1.04.2009
hf addendum
faith in things is stronger when we struggle with our understanding of them. i can't really committ unless i work through the blaspehemy.
hi fidelity
"It's what you like, not what you're like."
none of us stays the same.
who we are.
what we want.
how we act.
i have been insecure. i have been content. i have been outrageous. i have been angry. i have been happy. i have been distant. i have been cruel. i have been good. but i've never been all of them at the same time.
how i act, what i want from life, and how i navigate the world around me:
these things are always changing.
but i have always loved istening to music, reading a book in a day, eating great food, and being friends with people who are what they are.
my life will be with someone who likes what i like. not necessarily someone i always like.
none of us stays the same.
who we are.
what we want.
how we act.
i have been insecure. i have been content. i have been outrageous. i have been angry. i have been happy. i have been distant. i have been cruel. i have been good. but i've never been all of them at the same time.
how i act, what i want from life, and how i navigate the world around me:
these things are always changing.
but i have always loved istening to music, reading a book in a day, eating great food, and being friends with people who are what they are.
my life will be with someone who likes what i like. not necessarily someone i always like.
10.29.2008
9.25.2008
triple threat
so today i engaged in email exchanges with 3 people who have the same name in 3 different email strands. all tied into similar subjects.
it got a little hairy for a while.
nothing sketchy, bumpy, or oozy.
but definitely hairy.
it got a little hairy for a while.
nothing sketchy, bumpy, or oozy.
but definitely hairy.
9.23.2008
you are what you love
her stomach hurt when she noticed the lightening bug. it blinked through the last yellow flower of summer. at first, she didn't know if it was anger or bobbie's dairy dip. both tended to make her want to hold her gut and rock in place. and sometimes she simply did.
but not on this greenway.
not near these train tracks.
and not with him, yet.
"really. what would you have done if she had told you how she was doing when you asked? i just don't get why people do that. it makes no sense," he said, five steps ahead.
"what?" she had quit listening when she saw the lightening bug glow.
she looked at his shoulders; they were tight and high. his hands were in the pockets of his grey pants. and he was still walking away toward the light post. that was as far as he would go tonight.
"huh? oh. i would have listened." she returned to the moment.
"really? that's stupid. why do people walk by and ask, 'how ya doin?' no one really cares."
"i would have listened," she replied and almost sat down. indian-style was best. she could always get her arms wrapped more tightly around her waist when she rocked like that. "people are interesting," she said to no one but herself.
she wanted to be held in his palm like a kid does a lightening bug.
she wanted to go back and get the burger instead of a hot dog.
she wanted to be anything but stupid in this last summer space.
instead, she pulled the yellow flower from its stalk, watched him slap the light post to return, and let go of everything she loved about summer.
but not on this greenway.
not near these train tracks.
and not with him, yet.
"really. what would you have done if she had told you how she was doing when you asked? i just don't get why people do that. it makes no sense," he said, five steps ahead.
"what?" she had quit listening when she saw the lightening bug glow.
she looked at his shoulders; they were tight and high. his hands were in the pockets of his grey pants. and he was still walking away toward the light post. that was as far as he would go tonight.
"huh? oh. i would have listened." she returned to the moment.
"really? that's stupid. why do people walk by and ask, 'how ya doin?' no one really cares."
"i would have listened," she replied and almost sat down. indian-style was best. she could always get her arms wrapped more tightly around her waist when she rocked like that. "people are interesting," she said to no one but herself.
she wanted to be held in his palm like a kid does a lightening bug.
she wanted to go back and get the burger instead of a hot dog.
she wanted to be anything but stupid in this last summer space.
instead, she pulled the yellow flower from its stalk, watched him slap the light post to return, and let go of everything she loved about summer.
9.14.2008
all i ever need to know
since middle school, i have loved robert fulghum. i am not into the inspirational, but i am into the personal essay. and he writes them well. in his book "maybe (maybe not)", he ends an essay with this question:
"how will you know if someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?"
i like this.
it asks me to consider my needs.
i can easily answer questions of expectation.
all of us can. turn on a television. ask a neighbor.
we all know what to expect of love.
but, what do we really need?
"how will you know if someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?"
i like this.
it asks me to consider my needs.
i can easily answer questions of expectation.
all of us can. turn on a television. ask a neighbor.
we all know what to expect of love.
but, what do we really need?
curtains!
i'm heading back to the classroom in october. partly b/c i'm just sick in the head and partly because i have an unwavering faith in the power of human connection.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
8.27.2008
paranoid android
at a fall astronomy lecture, i took some notes that i found in a drawer i throw old journals in. all my life on little scraps of paper in 2 drawers.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
8.20.2008
sharon rose
my great-grandfather spent the 1930's collecting sharon rose depression glass. it's baby pink: rose patterned. duh.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
8.19.2008
queen of the surface streets
i never knew that heaven
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
white wedding
this morning when i was walking from my parking lot to the garage, there was this white balloon floating about 2 feet from the ground. it was on a ribbon that someone had curled at the end, and it wasn't an egg shaped balloon. it was shaped like an orange.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
8.06.2008
sestina, baby part duex
sestinas are fun. i've played with them before on here.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
7.28.2008
shouldn't be ashamed
if you thought last week's library selections were frightening... you were wrong. i LOVED them both. this week's however, fall in the self-help category and therefore engender true embarassment. hopefully, the FBI isn't checking my records for homeland security b.s. cause then i'd have to admit i suck at relationships.
7.21.2008
faithless, the wonder boy
what i've checked out from the library this week.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
7.17.2008
don't change your plans
i am not creative right now.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
6.17.2008
my boyfriend's back and your gonna get in trouble
so i was just chatting with a co-worker about office politics and what not, and i noticed that she had this faux album cover of the pixies dolittle. one of my favorite records of all time.
i see the album cover and bust out, "a friend of mine has some of those by the same artist. wait, my boyfriend does."
she says, "freudian, much?"
conversation ensues to resolve that it's not freudian.
it's just gay to say boyfirend at the age of 32.
except it's not gay, because gay people got ALL the grown up words for boyfriend.
even though there are only 2.
partner and lover.
those are grown-up words.
what the hell?
when does the statute of limitations run out on the word boyfriend?
i see the album cover and bust out, "a friend of mine has some of those by the same artist. wait, my boyfriend does."
she says, "freudian, much?"
conversation ensues to resolve that it's not freudian.
it's just gay to say boyfirend at the age of 32.
except it's not gay, because gay people got ALL the grown up words for boyfriend.
even though there are only 2.
partner and lover.
those are grown-up words.
what the hell?
when does the statute of limitations run out on the word boyfriend?
5.19.2008
house of cards
last summer a friend and i were telling stories about growing up in the pre-digital world. i explained summer months in a pin oak tree with a book or a journal, hiding from my brother. he spent his winter months on the living room floor building houses of cards.
i thought that this was super weird and challenged him on the story.
who really sits around doing nothing long enough to build a house of cards?
turns out he did. and was in the guinness book of world records for making one with the most cards, ever. with a 1979 article from the Omaha paper, my friend proved that people really do spend ridiculous amounts of time on meaningless constructs, and the world takes notice.
last night, someone else and i were also telling stories about growing up. i spoke of my pin oak, and he talked his neighborhood on the lake, the freedom of swimming pool baths and no underwear in july.
in this conversation, i added on to the house of cards that i have built. rooms of families and other relationships arranged with such delicate mortar, that they are hard to keep upright in an honest conversation. i made no mention of brazillian voices, hallway pacing, or the squirrel on a fence.
later on his couch, in the fold of a blue silk dress over green corduroy, i got tired of arranging hearts, diamonds and spades in a scaffold that keeps falling. i have wasted too much of what i've been dealt in the neighborhood of "right things to do". too much of these places are done in with one breath. one word. or one squirrel.
i'm quitting card games.
what comes next will be forged from pin oak.
maybe something with a roof to tell secrets on.
and for sure, there's gonna be a fence that i can see over.
i'm chasing that fucking squirrel back into his own yard.
i thought that this was super weird and challenged him on the story.
who really sits around doing nothing long enough to build a house of cards?
turns out he did. and was in the guinness book of world records for making one with the most cards, ever. with a 1979 article from the Omaha paper, my friend proved that people really do spend ridiculous amounts of time on meaningless constructs, and the world takes notice.
last night, someone else and i were also telling stories about growing up. i spoke of my pin oak, and he talked his neighborhood on the lake, the freedom of swimming pool baths and no underwear in july.
in this conversation, i added on to the house of cards that i have built. rooms of families and other relationships arranged with such delicate mortar, that they are hard to keep upright in an honest conversation. i made no mention of brazillian voices, hallway pacing, or the squirrel on a fence.
later on his couch, in the fold of a blue silk dress over green corduroy, i got tired of arranging hearts, diamonds and spades in a scaffold that keeps falling. i have wasted too much of what i've been dealt in the neighborhood of "right things to do". too much of these places are done in with one breath. one word. or one squirrel.
i'm quitting card games.
what comes next will be forged from pin oak.
maybe something with a roof to tell secrets on.
and for sure, there's gonna be a fence that i can see over.
i'm chasing that fucking squirrel back into his own yard.
5.14.2008
communication breakdown
when i taught creative writing, i was a hag for precision in language. never say tree, make it oak or ash. avoid the word angry, instead write blushing necks and the tightening of a shoulder. i was intent on the idea that words had to be exact to communicate what is felt, known, or believed. only in detailed language could we ever convey the truth in what we are.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
5.12.2008
quote of the day
"Art and love are the same thing: it's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It's understanding the unreasonable."
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
favor
i needed to do myself one of these and not have said the first thing that flies out of my mouth. i did that wayyyy too many times at steeplechase.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
