it's not necessarily about EXTREME measures. No one expects EVERYONE in America to NEVER drive their cars to get to work faster, to STOP watching TV for entertainment, or to completely abandon shopping malls or those neat-o devices like I-pods and Wii games. What is expected is an UNDERSTANDING: we must begin to see the level of hypnosis we are under; we need to become conscious of consumer habits and the effects.
It's not just hip to be sustainable. It's not even necessarily hippie; if you consider people who hope for the best for our future to be hippies, than hippie I am.
It can be BETTER.
I consider myself more of a hope-y . . . or a hippo: a human being with hope, not despair. One definition for "hip" is: to be understanding, aware. - - - So, I'm a hopey hippo, not a hippie.
Let's get back to what Christmas is really all about: love, sharing, family, faith and happiness.
Merry Holidays! and let's keep this Christmas less red, more green!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Symmetrical and Systematic
Every December I come home to 16 fake poinsettias, consistently vacuum-patterned carpets, an orderly tree of ornaments (bulbs carefully placed so no colors are repeated within a foot of one another) and three cats sitting in an equilateral triangle.
This year the mantle goes (left to right, as easy as reading): one gold-bowed, green foiled, red leaf dipped-in-yellow-precious-metal poinsettia, two skinny evergreen trees, Christmas bowl, two red tapered candles, one gaudy gold poinsettia, one silver Christmas tree, poinsettia wreathe above santa-in-the-fireplace, one silver Christmas tree, one gaudy gold poinsettia, two skinny evergreen trees, a Christmas nutcracker, three metal cup trees, one gold-bowed, green foiled, red leaf dipped-in-yellow-precious-metal poinsettia. A fake skinny garland snakes through the things.
Mom skewed this year: there are three of something on one side and pairs on the other. She’s getting risky, drinking Carolan's on ice and mixing up the symmetry. But below the stocking is a stuffed Santa with two stuffed reindeer facing inward, with two poinsettias in similar baskets flanking them. Red and green everything, even the plaid couches, plus blue of course. We haven’t had a different colored Van since I was eight.
I wonder if she meant the pictures to the right of the deck door to be set up that way: Jackie, Meghann/Jackie picture, Meghann. I think, mathematically, methodically, symmetrically, and make-sensibly, it would look more mom-like with my senior picture on the left, then Meghann/Jackie, then Jackie. For one, my picture is looking off into the distant left. For two, having the girls flank their respective sides of the central photo would indicate which is which in the middle.
On the other side of the deck door, there is a block shelf chock full of San Francisco-esque houses - looks like the hill of Full House. Where a townhouse wouldn’t fit, mom placed a snowman, a lamppost or an evergreen tree. She hid the huge speakers for Patrick on the backside of the tree because it doesn’t look even with the DVD shaped scatter of all the other presents. There are holiday throw pillows with mistletoe and snowmen, button trees and suddenly, out of no where, dad’s blue bed pillow for comfort. I am surprised it wasn’t placed back in its place after last night’s movie time. Everything is always in its correct bin, Tupperwear, shelf, drawer or compartment. Laundry every day. Fudge in plastic tins and cookies in the freezer. Haystacks and trail mix. Plenty of milk and French Vanilla flavored coffee. This year, two bottles of Kahlua and Café mixer. Never much alcohol lying around, just coffee mixers. This year, we’re mixing it up.
Even carefully proportioned people and purposeful systems need a surprising element tossed in every now & again.
This year the mantle goes (left to right, as easy as reading): one gold-bowed, green foiled, red leaf dipped-in-yellow-precious-metal poinsettia, two skinny evergreen trees, Christmas bowl, two red tapered candles, one gaudy gold poinsettia, one silver Christmas tree, poinsettia wreathe above santa-in-the-fireplace, one silver Christmas tree, one gaudy gold poinsettia, two skinny evergreen trees, a Christmas nutcracker, three metal cup trees, one gold-bowed, green foiled, red leaf dipped-in-yellow-precious-metal poinsettia. A fake skinny garland snakes through the things.
Mom skewed this year: there are three of something on one side and pairs on the other. She’s getting risky, drinking Carolan's on ice and mixing up the symmetry. But below the stocking is a stuffed Santa with two stuffed reindeer facing inward, with two poinsettias in similar baskets flanking them. Red and green everything, even the plaid couches, plus blue of course. We haven’t had a different colored Van since I was eight.
I wonder if she meant the pictures to the right of the deck door to be set up that way: Jackie, Meghann/Jackie picture, Meghann. I think, mathematically, methodically, symmetrically, and make-sensibly, it would look more mom-like with my senior picture on the left, then Meghann/Jackie, then Jackie. For one, my picture is looking off into the distant left. For two, having the girls flank their respective sides of the central photo would indicate which is which in the middle.
On the other side of the deck door, there is a block shelf chock full of San Francisco-esque houses - looks like the hill of Full House. Where a townhouse wouldn’t fit, mom placed a snowman, a lamppost or an evergreen tree. She hid the huge speakers for Patrick on the backside of the tree because it doesn’t look even with the DVD shaped scatter of all the other presents. There are holiday throw pillows with mistletoe and snowmen, button trees and suddenly, out of no where, dad’s blue bed pillow for comfort. I am surprised it wasn’t placed back in its place after last night’s movie time. Everything is always in its correct bin, Tupperwear, shelf, drawer or compartment. Laundry every day. Fudge in plastic tins and cookies in the freezer. Haystacks and trail mix. Plenty of milk and French Vanilla flavored coffee. This year, two bottles of Kahlua and Café mixer. Never much alcohol lying around, just coffee mixers. This year, we’re mixing it up.
Even carefully proportioned people and purposeful systems need a surprising element tossed in every now & again.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Gollum Sentences.
Who's car is that?
Heidi's car is that.
Heidi purchased a new pseudo-Saab (Elantra 2005, in the new shiny 'hide-n-seek' black) and I nearly burnt it down with hot coals from our new Hookah.
I asked 'Who's car is that' and couldn't figure out why it sounded so cajun, or uneducated, or Gollum. Bill explained: "It's like saying "Bill's water is that." Very Gollum-esque.
Going to a Croc's Christmas bash tonight. If anyone is wearing those fluorescent foam sandals, I will personally heal them with my short dagger, tapered blade stilettos. Okay, so the shoes I'm wearing aren't that 'Kill Bill' hazardous, but it is a black and white (and red and green) event and I'm polishing up.
Also, we received a new refrigerator shipment this afternoon and Bill created a 'leftover' shelf. If nothing else, that shelf shows how warm our hearts are for unfinished food. We're leftover rescuers!
If you're looking for a thread to follow in this post, give up now.
Heidi's car is that.
Heidi purchased a new pseudo-Saab (Elantra 2005, in the new shiny 'hide-n-seek' black) and I nearly burnt it down with hot coals from our new Hookah.
I asked 'Who's car is that' and couldn't figure out why it sounded so cajun, or uneducated, or Gollum. Bill explained: "It's like saying "Bill's water is that." Very Gollum-esque.
Going to a Croc's Christmas bash tonight. If anyone is wearing those fluorescent foam sandals, I will personally heal them with my short dagger, tapered blade stilettos. Okay, so the shoes I'm wearing aren't that 'Kill Bill' hazardous, but it is a black and white (and red and green) event and I'm polishing up.
Also, we received a new refrigerator shipment this afternoon and Bill created a 'leftover' shelf. If nothing else, that shelf shows how warm our hearts are for unfinished food. We're leftover rescuers!
If you're looking for a thread to follow in this post, give up now.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Kerouac's New School for Comedians
Wed. 6:30-8 WM Burrough, "How to Play Horses"
Wed. 4:20-6 H Huncke, "WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU'RE BEAT"
Wed. 8:30-10 Joan Adams, "The Atomic Disease and Its Manifestations"
Thurs. 4:20-6 N Cassady, "How to Dig the Streets"
Thurs. 6:30-8 A Ginsberg, "Hungarian Politics"
Thurs 8:30-10 L Carr, "The Fair and Foul in Our World"
Fri 4:20-6 J Kerouac, "Riddles & Roses"
Fri 6:30-8 W Burroughs, "Semantic Confusion"
Fri 8:30-10 A Ginsberg "The Types and Meaning of Visions"
Mon 4:20-6 N Cassady, "Love, Sex, and the Soul"
Mon 6:30-8 H Huncke, "Modern Drugs"
Mon 8:30-10 Joan Adams, "The Meaning of the Veil"
Tues 4:20-6 L Carr, "The Appreciation of the Vale"
Tues 6:30-8 A Ginsberg, "Seminar: Poetry, Painting, Dead Eyes and the Unknown"
Tues 8:30-10 W Burroughs "The Immortal Bard"
Tues 8:30-10 N Cassady, "New Psychology, New Philosophy, New Mortality"
Wed 4:20-6 J Kerouac, "The Myth of the Rainy Night"
Coming Spring Semester...
H Huncke "Manifestations of Electrical Phenomenon in Texas and the Caribbean"
W Burroughs "Supernatural Elements in Horseplaying"
A Ginsberg "The Dolmen Realms"
N Cassady "The Green Tea Visions"
L Carr "Dolls and Pollywogs"
J Kerouac "The Holy Final Whirlwinds"
Joan Adams "Hints"
And a General Seminar and Chorus, conducted by Aldophus Asher Ghoulens, held each Friday Midnight in the Grotto of the moon, admission by application only to Monsieur H. Hex, 429 Hoax Street, Grampion Hills. Fee: --- Gifts, including (but not excluded to) Puppets, Roaches, Roses, Rainwater, Socks, Maps, Onions, Fingertips, Roast Beef, Confessions, and Frogs.
Requirements: Sixty points in elementary realization, largesse, comedown, sorrow, and truest love.
- -
That's the school, there the faculty, thus the courses. Could one learn there? Don't you think one could really learn there?
Wed. 4:20-6 H Huncke, "WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU'RE BEAT"
Wed. 8:30-10 Joan Adams, "The Atomic Disease and Its Manifestations"
Thurs. 4:20-6 N Cassady, "How to Dig the Streets"
Thurs. 6:30-8 A Ginsberg, "Hungarian Politics"
Thurs 8:30-10 L Carr, "The Fair and Foul in Our World"
Fri 4:20-6 J Kerouac, "Riddles & Roses"
Fri 6:30-8 W Burroughs, "Semantic Confusion"
Fri 8:30-10 A Ginsberg "The Types and Meaning of Visions"
Mon 4:20-6 N Cassady, "Love, Sex, and the Soul"
Mon 6:30-8 H Huncke, "Modern Drugs"
Mon 8:30-10 Joan Adams, "The Meaning of the Veil"
Tues 4:20-6 L Carr, "The Appreciation of the Vale"
Tues 6:30-8 A Ginsberg, "Seminar: Poetry, Painting, Dead Eyes and the Unknown"
Tues 8:30-10 W Burroughs "The Immortal Bard"
Tues 8:30-10 N Cassady, "New Psychology, New Philosophy, New Mortality"
Wed 4:20-6 J Kerouac, "The Myth of the Rainy Night"
Coming Spring Semester...
H Huncke "Manifestations of Electrical Phenomenon in Texas and the Caribbean"
W Burroughs "Supernatural Elements in Horseplaying"
A Ginsberg "The Dolmen Realms"
N Cassady "The Green Tea Visions"
L Carr "Dolls and Pollywogs"
J Kerouac "The Holy Final Whirlwinds"
Joan Adams "Hints"
And a General Seminar and Chorus, conducted by Aldophus Asher Ghoulens, held each Friday Midnight in the Grotto of the moon, admission by application only to Monsieur H. Hex, 429 Hoax Street, Grampion Hills. Fee: --- Gifts, including (but not excluded to) Puppets, Roaches, Roses, Rainwater, Socks, Maps, Onions, Fingertips, Roast Beef, Confessions, and Frogs.
Requirements: Sixty points in elementary realization, largesse, comedown, sorrow, and truest love.
- -
That's the school, there the faculty, thus the courses. Could one learn there? Don't you think one could really learn there?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
On Addiction:
Once I blog once in an uneventful, unstressful night, I blog twice. Then thrice. Who knows how many more will follow.
Here's a quotation on addiction said by my legendary professor: Bobbie Louise Hawkins:
"I think reading is an addiction. Writing is like a secondary addiction. You realize if you're going to be an addict, you might as well be your own supplier."
...and since we're already here and quoting my most quotable professor, I will slap a few more into the cyber-world.
"Women who are attracted to Narcissistic men do it to have space."
"What kind of hooker has a bum hip?"
"Republicans love celebrities - why? - well, because they want them to read the lines right."
"I'd like to suggest that solutions aren't necessarily the best thing that can happen. Putting a nail through something isn't going to fix your future."
"And flopping around is often where it's at - you flop around until you find yourself at a place you didn't expect. As DH Lawerence once said: 'My characters slog along and slog along and then they blossom like little cabbages!'"
"Go with it that you don't have a chance in hell but to change constantly."
"The ideal is like a grey cloud hovering over what actually is. And it makes 'what is' look inadequate and even though the ideal extends itself as unattainable, you continue to vote for it to show that you have standards."
"Rhetoric will not let a new thing happen."
"Pieces like this run the risk of becoming confetti."
Everyone should meet BLHawkins.
Here's a quotation on addiction said by my legendary professor: Bobbie Louise Hawkins:
"I think reading is an addiction. Writing is like a secondary addiction. You realize if you're going to be an addict, you might as well be your own supplier."
...and since we're already here and quoting my most quotable professor, I will slap a few more into the cyber-world.
"Women who are attracted to Narcissistic men do it to have space."
"What kind of hooker has a bum hip?"
"Republicans love celebrities - why? - well, because they want them to read the lines right."
"I'd like to suggest that solutions aren't necessarily the best thing that can happen. Putting a nail through something isn't going to fix your future."
"And flopping around is often where it's at - you flop around until you find yourself at a place you didn't expect. As DH Lawerence once said: 'My characters slog along and slog along and then they blossom like little cabbages!'"
"Go with it that you don't have a chance in hell but to change constantly."
"The ideal is like a grey cloud hovering over what actually is. And it makes 'what is' look inadequate and even though the ideal extends itself as unattainable, you continue to vote for it to show that you have standards."
"Rhetoric will not let a new thing happen."
"Pieces like this run the risk of becoming confetti."
Everyone should meet BLHawkins.
The things we come across...
While researching far and wide across the vast internet for a job or grant or fellowship or future for myself, I wonderfully stumbled upon this FREE ad on craigslist:
Free: comfortable, sturdy, but ugly couch/sofabed
Reply to: sale-490507887@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-11-26, 7:28PM MST
Yours simply for the labor of hauling it away, one very comfortable and sturdy sofa, expands to a double bed for those too-many-friends-suddenly-comatose occasions. When not extended into bed form, highly suitable for many an afternoon whiled away with books and/or audiovisual entertainment, not to mention a favored location for lazy-Sunday naps. Due almost entirely to the aforementioned comfort factor, this was one of the few furniture pieces that we decided was worth hauling across the country when we moved here from Massachusetts in 2004, despite its aesthetic shortcomings (see below) and possible alternate usage as battleship ballast.
Only hitch: according to a local expert (full disclosure: said expert is related to me by marriage) the upholstery on this couch, while admittedly robust and in generally good shape without stains or much wear, is certifiably "BUTT-ugly!" (emphasis hers) to such a degree that the camera may have suffered an electronic aneurism when a photograph was attempted with the pattern completely exposed. (I have not yet looked up the resultant error code on Canon's site, but I am assured by the aforementioned expert that "CF card full" is an arcane digital-imagery message that really means "That is such a butt-ugly couch that I refuse to sully my CCD sensors or display panel with its image.") Luckily we'd managed several other pictures by that point with the butt-ugliness only partially exposed; see attached.
In consideration of the opprobrium you will likely face when you present it to YOUR discerning housemate(s), spouse, or significant other, perhaps even while uttering something like the following perfectly understandable but in retrospect somewhat ill-chosen words:
"Look what a great couch I found for practically nothing!"
...in consideration and mitigation of that awkward moment, I say, for the paltry sum of $20 I am also willing to part with the patented Butt-Ugliness Concealment Device (BUCD, a.k.a. "slipcover") with which the couch is currently equipped, depicted in the attached images. This particular BUCD is constructed of heavy-duty chenille in a sage-green color. (The prospective purchaser with delusions of aesthetic sufficiency may be interested to know for purposes of comparison that the print visible above the couch in the attached images is of Stephen Linhart's "Gaze", http://www.stephen.com/portfolio/9.html)
Not included: the mysterious BUCD accessories visible in some pictures. These sinister objects are sometimes referred to as "throw pillows;" this confusing nomenclature persists despite the cries of horrified consternation that inevitably result if one is so incautious as to contemplate actual throwing. Their true purpose remains steadfastly unknown to this researcher.
Couch dimensions:
width: 70" at widest point (arm to arm)
depth: 36" (90" in bed-mode)
height: 30" at middle of backrest (highest point.)
weight: unmeasured but significant. Bring a friend or three.
Provenance and, ah, pet peeves: couch was previously owned by a family with dogs. We steam-cleaned it repeatedly after acquiring it, and no trace of doggy odor or hair remains apparent to our senses, but persons with allergies may wish to take this history into account. In much the same vein, full disclosure demands mention of the fact that we are possessed by two cats who regularly avail themselves of the sofa's previously-noted afternoon-nap advantages; while they are not inclined to shed more than your average indoor feline -- and while we often vacuum and occasionally launder the BUCD -- persons with especial sensitivity may not be interested in taking the chance.
Note: Butt-Ugliness Concealment Device ("slipcover") does not function with 100% efficacy when item is configured in bed-mode; some Butt-Ugliness may be apparent to the perspicacious observer and/or your snooty parent-in-law who does not consider thrift to be a virtue and was looking for a reason to sniff disapprovingly anyway. On no account will the poster be held liable for incidental damages arising from failure of the BUC Device to prevent thinly-veiled speculations as to the purchaser's design sense, color sense, sanity, intelligence, or lack of any/all of the preceding.
Free: comfortable, sturdy, but ugly couch/sofabed
Reply to: sale-490507887@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-11-26, 7:28PM MST
Yours simply for the labor of hauling it away, one very comfortable and sturdy sofa, expands to a double bed for those too-many-friends-suddenly-comatose occasions. When not extended into bed form, highly suitable for many an afternoon whiled away with books and/or audiovisual entertainment, not to mention a favored location for lazy-Sunday naps. Due almost entirely to the aforementioned comfort factor, this was one of the few furniture pieces that we decided was worth hauling across the country when we moved here from Massachusetts in 2004, despite its aesthetic shortcomings (see below) and possible alternate usage as battleship ballast.
Only hitch: according to a local expert (full disclosure: said expert is related to me by marriage) the upholstery on this couch, while admittedly robust and in generally good shape without stains or much wear, is certifiably "BUTT-ugly!" (emphasis hers) to such a degree that the camera may have suffered an electronic aneurism when a photograph was attempted with the pattern completely exposed. (I have not yet looked up the resultant error code on Canon's site, but I am assured by the aforementioned expert that "CF card full" is an arcane digital-imagery message that really means "That is such a butt-ugly couch that I refuse to sully my CCD sensors or display panel with its image.") Luckily we'd managed several other pictures by that point with the butt-ugliness only partially exposed; see attached.
In consideration of the opprobrium you will likely face when you present it to YOUR discerning housemate(s), spouse, or significant other, perhaps even while uttering something like the following perfectly understandable but in retrospect somewhat ill-chosen words:
"Look what a great couch I found for practically nothing!"
...in consideration and mitigation of that awkward moment, I say, for the paltry sum of $20 I am also willing to part with the patented Butt-Ugliness Concealment Device (BUCD, a.k.a. "slipcover") with which the couch is currently equipped, depicted in the attached images. This particular BUCD is constructed of heavy-duty chenille in a sage-green color. (The prospective purchaser with delusions of aesthetic sufficiency may be interested to know for purposes of comparison that the print visible above the couch in the attached images is of Stephen Linhart's "Gaze", http://www.stephen.com/portfolio/9.html)
Not included: the mysterious BUCD accessories visible in some pictures. These sinister objects are sometimes referred to as "throw pillows;" this confusing nomenclature persists despite the cries of horrified consternation that inevitably result if one is so incautious as to contemplate actual throwing. Their true purpose remains steadfastly unknown to this researcher.
Couch dimensions:
width: 70" at widest point (arm to arm)
depth: 36" (90" in bed-mode)
height: 30" at middle of backrest (highest point.)
weight: unmeasured but significant. Bring a friend or three.
Provenance and, ah, pet peeves: couch was previously owned by a family with dogs. We steam-cleaned it repeatedly after acquiring it, and no trace of doggy odor or hair remains apparent to our senses, but persons with allergies may wish to take this history into account. In much the same vein, full disclosure demands mention of the fact that we are possessed by two cats who regularly avail themselves of the sofa's previously-noted afternoon-nap advantages; while they are not inclined to shed more than your average indoor feline -- and while we often vacuum and occasionally launder the BUCD -- persons with especial sensitivity may not be interested in taking the chance.
Note: Butt-Ugliness Concealment Device ("slipcover") does not function with 100% efficacy when item is configured in bed-mode; some Butt-Ugliness may be apparent to the perspicacious observer and/or your snooty parent-in-law who does not consider thrift to be a virtue and was looking for a reason to sniff disapprovingly anyway. On no account will the poster be held liable for incidental damages arising from failure of the BUC Device to prevent thinly-veiled speculations as to the purchaser's design sense, color sense, sanity, intelligence, or lack of any/all of the preceding.
Monday, November 26, 2007
WinterPark Thanksgiving
Winter Park Mountainline
Snowboarding Cocoa stop
Jeanie and Gans-look-alike friend Melissa
Our goodbye note to Nancy and Bill... a thank you even though we didn't get Banana Bread
Cruisin' Town
Empire, CO.
Christoph and Buddy
This was in the men's room at our Burger joint. We lived by this motto all weekend. Board games, beer and eating!
A reflection off the deck doors of our burger joint...
This is Wilbur... he chewed off all his feathers after a nervous breakdown. Though cold, he seemed happy enough.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Ophirs!
Yes, we went 0-17 for the season in frisbee. I think we doomed ourselves when we changed our team name nearly weekly. For the tournament we named ourselves the Ophirs to stand for Oh-and-fifteen on the season. We condemned ourselves!
But it was fun all along anyhow. Love you pumpkins afternoon delight random strangers!
But it was fun all along anyhow. Love you pumpkins afternoon delight random strangers!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
It can be a bit maddening, having an irrational passion for something.
I think in terms of literary devices. Speak to strangers with subtle allusions & abstract references. Listen with rhetorical critique & I love in spontaneous snippets.
I can't ride my bike by a passing wind without mentally scrawling a haiku. I thought about good words to use in sestinas all day. I sometimes convince myself the entire world and everyone in it is living the epic poem; each action, a line in the verse of day.
Lately, it has been elegiac glasses fused to my visage; I'm not sure how to remove them. I can't convince myself that it's best for me to try.
It's a blurry focus to live in - a nebulous cloud of questions, constantly seeking epiphanies and explanations.
Now I know why Nietzsche went mad.
I can't ride my bike by a passing wind without mentally scrawling a haiku. I thought about good words to use in sestinas all day. I sometimes convince myself the entire world and everyone in it is living the epic poem; each action, a line in the verse of day.
Lately, it has been elegiac glasses fused to my visage; I'm not sure how to remove them. I can't convince myself that it's best for me to try.
It's a blurry focus to live in - a nebulous cloud of questions, constantly seeking epiphanies and explanations.
Now I know why Nietzsche went mad.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Better to have lived and died than to never have been born at all.
I am glad you were born - despite the rifts we've come across over the past four years.
H.B. frog.
H.B. frog.
Reminders against worrying
Do not round down.
Rewrite, edit, pare down.
Hug.
Don't grind your teeth over it.
Sing outloud on bike but watch for stop signs.
Hug, again.
Hang out with someone who makes you productive but often distracts and helps procrastinate.
Never be late; be just enough on time.
Rewrite, edit, pare down.
Hug.
Don't grind your teeth over it.
Sing outloud on bike but watch for stop signs.
Hug, again.
Hang out with someone who makes you productive but often distracts and helps procrastinate.
Never be late; be just enough on time.
Kerouac Chorus Response # 17
Keep a coffin nearby,
collect every tear
in it.
Then, I guess, first
you should line your
coffin
w/saran wrap
so as not to spill
or allow seepage
A coffin doesn't kill -
it collects.
Just as a gun doesn't murder -
it's the messenger.
collect every tear
in it.
Then, I guess, first
you should line your
coffin
w/saran wrap
so as not to spill
or allow seepage
A coffin doesn't kill -
it collects.
Just as a gun doesn't murder -
it's the messenger.
Friday, November 09, 2007
For those of you who know me...
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/04/education/edlife/naropa.html?_r=2&oref=slogin&oref=slogin
I go to Naropa. I study poetry in a Buddhist setting. I am a florist.
Last semester I took a course in Ikebana: the way of Japanese flower arrangement. I was reading through an old notebook and found a few things that re-inspired me:
"Why don't you live that question? Let it work on you in life and let the answer bloom."
in acknowledgement of shifting, impermanence: "The pain is then part of the happiness."
"The crescent moon is still a full moon." Even if it's just a glimpse, it is still a full moment.
Live your questions - answers are eternally evolving. Everything is transient. Appreciate a moment for what it is.
I go to Naropa. I study poetry in a Buddhist setting. I am a florist.
Last semester I took a course in Ikebana: the way of Japanese flower arrangement. I was reading through an old notebook and found a few things that re-inspired me:
"Why don't you live that question? Let it work on you in life and let the answer bloom."
in acknowledgement of shifting, impermanence: "The pain is then part of the happiness."
"The crescent moon is still a full moon." Even if it's just a glimpse, it is still a full moment.
Live your questions - answers are eternally evolving. Everything is transient. Appreciate a moment for what it is.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Gregory Corso:
"You can't tell anyone anything they don't already know - people's heads are just dark and you gotta light em up. In a sense, we were illuminators!"
Night off.
What's a night off?
For me, it generally occurs between 6:30pm and 11:00pm. It is a time when nothing must occur.
Tonight was a night off for me. We (meaning George and I) sat at the kitchen table and wrote and googled and giggled and drank wine, ate brie, probably annoyed people around us, but we just were. Now, this may sound hippie, but we literally were just BEING what we ARE. We just were.
And it felt good - to have a night like this. I felt like I haven't had it in a while. I feel like this is what I am looking forward to for Thanksgiving: a time to just BE. I'm most excited that we'll have video cameras to DOCUMENT it!
Thank you for the Goulash, George. The garbanzo beans went so well with the cologen, paprika and bay leaves.
For me, it generally occurs between 6:30pm and 11:00pm. It is a time when nothing must occur.
Tonight was a night off for me. We (meaning George and I) sat at the kitchen table and wrote and googled and giggled and drank wine, ate brie, probably annoyed people around us, but we just were. Now, this may sound hippie, but we literally were just BEING what we ARE. We just were.
And it felt good - to have a night like this. I felt like I haven't had it in a while. I feel like this is what I am looking forward to for Thanksgiving: a time to just BE. I'm most excited that we'll have video cameras to DOCUMENT it!
Thank you for the Goulash, George. The garbanzo beans went so well with the cologen, paprika and bay leaves.
Monday, November 05, 2007
unknown
How your words winnow in my head
I hate
that I cannot display the
ideas
of why you make me elate
why space
can make me smirk -
the edges between city skyline buildings
straight.
Can't there be more than one beauty
catches eye
I can't synopsize why he, why me
and think only we
'what's the bug with wood of a relationship'
I deposit this thought in the
comment box
that he never checks
what prompts
the line breaks?
What's the sp ace
mean?
Is it different in font or form on a subway car -
Question lapse like the moon eclipse
dawn of a morning star
sometimes cannot be seen because of
taller trees or
hover clouds
Either way, it's there, behind and
it's above you, too
and we are both below
tucked in the cellar bed
I hate
that I cannot display the
ideas
of why you make me elate
why space
can make me smirk -
the edges between city skyline buildings
straight.
Can't there be more than one beauty
catches eye
I can't synopsize why he, why me
and think only we
'what's the bug with wood of a relationship'
I deposit this thought in the
comment box
that he never checks
what prompts
the line breaks?
What's the sp ace
mean?
Is it different in font or form on a subway car -
Question lapse like the moon eclipse
dawn of a morning star
sometimes cannot be seen because of
taller trees or
hover clouds
Either way, it's there, behind and
it's above you, too
and we are both below
tucked in the cellar bed
Friday, November 02, 2007
don't eat the quiche
"Why did we need to know about that?"
Why? Because history teaches us things. We can listen and be open to others' experiences and learn from them as if we had experienced it for ourselves.
Don't eat the quiche at The Cup. Do not eat the chicken at the Hungry Toad. Do not microwave Chef Boyardee with the cap on. Do not climb armoires.
* * * I wish I had know about Ettore Boiardi earlier; I would have written my Italian-Americans final paper on him. Damn.
Why? Because history teaches us things. We can listen and be open to others' experiences and learn from them as if we had experienced it for ourselves.
Don't eat the quiche at The Cup. Do not eat the chicken at the Hungry Toad. Do not microwave Chef Boyardee with the cap on. Do not climb armoires.
* * * I wish I had know about Ettore Boiardi earlier; I would have written my Italian-Americans final paper on him. Damn.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wu Wei
I watched her roll along slowly, not more than 5 feet in front of me. She was on her cell phone. Something must've gotten caught cause her front tire halted to a stop and her back tire flipped over her like a headbang. She crumpled and curled next to the handlebars on the curve at Goss and astonishingly enough stayed on her cell phone the entire time. She whimpered "Fuck fuck fuck, are you still there? I'll have to call you back, fuck" and hung up and held her head with her right hand. I asked if she was okay, if she needed anything and I think she just needed a second to catch reality - to realize what just happened. She hunched over herself silent and finally looked up and said "I'm fine - fine. Don't worry" but I wanted to tell her that, not to worry. It would probably be a moment that would fix her in the end as it had Jeanie. Jeanie bumped her knee in a faultless bike tip months before and subsequently realized Boulder was not for her.
Was it the accident that illuminated this fact for her? No - it was the string of events that followed. But her knee is better and she is better and none of us did anything to help her realize it.
Nothing was done and everything changed.
Was it the accident that illuminated this fact for her? No - it was the string of events that followed. But her knee is better and she is better and none of us did anything to help her realize it.
Nothing was done and everything changed.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I tricked the Myspace Sponsored Links!
'Sponsored Links'
Wholesale Used Forklifts
Forklift City - Home to Good Values All Makes & Models Buy Sell Trade
www.forkliftcity.netFind Forklift
Directory of Mfrs of Forklifts Find Products, Services & Resources
www.business.comDoosan Forklifts
New Name Of Daewoo Doosan Infracore Reliable Partner, Quality Product
www.doosanlift.comForklift
Don't Bother Looking Anymore. We Have Your Part In Stock.
www.formsite.com/EZPartFinder
(I like the last one the best...DON'T BOTHER LOOKING ANYMORE! ... sounds like an infomercial for forklifts)
Wholesale Used Forklifts
Forklift City - Home to Good Values All Makes & Models Buy Sell Trade
www.forkliftcity.netFind Forklift
Directory of Mfrs of Forklifts Find Products, Services & Resources
www.business.comDoosan Forklifts
New Name Of Daewoo Doosan Infracore Reliable Partner, Quality Product
www.doosanlift.comForklift
Don't Bother Looking Anymore. We Have Your Part In Stock.
www.formsite.com/EZPartFinder
(I like the last one the best...DON'T BOTHER LOOKING ANYMORE! ... sounds like an infomercial for forklifts)
Friday, October 26, 2007
Shifted. Now I notice different things.
I propped all my blankets and pillows (2 and 2, respectively) up against the north wall of my bedroom. This was to gain propper alignment for long night ahead of reading Desolation Angels.
I read 8 pages and remembered "George!" Three telephone conversations later he was over at my house sitting diagonally from me on the velour orange couch. In the background Pete and his Grateful Grass Band were practicing "Scarlet Begonias" "Eyes of the World" and "Bird Song" for their weekend performances.
George and I decided to read to one another. We read Deb Olin Unferth and David Eggers' short stories. Deb likes tongue twisters, double negatives, insanity and confusion. David Eggers likes playing on the element of surprise and pretending animals can articulate their thoughts, and that they have thoughts - intricate ones. We read about six stories each. My favorite story was the one about the spice rack and how the owners of the spice rack were such capitalists.
I decided to sleep with my head where my feet usually are and my feet where my head usually is tonight. I have been having very vivid, exciting dreams (especially in between snoozes) and I want to see where this position will take me. I had really funky dreams in my sister's boyfriend's bed last week. That sounds scandalous but she was between us. Not one of us snores.
I read 8 pages and remembered "George!" Three telephone conversations later he was over at my house sitting diagonally from me on the velour orange couch. In the background Pete and his Grateful Grass Band were practicing "Scarlet Begonias" "Eyes of the World" and "Bird Song" for their weekend performances.
George and I decided to read to one another. We read Deb Olin Unferth and David Eggers' short stories. Deb likes tongue twisters, double negatives, insanity and confusion. David Eggers likes playing on the element of surprise and pretending animals can articulate their thoughts, and that they have thoughts - intricate ones. We read about six stories each. My favorite story was the one about the spice rack and how the owners of the spice rack were such capitalists.
I decided to sleep with my head where my feet usually are and my feet where my head usually is tonight. I have been having very vivid, exciting dreams (especially in between snoozes) and I want to see where this position will take me. I had really funky dreams in my sister's boyfriend's bed last week. That sounds scandalous but she was between us. Not one of us snores.
Monday, October 15, 2007
what do you want to be?
I want to be a proselytizer for poetry. Poetry meaning intensity of expression, meaning rhythm, beauty, creation. I do not mean to say that everyone should WRITE poems, but everyone should LIVE poetry. Live through expression, a pulsing feeling constantly reeling through the brain, moving us. What is the world without splendor and conveying it?
I am confused by the caustic reaction the word POETRY receives. Why?
We need a redefinition.
I am confused by the caustic reaction the word POETRY receives. Why?
We need a redefinition.
The Average Length of a Dream
I once asked her what takes her so long in the shower. I imagined her preening over each and every dread, slowly soaping and lathering to the root each ophidian extension, then the gradual ritualistic rinse.
“I was reading Heidi’s shampoo bottle. There was a trivia question on the back. What is the average length of a dream, it said.” Without even giving me a second to consider an answer, she continued: “The answer was on the Conditioner bottle: 3 seconds. Do you think that’s cause of people like me – the ones who never dream?”
She never gave anyone any time to reply to her questions. Nearly every question she ever asked was rhetorical. She didn’t call upon others to figure things out for her; she’d answer them herself or live with not knowing. She hated the movie “Everything is Illuminated” but loved the book.
It didn’t surprise me that she doesn’t dream. I asked her if she would sit in front of me on the couch, let me resurrect all my thoughts and impressions of her as she read through her letters from friends back in New Paltz. She said, “Whatever” with a whimsical intonation.
The frailer hair snaps in the sun. Breaks sewn together with beige thread and hidden by glass beads and beeswax goo. Everytime the top frizzes, she envelops it with oversized knitted purple hat.
Cleaning dishes, she smiles and her eyes widen like an owl on watch. She gets mad that we never notice her notes, attached to the hanging fruit bowl above the sink.
Her movements are slow and controlled – deliberate, every step.
Thin face, crisp apple shaped, sunk under the eyes and bruised colored (maybe lack of meat? She needs protein.) Pale with an oriental touch; maybe just her demeanor.
She eats kale, conji, rice pilaf and squash, sometimes Earth Balance butter, on a glutton-free waffle just to have a palette. Her actual palette (paint and texture glue) has mounds of one-toned hues as if she never mixed a tube in her life. The kind who keeps peas from her potatoes on her dinner plate. Once thought the cleaning juice from mopping the kitchen tiles caused her violent weekend sickness, dry-heaving and tired on the orange velour sofa, yet still lighting up her oney twice an hour.
Keeps her weed in an artichoke jar in the drawer below the fish tank. Says “Call me!” instead of “yes” for affirmation. She’ll hug you when she sees you if she loves you. But selective as she is, she lets an old enemy cuddle up sometimes on a lonely Saturday night. I bet her eyebrows look like art from close up; thin curves of eyelash hair, contradicting dreads. I image them to be as the punk cabaret chick from the Dresden Dolls: all scrawl and secrecy behind.
She is simple and does not live her life in comparison with others. She is not more or less of anything than any of us, just who she is and content. Content in a not stressed sort of way.
She’s reading up on Narcissism and narcolepsy lately. Wonder if she flips through the encyclopedias and points and masters, slowly over the years.
Getting into Kirtan and crock pots, getting out of afghan-over-the-legs in a rocking chair pulp novels and into lost in the back of the bookstore obscures.
A gardener, a hummer, an upright bike rider, a half way up the mountain stroller, a grandma jogger, a Blanding Utah ukulele playing folk singer, kiwi masseuse who hates getting massages. She believes in Bikhram. She’s pierced in places mother would rather not know about. She’s cold, always cold – her hands, feet, neck… any appendage open to air holds an epidermal chill so she keeps a stock of scarves, gloves, socks and sweaters in her handmade satchel with a variety of buttons and patterns. Hates to drive but doesn’t mind stick shift Datsuns spotted with rust.
Tiny, holy body, clad in organic purple, browns and tans. She calls her rims “mauve, not purple, mauve” and only wears them later at night under the dull ghost lamp that sporadically clicks and shuts off. Brings home fresh basil and raspberries. Bakes apple crisp with sugared pecans and pot chocolate brownies. Cooks anything tempe. She enjoys the over-kill on chocolate in New York Super Fudge, hates the white planks. Her cat, Isis, likes ice cream just as much as comfort food on a weekday. Isis is 7, overweight with a tumor in her tail and never been to the vet. She believes in Reiki and a mental capacity to heal and implements this on her cat. She hates being touched. Believes in a previous life she was speared diagonally through her chest and the pain stays at the exit point. Says she was the ice man. Now she’s so sensitive to it, hates touch all over.
Her small rock waterfall trickles through the tympanum hallways of the house, nag champa in a similar fashion, stuck in corners of the kitchen and living room.
Says she’s a yoga instructor and I’ve seen her matt and pilates ball but never seen her stretch once or pose. Recently quit being a vegetarian after 13 years. Ate a junk burger and puked it up the next morning. Reverted back to conji and coffee, water and squash bean burritos.
Hangs her laundry on a line in the basement instead of using the ‘heat machine’, as she called it once when speaking of her scare that Isis might get caught in it while it is on. Hates winter, snow and ice. Loves tamales and men in overalls. She’s in love with a married man who used to be a florist, now a drummer in a reggae band. He lives in New York City and she hates cities. Hates any place permanent. Wants to move back to New Zealand, chant all day, sleep in late and stretch, she says.
“I was reading Heidi’s shampoo bottle. There was a trivia question on the back. What is the average length of a dream, it said.” Without even giving me a second to consider an answer, she continued: “The answer was on the Conditioner bottle: 3 seconds. Do you think that’s cause of people like me – the ones who never dream?”
She never gave anyone any time to reply to her questions. Nearly every question she ever asked was rhetorical. She didn’t call upon others to figure things out for her; she’d answer them herself or live with not knowing. She hated the movie “Everything is Illuminated” but loved the book.
It didn’t surprise me that she doesn’t dream. I asked her if she would sit in front of me on the couch, let me resurrect all my thoughts and impressions of her as she read through her letters from friends back in New Paltz. She said, “Whatever” with a whimsical intonation.
The frailer hair snaps in the sun. Breaks sewn together with beige thread and hidden by glass beads and beeswax goo. Everytime the top frizzes, she envelops it with oversized knitted purple hat.
Cleaning dishes, she smiles and her eyes widen like an owl on watch. She gets mad that we never notice her notes, attached to the hanging fruit bowl above the sink.
Her movements are slow and controlled – deliberate, every step.
Thin face, crisp apple shaped, sunk under the eyes and bruised colored (maybe lack of meat? She needs protein.) Pale with an oriental touch; maybe just her demeanor.
She eats kale, conji, rice pilaf and squash, sometimes Earth Balance butter, on a glutton-free waffle just to have a palette. Her actual palette (paint and texture glue) has mounds of one-toned hues as if she never mixed a tube in her life. The kind who keeps peas from her potatoes on her dinner plate. Once thought the cleaning juice from mopping the kitchen tiles caused her violent weekend sickness, dry-heaving and tired on the orange velour sofa, yet still lighting up her oney twice an hour.
Keeps her weed in an artichoke jar in the drawer below the fish tank. Says “Call me!” instead of “yes” for affirmation. She’ll hug you when she sees you if she loves you. But selective as she is, she lets an old enemy cuddle up sometimes on a lonely Saturday night. I bet her eyebrows look like art from close up; thin curves of eyelash hair, contradicting dreads. I image them to be as the punk cabaret chick from the Dresden Dolls: all scrawl and secrecy behind.
She is simple and does not live her life in comparison with others. She is not more or less of anything than any of us, just who she is and content. Content in a not stressed sort of way.
She’s reading up on Narcissism and narcolepsy lately. Wonder if she flips through the encyclopedias and points and masters, slowly over the years.
Getting into Kirtan and crock pots, getting out of afghan-over-the-legs in a rocking chair pulp novels and into lost in the back of the bookstore obscures.
A gardener, a hummer, an upright bike rider, a half way up the mountain stroller, a grandma jogger, a Blanding Utah ukulele playing folk singer, kiwi masseuse who hates getting massages. She believes in Bikhram. She’s pierced in places mother would rather not know about. She’s cold, always cold – her hands, feet, neck… any appendage open to air holds an epidermal chill so she keeps a stock of scarves, gloves, socks and sweaters in her handmade satchel with a variety of buttons and patterns. Hates to drive but doesn’t mind stick shift Datsuns spotted with rust.
Tiny, holy body, clad in organic purple, browns and tans. She calls her rims “mauve, not purple, mauve” and only wears them later at night under the dull ghost lamp that sporadically clicks and shuts off. Brings home fresh basil and raspberries. Bakes apple crisp with sugared pecans and pot chocolate brownies. Cooks anything tempe. She enjoys the over-kill on chocolate in New York Super Fudge, hates the white planks. Her cat, Isis, likes ice cream just as much as comfort food on a weekday. Isis is 7, overweight with a tumor in her tail and never been to the vet. She believes in Reiki and a mental capacity to heal and implements this on her cat. She hates being touched. Believes in a previous life she was speared diagonally through her chest and the pain stays at the exit point. Says she was the ice man. Now she’s so sensitive to it, hates touch all over.
Her small rock waterfall trickles through the tympanum hallways of the house, nag champa in a similar fashion, stuck in corners of the kitchen and living room.
Says she’s a yoga instructor and I’ve seen her matt and pilates ball but never seen her stretch once or pose. Recently quit being a vegetarian after 13 years. Ate a junk burger and puked it up the next morning. Reverted back to conji and coffee, water and squash bean burritos.
Hangs her laundry on a line in the basement instead of using the ‘heat machine’, as she called it once when speaking of her scare that Isis might get caught in it while it is on. Hates winter, snow and ice. Loves tamales and men in overalls. She’s in love with a married man who used to be a florist, now a drummer in a reggae band. He lives in New York City and she hates cities. Hates any place permanent. Wants to move back to New Zealand, chant all day, sleep in late and stretch, she says.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
for kyle, who will never read this
It's as if I am searching for something I’d hidden from myself: closet doors sprawled, desk drawers gawking, mocking my loss.
You wrote a letter to me in 2001, in your smudged black pen – barely legible handwriting. It isn’t about what it said, it’s about what it meant. You sealed it in a Ziplock bag and left it at the corner of Nutmeg and Caraway. It was raining and you called my house phone. My mother answered and you asked for me. She reluctantly passed the phone. It was dinner time; she hated callers during supper.
All you said was “Look under the peach tree in Sara Messina’s lawn.”
I galloped down the block. I read the letter. Like I said, I have forgotten its contents but I was speaking to Jeannie tonight about you and it popped into my head.
I stored everything we’d ever exchanged in that Ziplock bag. Pictures drawn, maps for the ideal future, poems with titles spelt incorrectly. Everything you ever did was charming to me. You said “We’re super cats! This is us:” and drew a picture of two white cats with bright blue eyes. You cut out cardboard into a small rectangle and wrote The Emotion Card on it. You wanted me to be more open with my emotions.
It is years later now. I could call you, but I like to live in the memory better. If I called and spoke to you, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d want to get nostalgic and talk about Horatio the Peacock or the night we ran out of gas in the village and slept on the dock of the polluted lake. Even when I go home sometimes, we get together and go to the rocks. We used to count fish jumping in the lake off those rocks; you always hated reminiscing.
Rummaging through my desk drawers, used more for storage than normal desk drawer purposes, all I found was an old broken cell phone (a little juice left in it), a lock that goes to a key I’ve lost, and a blue ceramic hippo you first gave me when I moved to Brooklyn. You told me it had no particular sentimental value, just that you thought I’d like it. I did.
I put it on top of my desk and gave up on searching for the Ziplock bag. Maybe I’ll find it in my parent’s house this upcoming Christmas, but I’m wondering if I should continue on with this. I’ll just call you and receive a vacant response.
Other things I found while not finding you:
Two dollar bills
A slice of cardboard with my first impressions of Denver written on it
Co90
Spokes drafts
Lysistratosfear
Sorencified
Tuja and zintane
Orange OM bracelet from India
Raspberry beret
You wrote a letter to me in 2001, in your smudged black pen – barely legible handwriting. It isn’t about what it said, it’s about what it meant. You sealed it in a Ziplock bag and left it at the corner of Nutmeg and Caraway. It was raining and you called my house phone. My mother answered and you asked for me. She reluctantly passed the phone. It was dinner time; she hated callers during supper.
All you said was “Look under the peach tree in Sara Messina’s lawn.”
I galloped down the block. I read the letter. Like I said, I have forgotten its contents but I was speaking to Jeannie tonight about you and it popped into my head.
I stored everything we’d ever exchanged in that Ziplock bag. Pictures drawn, maps for the ideal future, poems with titles spelt incorrectly. Everything you ever did was charming to me. You said “We’re super cats! This is us:” and drew a picture of two white cats with bright blue eyes. You cut out cardboard into a small rectangle and wrote The Emotion Card on it. You wanted me to be more open with my emotions.
It is years later now. I could call you, but I like to live in the memory better. If I called and spoke to you, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d want to get nostalgic and talk about Horatio the Peacock or the night we ran out of gas in the village and slept on the dock of the polluted lake. Even when I go home sometimes, we get together and go to the rocks. We used to count fish jumping in the lake off those rocks; you always hated reminiscing.
Rummaging through my desk drawers, used more for storage than normal desk drawer purposes, all I found was an old broken cell phone (a little juice left in it), a lock that goes to a key I’ve lost, and a blue ceramic hippo you first gave me when I moved to Brooklyn. You told me it had no particular sentimental value, just that you thought I’d like it. I did.
I put it on top of my desk and gave up on searching for the Ziplock bag. Maybe I’ll find it in my parent’s house this upcoming Christmas, but I’m wondering if I should continue on with this. I’ll just call you and receive a vacant response.
Other things I found while not finding you:
Two dollar bills
A slice of cardboard with my first impressions of Denver written on it
Co90
Spokes drafts
Lysistratosfear
Sorencified
Tuja and zintane
Orange OM bracelet from India
Raspberry beret
Thursday, October 11, 2007
paralipsis
You spot him at a quaint and vacant library in Brooklyn. His lips pull in a sip of hot java. His lips murmur a stint of insignificant syntax. All you can think of: brinks of his mouth, a trapdoor to an unknown abyss.
You find his lips submit to a fault of always wanting Valium to dull angst of living in scrip; this paradoxical loop has spun him on many occasions. Says his lips panic at any thought of swallowing, for this act holds a part in our cyclical transit of victuals into mouth and out bottom – a swallow starts it.
You cannot stop his words. His lips pour out things no man can claim. His lips imprison no words but pluck fastidiously from his mind a particular way to say things. His words show a notion that almost drops but stops abruptly in an instant. Fat throbs of flow thrust upon our tympanums, as a hand would hit a drum. Words you typically wouldn’t stop to touch. Usually, you’d vanish as quickly as a lightning blink, but absconding from this is not an option. Launch of his words is so vigorous you cannot stay afloat. You drown in his paralipsis. You swallow all sounds and cannot slip away. It is in air and his wits put it out for all to draw in. Your mind cannot stop thinking of his lips. His lips, in your hourly thoughts, will not stop splitting but will not abandon you. Clock ticks. Hours pass.
Curtains of hair hang down on his lips as if not touching is not an option.
No knowing in not touching. You go out on a limb and put a hand toward him.
You can physically climb around boundary rims of his smirk – you think of following all topics of his cracks in and out, up and down. You do not touch, not so soon. Within, you skim his mouth with a touch so soft, if it wasn’t imaginary, still not a solitary flinch from him. His hands: rough but subtly loving. Mountains of rock affix palm to thumb and four additional digits. Both hands grasp.
“Both hands, now apply both hands to this instant. That’s it – now nothing is missing.” You submit & twist with him, splicing your body into his. Still, you think it slightly vacant as if a bit is missing. A film of cryptic sawdust forms down along his nails. His hand follows along a nook in your grin.
“Who sold this tour to us?” you say to him. “Why don’t you ask what kind of tour is going to follow this?” No solution from his lips. What is missing in your mind is a functional plan out of his sultry, pulpy skin. His lips.
Clammy hands touch his lips. You, afraid of his obscurity, flinch at his kiss.
What had initially drawn your focus to him was this: his inconspicuous lips, in a caught-off-guard-kiss kind of way. But his lips do not kiss. His lips brush up against, committing an artful skim against your lips without any prior approval. No kiss actually occurs in knowing a man such as him – just mixing. His lips spark in a distracting scoop-you-up sort of glint. You think about such lust.
A sharp sting of an abrupt touch on your sun-burnt back prompts a thought of what his lips last said to you: “Narcotic consumption will not abolish what haunts my mind. I am only soporifically functioning. It is you. My drug-fix is you. You are my anti-narcotic. Too bad it will not last. With you so far away I can’t…” At that, a click. And you couldn’t catch wind of any additional words. A finish you did not think would occur.
His lips now inaudibly blurry: just a sound of past, brimming with disturbing thoughts of addiction. Addiction to pills (or a habit of swallowing thoughts as if pills) and his fixation with constant withdrawal…
You cannot think of what is missing from him.
What is missing from his lips?
What addiction afflicts him?
Possibly, it is his compulsion to avoid. Obligatory tasks daunt him. Twisting his way out by simplifying what his lips swallow but also what his lips spout out. Subtracting a symbol and substituting with synonymous words is his lip-tripping fix. No difficulty with S’s; his lisp is not with consonants. It occurs within a contrasting sound-domain: a yawning configuration of our vocal tract forms this sound. It is fifth. “Just avoid it” is his solution.
Avoid.
Now conscious of it, you can fathom what splits into him: a void in his lips.
You find his lips submit to a fault of always wanting Valium to dull angst of living in scrip; this paradoxical loop has spun him on many occasions. Says his lips panic at any thought of swallowing, for this act holds a part in our cyclical transit of victuals into mouth and out bottom – a swallow starts it.
You cannot stop his words. His lips pour out things no man can claim. His lips imprison no words but pluck fastidiously from his mind a particular way to say things. His words show a notion that almost drops but stops abruptly in an instant. Fat throbs of flow thrust upon our tympanums, as a hand would hit a drum. Words you typically wouldn’t stop to touch. Usually, you’d vanish as quickly as a lightning blink, but absconding from this is not an option. Launch of his words is so vigorous you cannot stay afloat. You drown in his paralipsis. You swallow all sounds and cannot slip away. It is in air and his wits put it out for all to draw in. Your mind cannot stop thinking of his lips. His lips, in your hourly thoughts, will not stop splitting but will not abandon you. Clock ticks. Hours pass.
Curtains of hair hang down on his lips as if not touching is not an option.
No knowing in not touching. You go out on a limb and put a hand toward him.
You can physically climb around boundary rims of his smirk – you think of following all topics of his cracks in and out, up and down. You do not touch, not so soon. Within, you skim his mouth with a touch so soft, if it wasn’t imaginary, still not a solitary flinch from him. His hands: rough but subtly loving. Mountains of rock affix palm to thumb and four additional digits. Both hands grasp.
“Both hands, now apply both hands to this instant. That’s it – now nothing is missing.” You submit & twist with him, splicing your body into his. Still, you think it slightly vacant as if a bit is missing. A film of cryptic sawdust forms down along his nails. His hand follows along a nook in your grin.
“Who sold this tour to us?” you say to him. “Why don’t you ask what kind of tour is going to follow this?” No solution from his lips. What is missing in your mind is a functional plan out of his sultry, pulpy skin. His lips.
Clammy hands touch his lips. You, afraid of his obscurity, flinch at his kiss.
What had initially drawn your focus to him was this: his inconspicuous lips, in a caught-off-guard-kiss kind of way. But his lips do not kiss. His lips brush up against, committing an artful skim against your lips without any prior approval. No kiss actually occurs in knowing a man such as him – just mixing. His lips spark in a distracting scoop-you-up sort of glint. You think about such lust.
A sharp sting of an abrupt touch on your sun-burnt back prompts a thought of what his lips last said to you: “Narcotic consumption will not abolish what haunts my mind. I am only soporifically functioning. It is you. My drug-fix is you. You are my anti-narcotic. Too bad it will not last. With you so far away I can’t…” At that, a click. And you couldn’t catch wind of any additional words. A finish you did not think would occur.
His lips now inaudibly blurry: just a sound of past, brimming with disturbing thoughts of addiction. Addiction to pills (or a habit of swallowing thoughts as if pills) and his fixation with constant withdrawal…
You cannot think of what is missing from him.
What is missing from his lips?
What addiction afflicts him?
Possibly, it is his compulsion to avoid. Obligatory tasks daunt him. Twisting his way out by simplifying what his lips swallow but also what his lips spout out. Subtracting a symbol and substituting with synonymous words is his lip-tripping fix. No difficulty with S’s; his lisp is not with consonants. It occurs within a contrasting sound-domain: a yawning configuration of our vocal tract forms this sound. It is fifth. “Just avoid it” is his solution.
Avoid.
Now conscious of it, you can fathom what splits into him: a void in his lips.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
in relation to "swirls"
My dear sis, que, posted this ab Denver and I think it is beautifully written and very much involved in my recent posts. Check it out - this is life.
http://vicariousvagabond.blogspot.com/2007/09/into-wild.html
http://vicariousvagabond.blogspot.com/2007/09/into-wild.html
I'm in it for the long hug.
Today I witnessed two people hug for over five minutes. Go, go right now, and try to hug someone for even one minute. It's a long time. Times that by five.
It seems, most often, humans are not afraid to touch in flickers; we flirt, poke, pinch, smile, wink, but only in spurts. Flirting is easy; it's inconsequential and transient. A long hug takes courage. It takes confidence and commitment, which we like to think we have, but when it comes time to dish out love, we twitch. What's so scary about a hug?
More often than not, people cower at the sight of a person in need of comfort- a little elongated touch as therapy. I met two women today who casually told me they were looking for silk flowers for their daughter, who had died. Her name was Lindsay. She had died in her sleep, of unknown causes, at the age of 32. They held up a picture of her - she was holding a martini glass and clad in a gaudy Halloween Princess outfit.
She is smiling wild in this worn, cracked photograph. It had been tucked tight in too many jean pockets over too many years. The white haired woman announces: "I'll pay with credit card cause I need my change! Lindsay used to carry coins in her pocket everywhere she went. See?" She displays her coins: quarters, pennies, but mostly nickles. "I found this broache this morning at her house. It has a bell, see?" She rings the bell and tells me how she asked her four year old granddaughter what color Lindsay's wings are: "Gray." "She must be caught up on gray lately. That's her answer for everything."
All I wanted to do was round the corner of my counter and give this Kansas woman a hug. Her calm pleasantries made me very sad. I'd like to say I was glad that she was taking her daughter's death in a positive way, but my heart collapsed a little inside of me at the sight of her swift movements. I just wanted to keep her hands down at her side, mouth closed, and allow her a piece of fabric to cry into. Have you ever hugged someone so deeply, cried into their shoulder shirt and not worried about snot or embarassing noises? This is the kind of hug I wanted to give Lindsay's mother.
I carried around nickles in my coat pocket for the remainder of the day.
I also had a very nice hug to round out my Tuesday, and I wasn't afraid of it.
It seems, most often, humans are not afraid to touch in flickers; we flirt, poke, pinch, smile, wink, but only in spurts. Flirting is easy; it's inconsequential and transient. A long hug takes courage. It takes confidence and commitment, which we like to think we have, but when it comes time to dish out love, we twitch. What's so scary about a hug?
More often than not, people cower at the sight of a person in need of comfort- a little elongated touch as therapy. I met two women today who casually told me they were looking for silk flowers for their daughter, who had died. Her name was Lindsay. She had died in her sleep, of unknown causes, at the age of 32. They held up a picture of her - she was holding a martini glass and clad in a gaudy Halloween Princess outfit.
She is smiling wild in this worn, cracked photograph. It had been tucked tight in too many jean pockets over too many years. The white haired woman announces: "I'll pay with credit card cause I need my change! Lindsay used to carry coins in her pocket everywhere she went. See?" She displays her coins: quarters, pennies, but mostly nickles. "I found this broache this morning at her house. It has a bell, see?" She rings the bell and tells me how she asked her four year old granddaughter what color Lindsay's wings are: "Gray." "She must be caught up on gray lately. That's her answer for everything."
All I wanted to do was round the corner of my counter and give this Kansas woman a hug. Her calm pleasantries made me very sad. I'd like to say I was glad that she was taking her daughter's death in a positive way, but my heart collapsed a little inside of me at the sight of her swift movements. I just wanted to keep her hands down at her side, mouth closed, and allow her a piece of fabric to cry into. Have you ever hugged someone so deeply, cried into their shoulder shirt and not worried about snot or embarassing noises? This is the kind of hug I wanted to give Lindsay's mother.
I carried around nickles in my coat pocket for the remainder of the day.
I also had a very nice hug to round out my Tuesday, and I wasn't afraid of it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
swirls
“and death I think is no parenthesis…” e.e.cummings
Leaning up against the wall, blanket curled around my toes for warmth, cold rain falling steadily against the trees. Today, the drops remind me of every fallen friend. Taped to my fridge, I have a letter written to Denver, a bartender at the Four Faced Liar in the east village: a letter written from a friend after his death at 27. Do we wait too long to write these letters? Death; it plucks at us, one by one.
I remember a dream I once had around the age of 8, a frightening one. I dreamt my father sliced horizontally, as if from an over-sized onion cutter. He was portioned in even slabs of what appeared to be neat, lengthened rectangles of clay. Lying in a bathtub of his own millpond blood, he looked up at me with a smile just as steady. He reassured me that he was dying, said not to cry. I was 8. How could I not? The image of his fragmented body is stuck in me like a Polaroid Scotch-taped to my brain. I’ve never told my father about it.
I think everything is all together, is going and moving along like life should. Then, like a twig in a dry tree, we can snap. Everything shifts – all of a sudden life is different. All it takes is for death’s pluck to pluck near to us and suddenly we’re aware of it. We realize death is not so far off. Like the assassination snap of a fragile gerbera daisy head, it happens fast and unexpected.
No conclusion goes here, as Kerouac said: “there is only continuum of living across preordained spaces, followed by the continuum of the Mystery of Death. That death is a Mystery makes death acceptable, therefore; because Mystery never ends but continues.” In On the Road, Kerouac has one of his characters stand on a street corner or in a subway and close his eyes. “He stares at the darkness in his eyes, then opens them wide, looks, and says “Why?” All this is a complicated thing,” Kerouac reflects.
"The effect is to the make the world show its mystery, its skirts, as it were an odd, embarrassing moment. The hex of the mystery shows its presence… The essences in his brainpan are not there for nothing, the swirls in his wondering soul and about his head are not there for nothing. He is not demanding power, only love, which is pure knowledge of the unknown."
I’m still not settled on Kerouac’s belief that all life is death. It is in his musings on life and its purpose that I find value. I’ve found clarity in why I live the life I’ve chosen through Kerouac’s journals. Kerouac insists that all life is holy, and “we must be reverent of one another, always.” There are many reasons this strikes a chord with me, but the main one has to do with my entire life of confusion regarding religion and spirituality. One other quote that has helped me extrapolate my own personal thoughts on the issue is one he entitled Lacrimae rerum:
"This lacrimae rerum; my happiness, depends on the recognition of the other world while I am in this one, or I cannot stand this one. I must be in contact with as much of this world (through means of variety of sensuality, i.e., experience of loves of all kinds) and I must be in contact with the Holy Final Whirlwinds that collect the ragged forms into one Whole Form.
…
This is why life is holy: because it is not a lonely accident. Therefore, again, we must love and be reverent of one another, till the day when we are all angels looking back."
Paraphrasing from an article on Lacrimae rerum, the phrase refers to a quote from the Aenied, “sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.” Aeneus says this as he looks upon a mural depicting combat from the Trojan War. Through translation, the quote says, “These are tears for events and mortal things touch the soul.” Mortal things touch the soul, or in other words we are touched by the most human things. Ordinary things. Things that may vanish at any moment. Perhaps the things we take for granted...
Kerouac certainly sought to mythologize his life and in his journals touched upon things I had never thought of in such ways. To feel life is holy, to go so far as to love and be reverent toward life and people as an everyday practice, is the way I aspire to live. This Latin quote sums up why Frank O’Hara’s ‘daily life’ writing style made so much sense to me back in Brooklyn; engagement in the details, nuances, and even mundane is living beatifically. Kerouac had once said that Beat meant a connection to the disenfranchised, hipsters, the underground; the ‘tired’ or ‘down and out’, as Kerouac’s friend Herbert Huncke suggested. The lesser known Kerouacian definition comes from a revelation Kerouac had while sitting in a silent church: “I was the only one there, it was five p.m., dogs were barking outside, children yelling, the fall leaves, the candles were flickering alone just for me.” Kerouac then felt that beat meant “beatific.” This is what it means to me. Though my writing about snails, coffee cups, foxes and buttons may not change our swirling world of despair, there is much purpose in living a writing life. It was this generation of writers that got me writing; now, at a new turning point in my life, it is Kerouac who will keep me writing.
I do not mean to drag this reflection on too long, but it is a continuous musing, so I suppose it really shouldn’t have a tight ending. While searching Naropa campus for a classmate, I came across another thought (I’d like to say epiphany, but I think all thoughts are epiphanies on a scale; it is what we do with a thought that gives it its gradation.) I realized who it is I write for: I write for the dead.
This not to say I write for people who have died, but for people who are no longer living. Those who are no longer thinking about life, no longer processing their reflections about life, perhaps even those not writing, I believe to some extent, are not living. Another quote from Kerouac: “It is just as difficult for that kind of man to punch a clock and do the same stupid thing all day as it is for an unimaginative man to go hungry – for that too is ‘going hungry’.” A person living, making a living and still breathing is not necessarily alive, just as a person being fed food is necessarily not hungry. Though I am using these adjectives as hyperbolic metaphors, it is necessary in explaining who it is I am writing for. (Do you get it yet by repetition? Repetition used to highlight the necessity of writing!)
I am writing to wake up the dead. I want the dead people on earth to one day see my writing or way of living as fodder. The writer is the 'arrangeur', but first, the 'manger', french for 'arrange' and 'to eat', respectively. We arrange matters after we feed off of the world. Kerouac dreams in French, wakes up to remember this fact and scribbles it down. Without his impulse to wake and transcribe this, we wouldn’t have this ‘thought’.
Leaning up against the wall, blanket curled around my toes for warmth, cold rain falling steadily against the trees. Today, the drops remind me of every fallen friend. Taped to my fridge, I have a letter written to Denver, a bartender at the Four Faced Liar in the east village: a letter written from a friend after his death at 27. Do we wait too long to write these letters? Death; it plucks at us, one by one.
I remember a dream I once had around the age of 8, a frightening one. I dreamt my father sliced horizontally, as if from an over-sized onion cutter. He was portioned in even slabs of what appeared to be neat, lengthened rectangles of clay. Lying in a bathtub of his own millpond blood, he looked up at me with a smile just as steady. He reassured me that he was dying, said not to cry. I was 8. How could I not? The image of his fragmented body is stuck in me like a Polaroid Scotch-taped to my brain. I’ve never told my father about it.
I think everything is all together, is going and moving along like life should. Then, like a twig in a dry tree, we can snap. Everything shifts – all of a sudden life is different. All it takes is for death’s pluck to pluck near to us and suddenly we’re aware of it. We realize death is not so far off. Like the assassination snap of a fragile gerbera daisy head, it happens fast and unexpected.
No conclusion goes here, as Kerouac said: “there is only continuum of living across preordained spaces, followed by the continuum of the Mystery of Death. That death is a Mystery makes death acceptable, therefore; because Mystery never ends but continues.” In On the Road, Kerouac has one of his characters stand on a street corner or in a subway and close his eyes. “He stares at the darkness in his eyes, then opens them wide, looks, and says “Why?” All this is a complicated thing,” Kerouac reflects.
"The effect is to the make the world show its mystery, its skirts, as it were an odd, embarrassing moment. The hex of the mystery shows its presence… The essences in his brainpan are not there for nothing, the swirls in his wondering soul and about his head are not there for nothing. He is not demanding power, only love, which is pure knowledge of the unknown."
I’m still not settled on Kerouac’s belief that all life is death. It is in his musings on life and its purpose that I find value. I’ve found clarity in why I live the life I’ve chosen through Kerouac’s journals. Kerouac insists that all life is holy, and “we must be reverent of one another, always.” There are many reasons this strikes a chord with me, but the main one has to do with my entire life of confusion regarding religion and spirituality. One other quote that has helped me extrapolate my own personal thoughts on the issue is one he entitled Lacrimae rerum:
"This lacrimae rerum; my happiness, depends on the recognition of the other world while I am in this one, or I cannot stand this one. I must be in contact with as much of this world (through means of variety of sensuality, i.e., experience of loves of all kinds) and I must be in contact with the Holy Final Whirlwinds that collect the ragged forms into one Whole Form.
…
This is why life is holy: because it is not a lonely accident. Therefore, again, we must love and be reverent of one another, till the day when we are all angels looking back."
Paraphrasing from an article on Lacrimae rerum, the phrase refers to a quote from the Aenied, “sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.” Aeneus says this as he looks upon a mural depicting combat from the Trojan War. Through translation, the quote says, “These are tears for events and mortal things touch the soul.” Mortal things touch the soul, or in other words we are touched by the most human things. Ordinary things. Things that may vanish at any moment. Perhaps the things we take for granted...
Kerouac certainly sought to mythologize his life and in his journals touched upon things I had never thought of in such ways. To feel life is holy, to go so far as to love and be reverent toward life and people as an everyday practice, is the way I aspire to live. This Latin quote sums up why Frank O’Hara’s ‘daily life’ writing style made so much sense to me back in Brooklyn; engagement in the details, nuances, and even mundane is living beatifically. Kerouac had once said that Beat meant a connection to the disenfranchised, hipsters, the underground; the ‘tired’ or ‘down and out’, as Kerouac’s friend Herbert Huncke suggested. The lesser known Kerouacian definition comes from a revelation Kerouac had while sitting in a silent church: “I was the only one there, it was five p.m., dogs were barking outside, children yelling, the fall leaves, the candles were flickering alone just for me.” Kerouac then felt that beat meant “beatific.” This is what it means to me. Though my writing about snails, coffee cups, foxes and buttons may not change our swirling world of despair, there is much purpose in living a writing life. It was this generation of writers that got me writing; now, at a new turning point in my life, it is Kerouac who will keep me writing.
I do not mean to drag this reflection on too long, but it is a continuous musing, so I suppose it really shouldn’t have a tight ending. While searching Naropa campus for a classmate, I came across another thought (I’d like to say epiphany, but I think all thoughts are epiphanies on a scale; it is what we do with a thought that gives it its gradation.) I realized who it is I write for: I write for the dead.
This not to say I write for people who have died, but for people who are no longer living. Those who are no longer thinking about life, no longer processing their reflections about life, perhaps even those not writing, I believe to some extent, are not living. Another quote from Kerouac: “It is just as difficult for that kind of man to punch a clock and do the same stupid thing all day as it is for an unimaginative man to go hungry – for that too is ‘going hungry’.” A person living, making a living and still breathing is not necessarily alive, just as a person being fed food is necessarily not hungry. Though I am using these adjectives as hyperbolic metaphors, it is necessary in explaining who it is I am writing for. (Do you get it yet by repetition? Repetition used to highlight the necessity of writing!)
I am writing to wake up the dead. I want the dead people on earth to one day see my writing or way of living as fodder. The writer is the 'arrangeur', but first, the 'manger', french for 'arrange' and 'to eat', respectively. We arrange matters after we feed off of the world. Kerouac dreams in French, wakes up to remember this fact and scribbles it down. Without his impulse to wake and transcribe this, we wouldn’t have this ‘thought’.
Stolen Ukulele
Continuing a mission
to seek out
what was once sought out:
The sound of my ‘voice’
as writer.
Once thought I knew it,
now gone. Now dormant, stagnant,
sequestered in a closet somewhere.
And like all lost chapsticks,
I’m on a trip to find it.
Though I can’t enunciate my s’s well while singing,
I embrace my beat, the beatific lisp at the end of my words –
It may be shaky, not solid, but it works
(for me)
to seek out
what was once sought out:
The sound of my ‘voice’
as writer.
Once thought I knew it,
now gone. Now dormant, stagnant,
sequestered in a closet somewhere.
And like all lost chapsticks,
I’m on a trip to find it.
Though I can’t enunciate my s’s well while singing,
I embrace my beat, the beatific lisp at the end of my words –
It may be shaky, not solid, but it works
(for me)
Sunday, September 23, 2007
A night at EuroFlow.
I work with four girls at the European Flower Shop just down the street from my house: Kristina, Kristen, Jessie and KT. Under any other circumstances, I would loathe Kristen and Kristina for having similar but different names, but I like them too much to hate them. (?) The two of them, owner and manager, are in Las Vegas for a week doing "research" and all managerial tasks were passed on to the ultra-organized, super experienced, savvy businesswoman - me. All sarcasm aside, I will work my ass off for any boss that shows me respect and appreciation and fortunately for everyone in this situation, this is the case.
We had a large wedding to do this weekend and Jessie and KT weren't exactly stoked to stay late and get the job done. This meant that I was alone in assembling a gorgeous light orange and burgundy wine wedding for "Jessica from Lyons".
After closing the doors to regular business around 6 pm Saturday, I went to work on the wedding arrangements. Not too many friends would find hanging out in a flower shop on a Saturday night til all hours appealing or fun, but George accompanied me in my Pandora marathon wrapping hand cramp stem mess making Cap't Morgan out of arrangement vases Glory.
Here is a pictorial account for your enjoyment.
I'd also like to give a shout-out to Jackie for putting up with my sporadic phone calls of nonsense and hysteria throughout the night. Thank God she was dreaming about me, or she might not have answered.
This is the orchid our shop Praying Mantis used to reside on. He's missing at the moment.
Our rose arrangements for a party last Thursday
Looks like marriage to me
Dr. P with Cap't and Black Baccara Rose
Partner in Crime
Altar Arrangements for Jessica's weddings
Gladiolas Spider Mums Coxcomb and Curly Willow
Dahlias, Calla Lily and Gerber
Tulips and Orchids
I love fluorescent yellow snapdragons :)
Gerber Daisies
We had a large wedding to do this weekend and Jessie and KT weren't exactly stoked to stay late and get the job done. This meant that I was alone in assembling a gorgeous light orange and burgundy wine wedding for "Jessica from Lyons".
After closing the doors to regular business around 6 pm Saturday, I went to work on the wedding arrangements. Not too many friends would find hanging out in a flower shop on a Saturday night til all hours appealing or fun, but George accompanied me in my Pandora marathon wrapping hand cramp stem mess making Cap't Morgan out of arrangement vases Glory.
Here is a pictorial account for your enjoyment.
I'd also like to give a shout-out to Jackie for putting up with my sporadic phone calls of nonsense and hysteria throughout the night. Thank God she was dreaming about me, or she might not have answered.
This is the orchid our shop Praying Mantis used to reside on. He's missing at the moment.
Our rose arrangements for a party last Thursday
Looks like marriage to me
Dr. P with Cap't and Black Baccara Rose
Partner in Crime
Altar Arrangements for Jessica's weddings
Gladiolas Spider Mums Coxcomb and Curly Willow
Dahlias, Calla Lily and Gerber
Tulips and Orchids
I love fluorescent yellow snapdragons :)
Gerber Daisies
I've always used writing as a procrastination tool
Now I am procrastinating with writing from writing, which I'll get around to, but man, I'm putting my fingers and hands in one blistery situation for tonight.
And must get SOME sleep before THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS tomorrow!!! Neko Case, your voice is haunting and magical.
To start off the blogging ...
It's as if my Flowershop was meant for me. This is what it says on the door when it's open.
And must get SOME sleep before THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS tomorrow!!! Neko Case, your voice is haunting and magical.
To start off the blogging ...
It's as if my Flowershop was meant for me. This is what it says on the door when it's open.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
There are panthers in the Orchestra
and you're too busy thinking to stop
our distance
Darling, disasters
have a way of
making love
I'm proving death
(with the love in each of our hearts)
will eventually be
understandable
our distance
Darling, disasters
have a way of
making love
I'm proving death
(with the love in each of our hearts)
will eventually be
understandable
Saturday, September 01, 2007
sept 1st- Let the Kero-whacking begin!
scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages for yr own joy
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Ouvroir de littérature potentielle
Since the 3:15 experiment passed me by, I've decided to create my own exploration in September.
Instead of waking up at 3:15 am every morning in August and writing, I will abide by Jack Kerouac's 30 Rules for Spontaneous Prose. However, each day in September, I will concentrate on one rule and one rule only. It will be a month of obsession and a little bit of madness. How can it not be? Part of Kerouac's appeal is his maddness for writing. They are concise one sentence statements that are sometimes a bit obscure and open for interpretation. This will leave much room for play.
If anyone is interested in coming along for the ride, post a comment.
I will post the first rule up on September 1st at whatever time I wake up. I will then write the sentence on my hand to remind myself to continuously acknowledge it the whole day through. I have set aside a notebook that will be specifically oriented for this experiment. Let the fun begin (in 4 days)!
Countdown to a re-emergence of a piece of the beats and OuLiPo!
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
"Are you Naked? I'm feeling creative."
Misheard lyrics. Belting out the wrong words and owning them, not feeling embarassed to sing your own song - this is audacity. On a computer, we write in bold for emphasis. Emphasize your life with the appropriate punctuation. Maybe today is full of commas, tomorrow could be a seemingly eternal exclaimation point! He said he thought the ellipsis in his head, so what he said wasn't technically a lie. The second portion of the statement was a detour from the proceeding untruth, so it is almost as if he masking-taped a new clause in just at the last moment to create veracity.
He called me up to make sure I made my flight so we wouldn't have to continue on to Tucson together. He said, "Did you make it?" I heard, "Are you naked?" We laughed and he said "Yeah, that's where our relationship is at now." But the fluky thing is since the first second I met him in the dark in the driveway on a Wednesday, I felt at ease against his shadow. I even kinda miss his wretched smelling cartoon farts that heated the cold Telluride tent.
Some were concerned: "You jumped in a car with a stranger?!" I'm not sure why most people can't understand a pure experience. I like to thrive on the unexpected and who better to provide unanticipated action than a complete stranger?
Talk to Strangers - Saul Williams said it best himself:
"Like that stranger may be yours,
who holds a subtle knife
that carves through worlds
like magic doors,
and that’s what I've been looking for,
The bridge from then to now,
...
But that square box don't represent the sphere that we live in,
The world is not a flat screen
I ain’t trying to fit in.
But this ain’t for the underground
this here is for the sun-
A seed a stranger gave to me
and planted on my tongue.
and when i look at you,
I know I'm not the only one.
As a great man once said,
There’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
who’s time
has come."
He called me up to make sure I made my flight so we wouldn't have to continue on to Tucson together. He said, "Did you make it?" I heard, "Are you naked?" We laughed and he said "Yeah, that's where our relationship is at now." But the fluky thing is since the first second I met him in the dark in the driveway on a Wednesday, I felt at ease against his shadow. I even kinda miss his wretched smelling cartoon farts that heated the cold Telluride tent.
Some were concerned: "You jumped in a car with a stranger?!" I'm not sure why most people can't understand a pure experience. I like to thrive on the unexpected and who better to provide unanticipated action than a complete stranger?
Talk to Strangers - Saul Williams said it best himself:
"Like that stranger may be yours,
who holds a subtle knife
that carves through worlds
like magic doors,
and that’s what I've been looking for,
The bridge from then to now,
...
But that square box don't represent the sphere that we live in,
The world is not a flat screen
I ain’t trying to fit in.
But this ain’t for the underground
this here is for the sun-
A seed a stranger gave to me
and planted on my tongue.
and when i look at you,
I know I'm not the only one.
As a great man once said,
There’s nothing more powerful
than an idea
who’s time
has come."
Riley's Awkward 2nd Goodbye
Making it to Phoenix from the near outskirts of Sedona in 2 hours was impressive considering the traffic we hit. Just as he pulled up to Terminal 4, we turned toward one another to say goodbye and implement the sideways rushed hug. It was that moment that I finally decided I had been traveling with a good friend as opposed to a random stranger. Up until the drive-by duck and roll drop-off, we didn't worry about me missing my flight and what we would do if it happened. We just enjoyed my last few hours on the gorgeous Arizona roads and what this new place had to offer.
The flight was delayed twenty minutes, so I made it without even having to convince an airport attendent of my need to get back to Denver to catch a bus so I could attend work on time Monday morning. While waiting last in line for Southwest Airlines, a young man, about the age of thirteen, was saying goodbye to his pregnant aunt. They had thought the line was moving and exchanged sentiments. The line didn't budge after a few steps and the two were left in an awkward silence. They had already placed a period on their sentence; the denouement had occurred - what now? The silent panic caused an internal giggle in me. Embarassment and awkwardness are two things that will always amuse me to no end.
Southwest Airlines doesn't assign seats - you are placed in a herd (either A, B or C) and it's a free-for-all after the gate double doors. I was last in line C, but the flight wasn't full, so I would have some choice. I was excited to see the plane scattered with open middle seats. How would I choose my seat partners? Were people offended or relieved by each passenger that passed them up? Does the last person on a full flight get stuck next to the screaming baby smelly fat guy that coughs, sneezes and incessently asks about your entire life for the duration of the flight? This musical chaircraft seating was a foreign experience for me. Travelers often feel foreign to me anyway, because many people become very quirky and unpredictable during travel. Alien creatures.
The flight was delayed twenty minutes, so I made it without even having to convince an airport attendent of my need to get back to Denver to catch a bus so I could attend work on time Monday morning. While waiting last in line for Southwest Airlines, a young man, about the age of thirteen, was saying goodbye to his pregnant aunt. They had thought the line was moving and exchanged sentiments. The line didn't budge after a few steps and the two were left in an awkward silence. They had already placed a period on their sentence; the denouement had occurred - what now? The silent panic caused an internal giggle in me. Embarassment and awkwardness are two things that will always amuse me to no end.
Southwest Airlines doesn't assign seats - you are placed in a herd (either A, B or C) and it's a free-for-all after the gate double doors. I was last in line C, but the flight wasn't full, so I would have some choice. I was excited to see the plane scattered with open middle seats. How would I choose my seat partners? Were people offended or relieved by each passenger that passed them up? Does the last person on a full flight get stuck next to the screaming baby smelly fat guy that coughs, sneezes and incessently asks about your entire life for the duration of the flight? This musical chaircraft seating was a foreign experience for me. Travelers often feel foreign to me anyway, because many people become very quirky and unpredictable during travel. Alien creatures.
7.2"
Christoph handed me a red and black screwdriver and told me to return it to Heidi for him. Being late for a flight and then trying to smuggle what could be considered a spearing device didn't seem like a great idea to me. The security guy told me I could bring it on if it was under 7 inches. He promptly left the scene to obtain the official screwdriver ruler. He held it up in front of me to show me that it was slightly more than 7 inches. 7.2 inches to be exact.
"So do you want me to check it, or chuck it?"
"Fuck it - chuck it. I gotta make a flight."
What didn't make sense to me is the 7 inch rule. Does a 6.8 inch screwdriver insufficiently impale the jugular? Man, if 6 inches is an insufficient impalement length, there must be a lot of un-up to par guys out there. Heidi laughed about the screwdriver and said "No biggie."
"So do you want me to check it, or chuck it?"
"Fuck it - chuck it. I gotta make a flight."
What didn't make sense to me is the 7 inch rule. Does a 6.8 inch screwdriver insufficiently impale the jugular? Man, if 6 inches is an insufficient impalement length, there must be a lot of un-up to par guys out there. Heidi laughed about the screwdriver and said "No biggie."
TCQ: "You couldn't converse even if you had react juice"
I failed thrice:
1. Within the first half an hour, my navigating skills lead us east-ish when we wanted west-ish.
2. I choked on the clutch when stuck in a rock ditch up the switchbacks to the waterfalls.
3. I was ill-prepared for camping .
He reassured me that I served my purpose: an ear to take in and a mind to spit out responses.
I didn't fail at all:
Getting lost is part of the expedition.
Failing is inherent and
sometimes being unprepared prepares you even more for future endeavors.
1. Within the first half an hour, my navigating skills lead us east-ish when we wanted west-ish.
2. I choked on the clutch when stuck in a rock ditch up the switchbacks to the waterfalls.
3. I was ill-prepared for camping .
He reassured me that I served my purpose: an ear to take in and a mind to spit out responses.
I didn't fail at all:
Getting lost is part of the expedition.
Failing is inherent and
sometimes being unprepared prepares you even more for future endeavors.
Topographical Traffic Engineer
Somewhere between Sedona and Phoenix I asked Christoph a question about the painted yellow lines on a two-way road. He had been attempting to pass a law-obeying motorist, yet each curve kept our line solid as opposed to broken. I wondered if there are particular curve or incline angles that resulted in perforated yellow paint or not. He told me that is something the Topographical Traffic Engineer comes up with. Brilliant!
Christoph has been telling people that he is a retired engineer, simply because he's taken the last year off to travel around the world, free from work or school. We all have our interpretations of definitions; I'd say he took a sabbatical. But even if this could be considered fabricated, life is continuous. Though we may be checking different boxes for our occupations from time to time, living is really our only job. We work to live, not vice versa. We play to live.
My parents don't understand why my sister would want to travel to Peru over New Year's. Why not? Is there a good reason NOT to expand one's experiential horizons? Why limit oneself when the world is large and navigable and provides so many delicious foreign fruits. I want to crown my kumquat with an umlaut! This is impossible from my current position, so it only makes sense to make the shift and sail the ships.
If Thens: Conditional Statements
Mr. Suzuki (Zalewski?) introduced them to me in freshman year advanced mathematics. Conditional statements: if this, then that. And I live like a conditional statement where I pursue the this so the that materializes. i.e. If Ken comes to work on time then I'll convince him to let me leave early for roadtrip. If I lived in Ophir, I'd get a gopher and name him Larry. If I go to the moon, I'll bring you back a small bottle full of it. If I stocked a vending machine, I'd sell scenic views. If I made road signs for a living, I'd ask you to marry me. If I were a candy chemist, I'd devise swiss fish!
He said he couldn't get feet off his mind and because of the focus, couldn't come up with a good If Then. Sometimes focus is too limiting. Maybe it's okay to be unpredictably erractically scattered. I know I've noticed these past few days that by being a juggler, one becomes much more adept at multi-tasking. He can listen, respond, engage and be conjuring up an entirely separate statement (saved for an appropriate time of release) all at once. An impressive listener.
Next will be syllogisms. If I saw a beautiful sunset, I'd point it out to you. If I pointed it out to you, I'd veer from eyeball prodding. If I saw a beautiful sunset, I'd veer from prodding.
He said he couldn't get feet off his mind and because of the focus, couldn't come up with a good If Then. Sometimes focus is too limiting. Maybe it's okay to be unpredictably erractically scattered. I know I've noticed these past few days that by being a juggler, one becomes much more adept at multi-tasking. He can listen, respond, engage and be conjuring up an entirely separate statement (saved for an appropriate time of release) all at once. An impressive listener.
Next will be syllogisms. If I saw a beautiful sunset, I'd point it out to you. If I pointed it out to you, I'd veer from eyeball prodding. If I saw a beautiful sunset, I'd veer from prodding.
Wading Under a Bridge
His Swiss father once sat in a hot tub surrounded by beautiful young women, entirely interested in enticing him. Though the chance was there and the chance was nice, he made a conscious decision to announce to the sexy Sirens his fidelity to his wife. Christoph saw this all occur from a distance. His father was unaware the impression of pride he had stamped upon his son's vigilant eyes. Life is full of pivotal points hinged with difficult decisions: it is fun and transiently satisfying to indulge, experiment and explore, but like Ben Folds says "I got my philosophy and I trust it like the ground. That's why my philosophy keeps me walking when I'm falling down."
We discussed roofs, literally & figuratively. It is important to keep an ambitious attitude in life, to seek more, desire betterment, but we can easily be caught in this vicious ladder climb and lose sight of how high we've already clomb. Contentment used to be such a scary word for me. I thought those who were content were just quitters on living or boring. I guess my young, racing mind needed constant action and improvement - Why wouldn't they want to continue to progress?!?
I've finally slowed down a bit (not much, but enough) to see why contentment can be a very useful state of being. Comfort and security are two things a state of contentment can provide. It is also important to remember that maybe it is best to consciously decide which areas of one's life need constant mining and which sections are fine at the very state they are at. Being in a constant state of movement can cause panic and stress - it is good to stop, observe your life, realize what is vital and make sure to keep it alive. Just as a house needs walls for structure, a roof is essential as well. (Heights and extensions may vary)
We discussed roofs, literally & figuratively. It is important to keep an ambitious attitude in life, to seek more, desire betterment, but we can easily be caught in this vicious ladder climb and lose sight of how high we've already clomb. Contentment used to be such a scary word for me. I thought those who were content were just quitters on living or boring. I guess my young, racing mind needed constant action and improvement - Why wouldn't they want to continue to progress?!?
I've finally slowed down a bit (not much, but enough) to see why contentment can be a very useful state of being. Comfort and security are two things a state of contentment can provide. It is also important to remember that maybe it is best to consciously decide which areas of one's life need constant mining and which sections are fine at the very state they are at. Being in a constant state of movement can cause panic and stress - it is good to stop, observe your life, realize what is vital and make sure to keep it alive. Just as a house needs walls for structure, a roof is essential as well. (Heights and extensions may vary)
"Just Benny"
"The Love Connection, man! You guys are on the Love Channel!" The man's beady umber eyes twinkled in sync with his loud smile. We stopped to take notice of the chalk drawing he was in the process of making when he decided to grab our concentration with a seemingly forceful statement about our relationship. We refuted his accusation and gave him our perspective on the chalk woman's enlarged magenta lips. "There is no truth, just perspective." Christoph offered chalk man. The man was ecstatic by his response and proclaimed Christoph to be some sort of philosopher. Yeah, I'd consider him a philosopher, professor, but mostly just a student of life.
When we asked chalk man his name, he replied: "Just Benny." It was as if he was humble of his title: "Yeah, nothing spectacular... just Benny." He explained that he had once worked with a large chef who ate crisp peaches and smoked like a broke stove who used to announce himself as Just J.
I guess that's what the best of us do - plagiarize actions, thoughts and philosophies from others to create our own personal awesome montage. Somehow the discussion tilted toward the Platonic Solids: Icosahedrons, duodecahedrons and Sacred Geometry. As it progressed, I noticed that Just Benny told every pair of people that passed by that they were on the Love Channel or that they looked beautiful. After our 7-minute too long interaction with Just Benny, I asked Christoph what he thought about this peculiarity. Is something just as genuine if it is shared with any person that passes by? What about selection and sincerity? I understand his motive is to bring people to a compassionate level, but the cynics of this world might see right through his positive pumping device. Am I a cynic?
When we asked chalk man his name, he replied: "Just Benny." It was as if he was humble of his title: "Yeah, nothing spectacular... just Benny." He explained that he had once worked with a large chef who ate crisp peaches and smoked like a broke stove who used to announce himself as Just J.
I guess that's what the best of us do - plagiarize actions, thoughts and philosophies from others to create our own personal awesome montage. Somehow the discussion tilted toward the Platonic Solids: Icosahedrons, duodecahedrons and Sacred Geometry. As it progressed, I noticed that Just Benny told every pair of people that passed by that they were on the Love Channel or that they looked beautiful. After our 7-minute too long interaction with Just Benny, I asked Christoph what he thought about this peculiarity. Is something just as genuine if it is shared with any person that passes by? What about selection and sincerity? I understand his motive is to bring people to a compassionate level, but the cynics of this world might see right through his positive pumping device. Am I a cynic?
Dolores Egg Toss
Every town has its annual Festivities in which all the chilluns come out to play the wacky games, giggle and drink cheap Root Beer Floats. Me and my traveling companion were lucky enough to fall upon such a town at such an instance and dominate their Annual Egg Toss until all the 9 and under ones were sobbing over their failures. Okay, okay, maybe we didn't make any young ones cry but we did beat the town Firefighters in a close egg toss, catapulting our egg nearly 40 yards and catching it with such grace, it coulda been a baby's head.
August 11 SCHEDULE OF EVENTS
Pancake Breakfast 6:30 am
Crafts and Food Booths All Day
Softball Tournament All Day
Mountain Bike Race 9:45 am
Parade 10 am
Galloping Goose Rides 11 to 3 pm -on the hour
Chain Saw contest 11 am
Stomp Rockets 11:30 am
Water Balloon Toss 11:45 am
Arm Wrestling 1:00 pm
Penny Hunt 1:30 pm
Egg Toss 2:00 pm
Watermelon eating contest 2:30 pm
Water Fight 3:00 pm
Duck Race 3:30 pm
Esposito Hitchhiker
Just outside of Telluride, past the Conoco on 46, we saw a young man trekking the lengthy incline south and slowed to let him enter our Elantra world of Blackalicious. Elantra saved his footsteps 42 miles and he was quite pleasant to have in the hatch; he gave us some local knowledge and hope for grandmothers everywhere! (he was hitchhiking down to Mancos to visit his dear G'ma)
Surprisingly, I did not inquire the fellow about his name. Christoph pointed out to me that I am nearly annoyingly interested in names. Every story he told, my first response would be about labeling lineages - everything from pets to parents, I required a full signature. This helps me capture an image of the characters involved in a story. It is an act of engagement to me; I want to store the memory, so I need details.
One of my favorites things about my morning co-worker is his method of recounting individuals from his past with full names. Isaac Coudorea, Maggie Nelson, Chelsea VanMach, Tapanga Lawerence... He even sneezes with a name: Abignali! I think names interest me so much because they are all so different and surprising. Learning new appellations is adding words to my vocabulary. It is even fun to hear a story about a person with the exact same name of someone I already know; the unknown leaned up against something familiar tickles me.
Words, letter combinations, sounds and memory sparks are all very enlivening to me. Language, in any form, brings me to life. "Rösti" are Swiss (*) hashbrowns. "Giggerig" is loosely translated from Swiss German to Love Crazy in English. "Jein" is German slang for "Yes/No"
Maybe I am crazy but I love burnt hashbrowns! Jein me giggerig, mais me gusto Rösti Brûlé!
Pictured above are (left to right) Pygmy and Steggy
Surprisingly, I did not inquire the fellow about his name. Christoph pointed out to me that I am nearly annoyingly interested in names. Every story he told, my first response would be about labeling lineages - everything from pets to parents, I required a full signature. This helps me capture an image of the characters involved in a story. It is an act of engagement to me; I want to store the memory, so I need details.
One of my favorites things about my morning co-worker is his method of recounting individuals from his past with full names. Isaac Coudorea, Maggie Nelson, Chelsea VanMach, Tapanga Lawerence... He even sneezes with a name: Abignali! I think names interest me so much because they are all so different and surprising. Learning new appellations is adding words to my vocabulary. It is even fun to hear a story about a person with the exact same name of someone I already know; the unknown leaned up against something familiar tickles me.
Words, letter combinations, sounds and memory sparks are all very enlivening to me. Language, in any form, brings me to life. "Rösti" are Swiss (*) hashbrowns. "Giggerig" is loosely translated from Swiss German to Love Crazy in English. "Jein" is German slang for "Yes/No"
Maybe I am crazy but I love burnt hashbrowns! Jein me giggerig, mais me gusto Rösti Brûlé!
Pictured above are (left to right) Pygmy and Steggy
Green Chile Cheese Boar
After stabbing my purlicue with swiss army bottle opener, we began our ascent up a rocky switchback toward Telluride's gorgeous waterfalls. When Elantra wouldn't make it up where the big boys could go (jeeps) we parked under some nice rock coverage and trekked the rest. No more words needed here.
Surreptitious Tent Pitching
Upon the entrance of Telluride, Colorado, we were stopped for about 45 minutes. We thought for a moment there might be a quota on the town. An Audi full of rowdy women occupied our front view; they were shaking their blow-up doll man out the sunroof, waving to the construction workers. Lewis Black kept us company over the mp3 player.
Due to our unexpected delay, we arrived at the free campsite after dark to see that it was apparently FULL. Persistent travelers do not give up because of signs. We kept our cat-eyes out for an open parking spot and/or patch of dirt to erect the tent. When we finally found the perfect open space, neighbors of it came up and tried to pop our bubble: "Three people have already tried that and have been booted." Christoph kindly asked them what would be the best maneuvering we could pull so as not to be the fourth. Our new neighbors, Dave and Andy, lent us their lantern to pitch the tent as far back behind as many trees as possible. Within ten minutes, we were all set up and on our way to free illegal camping. Christoph told me to grab all my stuff and put it in the tent, and I told him I had it all. He was baffled that I had packed a Polaroid camera, two squirt guns and even a plastic lizard but failed to pack camping gear. Thankfully, he lent me a sweater and we decided not to worry about it until after we got back from town.
Fly Me to the Moon Saloon was just opening up and allowed us to check out the band before committing with a cover charge. We hopped on the foosball table and I killed him thrice. To pet his ego a little bit, I allowed him to beat me in pool a few times at The Sheridan down the street.
The walk back the tent was feasible; though we'd shared a few pitchers, we had flashlights to navigate the way. Besides, every star in the sky was shining down - every star. Had I not been so tired from the trip, I would have sat in a swing and watched for meteors.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
