Movies of Myself

Hauntings

Do you believe in ghosts? 

This is a question that I find myself asking people often, especially with Halloween just around the corner. Even though I simply cannot bear to watch scary movies and am quite unwilling to suffer the weeks of sleepless nights that come after I read a horror novel, I absolutely love to hear people's real life encounters with the supernatural. I get the chills when I hear these tales, but there is something in their stark simplicity, in the very telling of them, that I find powerfully compelling. So I will often ask, "do you believe"? More often than not the answer is "I don't know." But every once in a while someone will quietly reply, "Well, I have seen a ghost." All my senses move into high alert mode and I focus every molecule of my attention on them and let me tell you, I have heard some stories.

For instance, the girl who would repeatedly hear someone calling her name in what she knew was an empty house and would often feel some unseen thing brush up against her in the shower. And someone once told me of how for months their sister would have her bed covers forcibly yanked away from her and onto the ground by some unseen presence. She would sometimes wake with scratches all over her arms. And recently a friend described a night just a couple of weeks back when her young son refused to go to sleep because "the man in the corner" of his room wouldn't go away. She found out the next morning that a good friend of theirs had died in a car accident moments before the incident. Okay, I am seriously creeping myself out right now. 

And yet I am fascinated. So, do you believe? Do you have your own stories to tell? Leave a comment or email me. I want to hear them all.

Update: How timely! I woke up to a link from one of my Twitter contacts to a story in the Washington Post about some of today's best horror writers and their favorite scary stories.

Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas.

A picture, a poem and a song for autumn:

"Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell"
by: Marty McConnell

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

I Like What You Say - Nada Surf

Since You Already Know It

A picture, a poem and a song for summer:

Silence
by: Hayden Carruth

Sometimes we don't say anything. Sometimes
       we sit on the deck and stare at the masses of
goldenrod where the garden used to be
       and watch the color change from day to day,
the high yellow turning to mustard and at last
       to tarnish. Starlings flitter in the branches
of the dead hornbeam by the fence. And are these
       therefore the procedures of defeat? Why am I
saying all this to you anyway since you already
       know it? But of course we always tell
each other what we already know. What else?
       It's the way love is in a late stage of the world.

Motorcycle Drive By - Third Eye Blind

Queneau

via Thomas Guest

What is this strange and beautiful book? It's a copy of French poet Raymond Queneau's Cent mille milliards de poèmes (One hundred million million poems). According to the bevrowe.info page on the Sonnets:

Queneau’s Cent Mille Milliards de Poèmes is derived from a set of ten basic sonnets. In his book, published in 1961, they are printed on card with each line on a separated strip, like a heads-bodies-and-legs book. All ten sonnets have the same rhyme scheme and employ the same rhyme sounds. As a result, any line from a sonnet can be combined with any from the other nine, giving 1014 (= 100,000,000,000,000) different poems. Working twenty-four hours a day, it would you take some 140,000,000 years to read them all.

How cool is that? The sonnets have been translated into English and the site even has a page where you can view randomized sonnet combinations or make specific medleys of your own. This is the first one I put together. The Sonnets themselves are both fanciful and unusual, so they make for a great creative pool to wade into.

Far Along In the Story

I first discovered W.S. Merwin as a translator of Neruda. It wasn't until a couple of years after that I realized he was a breathtaking and powerful poet in his own right. His work, much like Neruda's, speaks with an almost impossible longing and beauty about things great and small. He writes with less surface passion, but the words ring deep and true. It is a slow burn. His latest collection, The Shadow of Sirius, is simply remarkable.

Near Field
W.S. Merwin

This is not something new or kept secret
the tilled ground unsown in late spring
the dead are not separate form the living
each has one foot in the unknown
and cannot speak for the other
the field tells none of its turned story
it lies under its low cloud like a waiting river
the dead made this out of their hunger
out of what they had been told
out of the pains and shadows
and bowels of animals
out of turning and
coming back singing
about another time

So soldier on, soldier on.

A picture, a poem and a song for spring:

Portrait of a Lady
by: William Carlos Williams

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—As if that answered
anything.—Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—
Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
—the petals from some hidden
appletree—Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

Fitz and the Dizzyspells - Andrew Bird

02.14.09

but if a living dance upon dead minds
why,it is love;but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic,or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe, love's also there:
and being here imprisoned,tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget,perish, sleep
cannot be photographed,measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?
                                                                )Love

by: e.e. cummings

So wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune.

A picture, a poem and a song for winter:

Tree
by: Jane Hirshfield

It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.

Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.

That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books-

Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.

Song Of Our So-Called Friend - Okkervil River

Busy, Busy Town

I recently bought a copy of Richard Scarry's Best First Book Ever! for Elysa and Kristen. Richard Scarry books were favorites of mine all when I was growing up, and the Pod also asked for them continuously at storytime. I loved his illustrations and all of the charming animal characters that populated his busy towns. My imagination ran wild when I was little and I found it difficult to differentiate the reality of books from that of the world I actually lived in. Of course these cats and pigs and bears went to school, docked tugboats and shopped for radishes at a produce stand. Of course the worm wore a feathered cap. "Rainbow pencil car," I pronounced, invisibly underlining the words with my finger. "That's what I want to drive when I grow up."

I fell openly in love with the Scarry illustrated dictionary we used in my second grade classroom. It was a thick, handsome hardcover volume and I took to ignoring the regular lessons, preferring to pore through the bright and irreverent alphabetized pages, day after day. For Christmas that year I declared to my grandparents that I would very much like to buy a dictionary. That was easy enough, they thought, But of course, none of the painfully dull non-Scarry children's dictionaries would do (I'm guessing the book I sought was a special edition done up for schools.) "The one I want has a bear in a green suit!" I insisted, to my grandparent's beffudlement. "It has pickle cars!"

Think of all the things you did and could have done.

A picture, a poem and a song for fall:

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
by Dan Albergotti, The Boatloads

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

Leaving So Soon - Keane

Buoyancy

I have several copies of this poetry collection, one of the few books I read regularly. I turn to it, and my other Coleman Barks translations of Rumi, almost religiously; with both faith and fervor. These words must be read repeatedly, so fleeting is the feeling they contain. They remind you constantly to live, and that fire dies out so easily in the drizzle of our everyday lives. Each time I turn the pages, they nudge me right into life again.

I keep one copy in a breakdroom drawer at work, for afternoon inspiration. Three weeks ago I saw it on the lunch table and figured that one of my co-workers was flipping through it. This past week I found a small stack of loose leaf papers in the drawer, with bunches and snippets of the poetry hand-copied on both sides.

I finally realized that our dear refugee is using the Rumi as writing practice. She's enrolled in an English language class which meets several times per week and, in addition to filling out the vocabulary and grammar worksheets she's constantly poring over, she's been writing out pieces from my book.

I wonder if she understands a single word of it. In a way, it's perfect. To learn letters by rewriting the modern adaptation of the words of a 13th century Sufi mystic. There is poetry, there is life, in this. "Does sunset sometimes look like the sun's coming up?" What could this say to her? Last week she asked us what "if" means. I want to say, it means to keep asking.

We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.

And when I see you, I really see you upside down.

A picture, a poem and a song for summer*.

Question
by: May Swenson

Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift
how will I hide?

A Lack of Color - Death Cab For Cutie

*I know. It's not warm and bright and ardent like summer should be. But this is my least favorite season, and there are very few moments when I understand it. We are merely tolerant of each other.

strange lights

I have come upon something wonderful: the work of the poet Jean Valentine, especially her latest publication: Little Boat.

Her poems are brief and keen and to the point. What point? It's not clear. I am never sure what she is saying, but I always feel exactly what she is saying. Yet, the poems change each time I read them. It's so easy to emphasize one line over another, this word or that syllable, and the very face of the poem changes, the very heart. 

The poem shown in this photo, which I've copied into my commonplace book of poetry is my favorite from the book, but there are many others that call me insistently back to their pages.

When she told me


When she told me over the telephone you died
I lay down and cried, "Don't you stop loving me."

In the West Side Market, I heard your voice
from the ceiling say out loud to me, I love you.

In the park, to a chestnut tree,
to the light through hundreds of leaves, I said, I love you.

It was you.          And it was my life, run, to what,
-----you closer than touch.

The Sound of Life's Sweet Bells

I've been thinking a lot about gratitude.

This is the first time in my life I have finally started learning to be properly grateful. Grateful not just for particular people, objects or happenings, but thankful as well for the countless other things which each treasured item is connected to.

I'm thankful for the ridiculous cotton hobo purse I've been carrying with the oranges and pears printed on it because a stranger stopped me in the street to exclaim that it made her feel like Spring, and that in turn made me happy for the gladsome tone of her voice when she said the word "pears", for the sun on our faces, for the shiny red bicycle that happened to be sailing past right then, for the time J and I rode our new bikes to get apple pie and milkshakes at Twohey's and on the way back I completely blanked on how to engage the brake and wiped out on a brick planter and the whole time I was yelping, "Oh no nonononooo nonoooooo."

The connections flow one after the other, like some dam has burst and so now beauty flows into every damn corner. The gratitude for so many things surprises me constantly. The gratitude for the connections themselves is like a little mushroom cottage I step into again and again.

I've been thinking, too, about how little we know and understand how these countless connections tangle together to make up our lives. I'm trying to stop cursing the bad things that come and go so harshly--precisely because of that. Because they go. And because something that makes you cry out in fear and pain today will somehow, just like the most gorgeous sunny day, hook onto a million other things swimming around you. And eventually you'll look back and think thank God that happened because I wouldn't have made it right here otherwise. I'm trying to stop judging things that happen. (Except for the person who keeps stealing/throwing away my tea stuff at work. Because that is just diabolical. You know that afternoon tea makes my day. And congrats on only taking the filter part of my glass pot. Sophia gave that to me, so I am justifiably enraged. Your days are numbered.)

There's no time to judge. I have to jump into the fray and just keep up. Last Saturday morning I had fresh juice but I'd run out of bread. It was a perfectly warm morning and I was excited about the Kentucky Derby and about Maker Faire. I literally jumped for joy onto my bed to open the window. Only I misjudged the distance and kicked the shit out of my foot against the wooden bedframe. I think I stood for 10 minutes on the mattress muttering "holy fuck" and looking painfully out into a lovely day. I iced my sprained toe down with popsicles while I caught up with friends on the phone.

This has all made me more conscious of how I spend my time, has made me more willing to take everything in, even if I'm just watching What Not To Wear. It has made me keep yanking myself back into now, because I tend towards dreaminess and drifting off like an unclutched balloon. Right now I am about to leave for the library, I am feeling guilty for wanting to buy more bottled water, I am typing out this long poem at the end of an already overlong post and hoping that you are having a very good now:

Lead
by: Mary Oliver

Here is a story
to break
your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

Diving into the Ocean

A picture, a poem and a song for Spring:

Diary [Surface]
by: Rachel Zucker

Spring is not so very promising as it is the thing
that looking back was fire, promising:
ignition, aspiration; it was not under my thumb.

Now when I pretend a future it is the moment
he holds the thing I say new-born,
delicate, sure to begin moving but

I am burned out of it like the melody underneath
(still not under my thumb)--
was he ambiguous, amphibian?

Underneath, his voice, the many ways
he gathers oxygen; it will not stop raining
until the buds push through the brittle trees.

If they fail we will not survive,
washed and washed with rain, will we?
No,we are not there yet.

She is pushing me two ways until
I am inside the paradox, the many lungs,
and they're at it again, gathering oxygen;

no wonder I am wrung out
holding out for the promise of
something secret, after--

Too Late - M83 - It was Jen who first introduced me to M83 a few years ago so I have her to thank still for the absolutely jaw-dropping beauty of this song from their upcoming release, Saturdays = Youth. This is one of those that you have to put on repeat and listen to for ages, early in the morning or in the middle of the night.

Now Is The Time

Of all the things I worked on for Thing-a-Day 2008, this is my favorite:

It features a quote from Horace's Odes, "Nunc Est Bibendum", which is translated as "Now is the time for drinking". If you leave it at that I think this would make a really fun and glib print to hang in your bar area, and the phrase makes an excellent toast.

However, the original extended version of the quote reads: "Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero pulsanda tellus" or "Now is the time for drinking, now the time to dance footloose upon the earth." It's a compelling thought; something I want to keep at the forefront of my mind. I spoke with another Thing-a-Day participant about living in wise indulgence; an "eat dessert first" philosophy. It inspired me to make this poster and also a matching print:

"Nec mora, nec requies" is the proper response to "Nunce est bibendum" and it's translated as "Neither delay, nor rest".  I think it's damn cool that there's a proper response. The reason why I love these quotes is because of their bracing and sincere carpe diem perspective; drinking, dancing and enjoying everything you can now. Rousing yourself and others to remember to do what you can with what you have in this moment, whether that is carousing, working or resting.

Versions of this quote are all around us. From the Bible: "Eat and drink, for tomorrow we die!" One of my favorite lines from Braveheart: "Every man dies. Not every man really lives." From Virgil's Minor Poems: "Death twitches my ear 'Live,' he says, 'I am coming'". This thought is always there, always making us just a bit restless while we're preoccupied with the little tasks that make up our days. It is up to us to hear it out, and to do so now.
 

I'm Going Out Sleepwalking

A picture, a song and a poem for Winter:

2:45 a.m. - Elliott Smith

Snow
by: Louise Glück

Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.

Por Toda A Minha Vida

I've begun to fulfill a longtime dream. (How often do you get to say that?) I'm learning Portuguese! Last week I started my mission to work through all three levels of the Rosetta Stone system and so far it's been pretty cool. It will be nigh on impossible to gain fluency just studying on my own, but I think I'll still learn a ton. Maybe I'll just have to travel to Lisbon or São Paulo afterwards.

The desire to learn this language first came to me in high school when Sophia and I used to drive around after school listening to Bossa Nova cassette tapes that our friend Chuck had copied for us. These were probably dubs of dubs of dubs, full of satisfying pops and crackles. We had never heard anything like this before and we fell instantly in love. I wanted to understand what these artists were trying to say. I could feel it, but I needed the words:

Águas de Março - Antonio Carlos Jobim

Insensatez -João Gilberto

Since then I actually attempted Portuguese classes a couple of times, but something always got in the way. Then recently a couple of things inspired me to finally just do this thing already.

I was talking over some unpleasantness with my Brazilian friend Ea; beautiful Ea, sweeter than a sugar lump. 

b: And I couldn't explain myself. She just could not see things that way because she hadn't gone through all that.

e: Of course she would not understand. Pimenta no cu dos outros é mel!

b: What does that mean?

e: Literally it means that pepper in someone else's asshole is honey to you.

b: ....

e: Because she doesn't know how hard it was for you, see? She feels fine, but she didn't face it.

b: But....but. Ea, what does that have to do with putting a pepper in someone's ass???

I decided that I HAD to learn this language :) But on a more serious note, what truly decided things for me was saudade.

Saudade. A word that's almost impossible to translate from the Portuguese but basically describes a sort of hopeless longing for the things which are lost to you. The A.F.G. Bell book In Portugal puts it best at:

The famous saudade of the Portuguese is a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist, for something other than the present, a turning towards the past or towards the future; not an active discontent or poignant sadness but an indolent dreaming wistfulness.

It reminds me of the feeling you get when you listen to an amazing sad song. It's beautiful isn't it, but the kaleidoscope of feeling it brings, some of that is definitely saudade. Think of your favorite breakup song. That feeling. The Portuguese have a single word that describes that. There's no way I'm not learning this.

Different Names for the Same Thing

Prayer
by: Galway Kinnell

Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.

Can I please buy you a drank?

Words and/or phrases I want to start using more:

• son of a bee sting

• tubule

• homunculus

• buy you a drank

• bane of my existence

• plebeian

• juice club burned down

• lambast

• some girl's panty room

• MacGuffin

• skedaddle

Life Line

It's National Poetry Month again!

And I am most definitely in the mood for poems. I've slipped back into reading mode and it's a wonderful thing. Go dig up one of your favorite poems (or two) and look at them again. If you don't have one, maybe I can be of assistance.

One of my favorite things about National Poetry Month is the Poem-A-Day feature from poets.org. A featured poem, delivered through email, each day. Today's poem haunts with a shadowed beauty, and leaves me looking forward to more:

Letter Home
by: Pamela Alexander

I can’t write you because everything’s
wrong. Before dawn, crows swim
from the cedars: black coffee calls them down,
its bitter taste in my throat as they circle,
raucous, huge. Questions with no
place to land, they cruise yellow air
above crickets snapping
like struck matches. My house on fire, crows

are the smoke. You’ve never left me. 
When you crossed the river you did not
call my name. I stood in tall grass
a long time, listening to birds
hidden in reeds, their intricate songs.

The grass will burn, the wrens, 
the river and the rain that falls on it. 
I can go nowhere else: everything
I cannot bear is here.

I must listen deeper. Sharpen my knife. 
Something has changed the angles
of trees, their color. Do not wait to hear
from me. I cannot write to you
because this is what I will say.

Happy First Day of Spring

**First a picture:

**Then a song: Spring Released - Grant Lee Phillips

A groovy, goofy and whimsical song that I've fired up at the beginning of every springtime since 2001. So catchy! Damn, this floor is thumpin'.

**And finally, a poem, all sweeping loveliness.

From Blossoms
by Li-Young Lee

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

A word to say about things today and fallen leaves.

A Picture:

A poem:

Waves in August
by W.S. Merwin

There is a war in the distance
with the distance growing smaller
the field glasses lying at hand
are for keeping it far away

I thought I was getting better
about that returning childish
wish to be living somewhere else
that I knew was impossible
and now I find myself wishing
to be here to be alive here
it is impossible enough
to still be the wish of a child

in youth I hid a boat under
the bushes beside the water
knowing I would want it later
and come back and would find it there
someone else took it and left me
instead the sound of the water
with its whisper of vertigo

terror reassurance an old
old sadness it would seem we knew
enough always about parting
but we have to go on learning
as long as there is anything

and a song:

River Man - Nick Drake

Movies of Myself Lexicon II

More general unhealthiness on the Beckie Tran front, so I've gone into non-socialization mode for a couple of days. But I can still imagine talking to you guys, and these are the phrases I'd use. More macros, for your pleasure:

Upset Stomach, Diarrhea! - Please, please tell me you've seen this commercial for Pepto Max. We cannot play chinese jump rope together anymore if you haven't seen it. It's utterly bizarre and ingenious. Why is Paul Bunyan terrorizing people? And how does a robot come down with indigestion? This macro is used when a difficult situation presents: a: She hasn't returned either of my emails and her cell phone is suddenly disconnected. b: Upset stomach, diarrhea! **bonus points if you actually perform the diarrhea butt grab.

So am I!! - Under the Specialties column at Dusita's Thai restaurant you'll find two interesting items: Chicken Run (But not fast enough) is one of them. Har, har. Corny, but slightly amusing. Then there's Duck Run (So am I!!). What? What is the meaning of this? I've given it a lot of thought, and for the life of me I cannot figure it out. It's the perfect all-purpose macro: v: There's too much whip cream on this frappuccino. t: So am I!!   or  b: I mean, who doesn't want a sexier baby? j: So am I!!

Up Shit Creek - I haven't heard this phrase in so long that when I randomly said it to Chris this past weekend I shocked myself into utter merriment. We were discussing what would happen if Rivoli shut down so, yes, this macro is best used when something harmful, but non-fatal, occurs. t: Get me the 7-Up. w: I bought Sierra Mist. Is that okay? t: It is when you've drifted up shit creek!

The capitol of Jabooty is Jabooty. - I was surprised to see this Coke ad on tv again this week. Shante first started saying this to me last August. But this can't be the original source of this phrase. Does anyone know where it actually comes from? It's a good retort, in myriad forms, when someone says something tres obvious: v: These marshmallows are so soft. b: I know. I bought them in Jabooty.  And yes, I am aware that it's actually Djibouti. So am I!!

Ghost Ride the Whip - Celeste introduced me to this hifey phrase, describing lunatic car shit that people in the Bay Area attempt when they are feeling way too fast and furious for their own good. Apparently it's one of her nicknames, which I think is hilarious. Use as a synonym for "cool": n: They're carrying Heinz Salad Cream again at Safeway! b: Yes!! Ghost ride the whip!

Coca-cola chicken kentucky fried cheese yes - Kerry told me about this Kevin and Bean segment in which they interview "Anthony Kiedis" (Ralph). In order to mock the sometimes nonsensical RHCP lyrics, Ralph replies to all of their questions with one word answers prefaced by a string of tomfoolery. This was one of those strings. K&b: Are you excited about the tour? AK/R: Coca-cola chicken kentucky fried cheese yes. Another multi-functioning phrase to add to your Swiss Army knife of macros. God, I'm just passing them out left and right toay!

Juice is soft - Remember the jingle for Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum? Good old o.g. Juicy Fruit (none of that Strappleberry junk for me!). Well, I always thought the chorus went "Juicy Fruit it's gonna move ya. Juice is soft, it gets right to ya!" I asked Chris and James recently, "Why is the juice soft?? How can juice be soft?" That's like saying "the pink hug" or "a sour scream". It almost makes sense, but falls short. I've posed this question now to many people but have yet to find a satisfactory answer. I did however, remind people that there are lyrics to this jingle besides the chorus. Magnificent lyrics. Remember this?

Get your skiis shined up,

grab a stick of Juicy Fruit,

the taste is gonna move ya.

Take a sniff, pull it out,

the taste is gonna move ya when you pop it in your mouth!

Juicy Fruit, it's gonna move ya.

Juice is soft, it gets right to ya.

Juicy Fruit, the taste, the taste, the taste is gonna move ya!

Oh! I almost forgot to explain macro usage here. "Juice is soft" describes something pleasant, pretty or cute. I.e.: j: Tyler is a sweetheart. b: He's a tidal wave of adorableness. Juice is soft. t: Juice is so soft.

Quiero hacer contigo

A poem for Valentine's Day, 2007

What first brought me to Pablo Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair? Was it Sophia? Was it Chuck? In any case, what started with "Tonight I can write the saddest lines..." became years and years of devouring every Neruda poem I could get my hands on. But I always come back to this collection, written when Neruda was just 19. Bold, impetuous, equivocal, tortured, histrionic, raw, cavalier--everything that the young feel about love, to the fervent extent that only the young can appear to feel it. But not many 19 year olds (not many people of any age) can express these feelings quite like this. Here Neruda paints a uniquely gorgeous, if unsubtle, picture that manages to pierce all of the senses, culminating in what I happen to think is the most perfectly erotic line in all of poetry.

          Poem 14

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Hooked on Phonics

I'm making it a goal this year to read 52 books and, although I've devoted this past week to crafting and to trying to get rope in my newly returned insomnia instead of book larnin', my reading rate is actually much higher than I anticipated. I have a good blend of classic fiction, graphic novels, historical research, FunScience and novels which are getting some buzz going right now, and I'm determined to whittle my to-read stack down to a size that isn't completely laughable (I think it's at around 75 books right now.) I've finally come to terms with the idea of setting aside time for reading. Between the ages of 8 and, I'd say, 13, I probably read at least two books a week. I was a voracious reader and I always carried a book with me. I don't expect to get to that level of reading again, but it did pain me to have to schedule reading time. It made it feel like homework and took some of the fun away. Now I look at it as making time for something that I enjoy. As I go along I'll be listing the books I've read here. I'm looking forward to a great year of literature.

January 17th

*
In Blackwater Woods
by: Mary Oliver

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifeteime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

*The poem that I had parsed out here, reprinted in full by request.

52 Books

The Goal: to Read 52 Books in 2007. Bring it! 

1) No Regrets, Crime Files Vol. 11 - Ann Rule

2) Fables: 1001 Nights of Snowfall - Bill Willingham

3) To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

4) The Best America Comics 2006

5) Let Us Be/Perfectly Clear - Paul Hornschemeier

6) Tales of Woodsman Pete - Lilli Carre

7) Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair - Pablo Neruda

8) American Born Chinese - Gene Yang

9) Will in the World - Stephen Greenblatt

10) Eclipse - Stephenie Meyer

11) Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man - James Joyce

12) Thus Spoke Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche

13) A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare: 1599 - James Shapiro

14) Lost Continent: Travels in Small Town America - Bill Bryson

15) Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen

16) The Castle of Crossed Destinies - Italo Calvino

17) King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table - Roger Lancelyn Green

18) Not In Kansas Anymore : A Curious Tale of How Magic Is Transforming America - Christine Wicker

19) Averno - Louise Glück

20) After - Jane Hirshfield

21) Pathways to Bliss - Joseph Campbell

22) Father Joe: The Man Who Saved My Soul - Tony Hendra

23) Original Fire - Louise Erdrich

24) The 5th Horseman - James Patterson

25) Dance Hall of the Dead - Tony Hillerman

26) Batman: Year One Hundred - Paul Pope

27) Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

28) City of Glass - Paul Auster

29) 300 - Frank Miller

30) Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - J.K. Rowling

31) The City in Which I Love You - Li Young Li

32) The Stone Skippers - Ian Burgham

33) The Arabian Nights: Tales from a Thousand and One Nights - Richard Burton

34) Preacher Vol.1: Gone To Texas - Garth Ennis

35) Strangers in Paradise - Terry Moore

36) Gift from the Sea - Anne Morrow Lindbergh

37) King-Cat Classix - John Porcellino

38) Candyfreak - Steve Almond

39) American Gods - Neil Gaiman

40) Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

41) Castle Waiting - Linda Medley

42) The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay - Michael Chabon

43) A Walk in the Woods - Bill Bryson

44) The Mephisto Club - Tess Gerritsen

45) The Raw Shark Texts - Steven Hall

46) Bella Tuscany - Frances Mayes

47) The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats

48) An Alchemy of Mind: The Marvel and Mystery of the Brain - Diane Ackerman

49) Letters to a Young Poet - Rainer Maria Rilke

50) Stumbling on Happiness - Daniel Gilbert

51) Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert

 

Let go the string.

My new tattoo. I originally wanted to get this placed back in June but I missed the small window of time that felt "right" to get it done. That feeling came around very strongly again recently, so this past Saturday I put everything aside and just went for it, even though my day was already packed. I managed to slide it in between a Minty Fresh job, outlet shopping in Gilroy, dinner at Arcadia and the Borat movie. It was bizarre, but I don't regret it for a single minute. For personal reasons, this tattoo was extremely important to me, not just a whim or something I thought might be cool. It turned out wonderfully, and though it's currently scab-acious and itchy as all get out, I am content.

It took 45 minutes to ink this. Forty five endless minutes of intense pain, and I have an extraordinary tolerance for pain. The artist asked me to tell a little bit about my design. So I explained that it was the image on the back cover of my favorite book of poems: Galway Kinnell's The Book of Nightmares. The first week I had this book I read it six times straight through, until it was a blur of strange and grievous beauty. And I knew that it would take the rest of my life to really understand it. In the years since then I've returned to this volume again and again. There are strophes in it that almost allow me to grasp what it means to be alive. As I explained to my Reading Triad three years ago, there is a piece in here that is the poem I want to read to my children one day. Sometimes I feel like these seventy-five pages with its red covers has all I know, and all I need to know.

The artist did not respond to this for a few minutes. He was busy filling in the solid circle, coloring like a child would with a crayon. Only forever. Then he asked if I would be able to read some of the poetry while he worked. I said I could try. So there I was, sitting on the tattoo bed next to a man getting a flaming Superman insignia inked onto his arm. And I was reading Galway Kinnell's masterpiece out loud, in a voice that skipped depending on the pressure of hot needle points tearing mercilessly into my back. There I sat, leaning lightly into the pain, my whole heart, my whole body, radiating with everything I had lost. And in that moment I knew exactly why I had needed to do this.

The witness trees heal
their scars at the flesh fire,
the flame
rises off the bones,
the hunger
to be new lifts off
my soul, an eerie blue light blooms
on all the ridges of the world.

Paperback Writer

So after some urging and much assistance, I've finally managed to reorganize my writing page in a manner that I can deal with. It barely made sense to me before, but I finally buckled down and put everything that kind of sounded "alike" together. I might go back and move a couple of the pieces around, but probably not. It seems appropriate just the way it is.

It actually felt fucking fantastic to do this, because I've been neglecting my writing completely the last couple of weeks. I've been trying, but I'm just not in the right frame of mind. I'm not worried about it; any day now I think a door will open and I'll be able to spin out a bunch of things. But I've felt so guilty because I keep showing up empty-handed to the group of folks that I write with.

Someone finally suggested that it might be helpful to me to sort through what I'd slapped together previously. I'd wanted to reorganize for a few months but just never did it. They were right. It was therapeutic and engaging and just the right thing to get me moving forward. Square one, back to the drawing board, turning to a fresh page and all of that. Just me, a pen, the empty page. And who knows what next.

Alarms at Night

I have been unable to sleep again, but not because of my usual inomnia. I get tired around a decent hour now, and I don't hate sleep. But every night I go to bed scared.

I've been reading a lot of horror stories lately. I read them deep into the night, both because they're captivating and because I'm afraid to shut my eyes once I start. This happens every once in a while. I can't watch scary movies for a single minute, but I love a good ghost story or a study about serial killers. Something crazy, freaky and violent. It doesn't matter if I don't sleep for a couple of weeks, I still feel compelled to continue.

It's worse this time, though, because of all the stories that Celeste has been telling me. It turns out that her family has some sort of bizarre uncanny history with the supernatural and in the past couple of weeks she's experienced some strange things. She used to live in a house where the members of her family would hear voices calling their names--voices they didn't recognize. This would sometimes happen when they were home alone. Last week she awoke twice with the feeling of someone pressing down on her shoulders, chest and throat. She could neither move nor speak.  And she's told me all these other things, too. Perhaps I'll elaborate in another post.Good Lord, just thinking about it right now is freaking me the hell out. 

Now, I'm not a superstitious person in the least, but I can't help but dwell on these things once darkness falls. I think it's easy to laugh these things off until you hear about them from someone you actually know. Could there be a logical explanation for the things that she's telling me? Sure, of course. But they are fascinating, and frightening, nonetheless.

Put Your Hands Into the Fire

Three Haikus for the Early Summer:

Looking through the gate
sun and water everywhere.
How do I get there?

So much left to say.
Instead I remain quiet.
Your face close to mine.

night falls suddenly
in the playground swinging high
gentle summer moon

History Never Repeats

The last few days I have been exhausted from writing. Yes, I know that sounds extremely lame. I've been working hardcore on my poetry and I'd say I'm about 75% emotionally drained at this point. And I'm just starting.

This past Saturday was my big editing day and, not coincidentally, just about the worst day I've had mentally in recent memory. I did it to myself, though. I spent hours listening to abominably sad music, hungry but not wanting to eat, reading through old poems, slowly reviewing and reliving years of depressing memories. At one point I literally thought I was going to die of sadness. Totally emo, I know. Luckily my body chose unconsciousness instead. One minute I had my padfolio and a pen in my hand and the next minute I was lying on the couch, awoken by the terrible sound of "Wegmans presents the LPGA". I told Seth about it later and he said, "Last week when I felt like shit I ended up inadvertantly watching the LPGA too." I think my t.v. automatically switched to the tournament coverage because I never would voluntarily watch the Golf channel. The LPGA must be the unavoidable soundtrack to utter crappiness.

I'm learning so much from working on this new project. A member of my writing group totally schooled me through and through:

c: So I read all the pieces you picked through.
b: Thank you! And...?
c: Why do you write?
b: Huh? Well, um because I like to. Because I always have.
c: Horrible answer. Tell me why, really.
b: Okay. Because there are things in my head that I have to get out, one way or the other.
c: You're almost there.
b: Fuck. Okay. I write because I simply have to.
c: Alright, not bad. So you'd say these poems are a good reflection of what you think and feel?
b: Yes. I do. Except now I'm afraid to say I do.
c: So now you know what I think of your poetry.
b: I'm not sure what you just said.
c: I like what I've read. I do. But you're so afraid. So much of what you've written feels like it's been painted over with a layer that covers up the full force of what you've actually got. Elaborate. Don't just say that it rained. Say that it poured for ninety-nine years and you drowned every single minute. Don't just say someone kind of sucked. Say...
b: That they hurt me more than I ever imagined possible and that the memory is still more than I can imagine or will ever be able to understand?
c: Fuck yeah, say that. What's been going on with your life lately?
b: I've been cautious. I've drawn everything into a tight circle around me and I'm terrified of letting go.
c: You don't say? Think about that.

Well, I have. I've worked with some really good constructive criticism I've received, about writing and about life. It's really damn hard. And I know it might not turn out how I like. But maybe it will. So I have to look life in the eye again and stop looking away. No more hiding. No more being afraid.

Who's up for a round of Exquisite Corpse?

It's National Poetry Month and I've been able to explore some great new work through the "Poem a Day" feature on the Academy of American Poets site. I've become especially enamored of Joshua Beckman's work. The unchecked voice of his new poems clicked with me right away, and I look forward to going through his latest book. I'm also still reading Averno and now I'm inspired to look at some Dickinson and Sexton again, and to feel the almost unbearable weight of a Yeats poem on my brain. I feel like devouring the words.

Poetry is vital to me and continues to be more and more indispensable with each passing year. In college we used to always argue about whether poetry was dead or not. Does poetry matter anymore? I used to think, woefully, no. But now, I know it does. I'm going to try to complete at least a few of the 30 ways to celebrate Poetry Month tasklets. I especially like the idea of a Commonplace Book, a personal hand-copied notebook anthology of one's favorite poems. I've printed several Commonplace Books in the past, but never actually kept one for myself.  Another great project to add to my weekend list. 

Crater Lake

Since I'm going to be gone all next week I felt like a real jerkus maximus for backing out of an SF visit I'd planned. I was regretful too; Operation Asleep By Eleven was my top priority, but after a long Friday and Saturday at work I was feeling a tad bluesy. So it was awesome to the power of awesome that Ben came down to surprise me yesterday, ready to watch some Pythons and kindly bearing some kickass presents: KFC ("panacea dirty south style") and Louise Gluck's Averno.

Huge sigh of contentedness! I have been anticipating this book for so long, but in the recent confusion had forgotten to procure it. I'm kicking myself now because it is absolutely taking my breath away. There is no modern poet whose words I relate to as instantly and completely as Gluck's. Because of this I always have insanely high expectations of her poetry; yet I am never disappointed. I'm working through the book again, but, after a first read, I truly think this might be her best work to date. The last few months I couldn't explain my own circumstances to myself. Now I open this book and read my own dark and hidden thoughts in it. I woke up at 3:30 (my witching hour) and my eyes fell on the words:

I have been lost before, I have been cold before.
The night has come to me
exactly this way, as a premonition---

I was abuzz with thoughtful pleasure all day in the afterglow of this book.

A Poem for Valentine's Day

West Wind #2
by:Mary Oliver

You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable
pounding -- when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life
toward it.

Once Upon a Time

"Tell me a story," he used to say. And I would. The story might be about what I saw in the back room at the record store, or it might be about two brothers and how they came to live in a house in the clouds. There wouldn't always be a lesson, or even an ending. But there would always be a story. And each of those tales would fold back upon itself; become part of my own story. Lately, I haven't been writing much and, when I do, the words are graceless and clumsy. I cannot say what I mean; I never mean what I say. As Murakami would say, I have a "word-searching sickness."

But it's not just the unseemliness that frustrate me. It's the dearth of material. I blame it partially on work. Talking for nine hours straight is very tiring, and at the end of that time my well is usually dry. But I feel cheated. Everything I say during the day floats for a moment and then flies heedless out the window. What is it all for, and why do I have to waste a single syllable?

My own story has been confusing lately, much more so than when I was Really Depressed. At least then I knew I'd gotten to a sad part. Right now, I can't tell. Old characters are popping up again, which they always seem to do just when you've forgotten all about them. New ones are as mysterious as ever; I've never been a good judge of people. And everyone seems to be changing. It's hard for me to reconcile all the plot twists. Sometimes I just have to let go and pick up another thread. That's how I know I'm changing, too. Things are unclear. Everything seems so important, but at the same time, day to day, it's hard to pinpoint what really matters.

To not be able to express any of this (on paper, out loud, in my head) feels wretched and unnatural. How do I know which parts to reread, what details to dwell on, which voice to speak in? How do I know what comes next? Maybe it's time to put the book back on the shelf, go outside and let the story tell itself.

Mutter, mutter

My thoughts on this week's Unconscious Mutterings:

1. Amazing::  Grace
   
2. Delights:: Untold
   
3. Inspired:: by the light of the moon
   
4. Disgusted:: toes
   
5. You:: and me forever
   
6. Vagina:: lotus in name only
7. Palm:: reader
   
8. Sweetheart:: oh, sweetheart, there is something wrong with me
   
9. Guilt:: pleasure
   
10. More to come:: and then some
    

NaNoWriMo 2005

So I'm doing it. Thirty days, 175 pages of blood, sweat and drivel. Let the games begin.

Trying to write a scene where someone gets staked and I'm singing, "Ladies leave your man at home."

So a couple of weeks ago I was thinking about some writing I'd done. People ask me sometimes, "Do you write fiction?" Yes, baby, I do. But it's bad. Oh, it's BAD.

The stories themselves aren't bad. In my head they're exciting and compelling. But in the time it takes for them to travel down my arm and onto the keyboard something sad happens. The stories get the shit punched out of them. They keep sitting by the phone, waiting for him to call after that pathetic one-night-stand. And they think they might have herpes. The words just deflate, like a balloon that you got at a birthday party a week ago. What starts out crisp and smart in my mind ends up a soggy, stinking mess, huddled on the page like an old vagrant.  It's just not in me to tell these stories yet. I wonder if it will ever be.

I believe that the stories we have inside of us are always interesting, though, and surprising, too. I've probably got the characters, backgrounds and plots for roughly four or five books of two different series. One is young-adult fantasy and the other is modern supernatural/horror, and, let me tell you, I think I really got something goin' on with the last series. Because I'm compelled to write it with some comedy thrown in, and it's fast-paced and emotional and interesting.

It's sad though, because the last time I worked on this stuff was at the very end of 2002. That's three damn years ago! [I'm a failure.] That's why I was so surprised to find all my notes and rough drafts still intact in their respective notebooks in my old closet at my parent's house this past weekend. It was like coming upon an unexpected treasure. I told myself, again, "I really have to do something with this!"

I've realized that the story I want to tell would best be expressed in graphic novel format. And I don't know how to draw. [That sucks.] So I should really do something else with it. Like maybe learn how to write. And especially to learn to write without having music in the background. Because it ends up really influencing me, only I don't have any cds that would be appropriate for a modern, wicked, scary, funny vampire story. All my indie pop would just make the story exceedingly lame. And what else do I have? Hip-hop? Talib Kweli, Beyonce and bloodsuckers, anyone?

Don't sound like no sonnet, my lord

A couple of weeks ago Caroline was talking about how Skorn's dream job was to be a movie director. "That was my dream job in high school!", I exclaimed.

Now my dream job is to be a poet. But it's weird. Is "poet" a real job title nowadays? It seems like all of our great modern poets are also professors. I'm not sure you can just write poems anymore and leave it at that. So it makes it even more of a dream.

The funniest thing about writing poetry is how, at least for me, the ability to do it well is completely governed by time. Skill is very much tied to wisdom and experience, and the time it takes for this skill to come to fruition is unique to each poet. I've been writing poems since I was 10 years old and it was only this past year that I started to write poems that I didn't absolutely hate. All the hundreds of poems I've written in the past were atrocious, and I knew it,  even as I was writing them. It was the best I could do at the time. I didn't have it in me to write good, or even decent, poetry at that time; the ability was still too young in me. I had a roomful of little doors that guarded the way to all the "real" poems in my head, but I did not have a single key to any of the doors. So frustrating. "Time, I need time," I kept thinking.

I knew that I would improve, the older I got and the more I knew. The more I lived. It was a feeling of absolute certainty. I would improve (but oh, at what a price.) And about three or four years ago I started to write a little better. Each of the years since I've gotten hold of a couple of keys. Life began to tumble around, and the keys began to fall from hidden corners. I met people who showed me how to open some of the doors with the lightest touch--miraculous. The voice I wrote in changed. I began to want to hear it speak. This is what I had waited for, and finally enough time had passed to set things in motion.

Now I've settled into the waiting. I'm glad that the improvement has finally begun, though I realize the process will probably continue as long as I live, and I will always want more. And I'm grateful for it. Poetry is a gift I've been given. Not a creative gift of skill that I have, mind you (my poems are still woefully lacking.) That's not what I'm talking about. But the gift of its experience is mine to enjoy; a beautiful present that has arrived at my door, for no reason at all, except to reflect the vast and consuming wonder of life.

And, as I start to write it a little better, I also begin to realize what poetry is. I came home from work today and looked out the window. I put some books on a shelf and listened to the Jonathan Rice album (just lovely.) Drank a Pellegrino Limonata and researched a vacation. I talked to some old friends. I thought about how little of our days we actually remember. I put three new poems I'd written in a stack with some older ones. That's poetry (everything).

Mi parolas Esperanton. Sort of.

Some of you might remember when I was tryint to learn Esperanto, the International Language, from an e-book. That didn't pan out quite as smoothly as I'd hoped, but it did provide a few chuckles.

Now I've found a neat little site that relays Esperanto basics in a very entertaining fashion, employing a bizarro alien creature named Zam as everyone's loveable Esperanto teacher.

Some might say that Esperanto was a futile and naively idealistic undertaking. But after looking at this list of Esperanto terms which includes:

• Your bed is very comfortable. Via lito estas tre komfortiga.
• I work like a Japanese beaver. Mi laboras kiel japana kastoro.
• and, of course, the ever-useful He has big nostrils. Li havas grandajn naztruojn.

I'm basically hooked again. Vivi Esperanton!

If you have a mohllet, please send pictures!!!

I love dogs, especially my Sweet Baby James, but god do I hate dog shows. Yesterday the world famous Westminster Dog Show was on and I certainly didn't watch it, but the Pod and I did view a Yahoo slideshow of the event today just so I could see the names of the contestants. Because did you know that show dogs have the craziest ass names in the world?! Names such as: Hostile Takeover, Serious Riot, Intuition of a Dream, the Intimidator, Wicked Mean-N-Nasty and, my personal favorite, I Believe I Can Fly.

Perusing these names inspired me to finish a name game that Olivia sent me and asked me to answer on my blog. I love naming shit, so it was pretty fun. It involves listing the names I would give to:

• a sports team: the Roughriders
• a band: By the River or Bird in Hand
• a restaurant: Snow (shaved ice would be involved)
• a drink: Holy Water (not sure about the exact recipe but it would definitely involve Everclear)
• a candy: Harey Careys (bite sized chocolate chews)
• a dog: I Believe I Can Fly
• a kid: if a girl, Lyra. If a boy, Kanye.
• a book: Afternoon Tales
• a car: the Laphroiag
• a hairstyle: the Mohllet, a mohawk that turns into a mullet

I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you and I sigh.

How is it that you have to drive through Vallejo to get to Napa?

Talk about battling the dragon to get to the princess. It's like the powers that be decided that it would really enhance the stupefying loveliness of Napa to make it the sunshine after the stormy yawning hellpit of degradation that is Vallejo. The only upside of this city is that Premium gas was $2.09 a gallon. They're practically giving the shit away! Another thing they're giving away: frozen water. I swear that in Vallejo I saw a liquor store with a huge sign that read "free ice with purchase of bait or liquor". Finally, a one stop shop for all of life's needs.

But where was I? Oh yes. Napa. As I made the turn into the more rural section of the 29 I experienced the dreamlike feeling of having your life change because your surroundings change. I was on the phone with Susan at the time and was freaking out a little bit because of a personal situation, but as soon as I was enveloped by all that green and by the soft, tranquil sunset I knew that everything would be okay. When I saw the immense stretch of the Domaine Chandon, snow white and gorgeous, perched on the hill, I knew I was in for quite a weekend. And when I pulled up to the front of the hotel I just got the feeling that it was going to be a remarkable and unforgettable time.

And I was right. I couldn't get enough of driving around the valley. I had some great winery experiences (V. Satui, Beaulieau, Chandon, etc.) and got to experience some culinary delights like Bouchon and a most fabulous lemon stilton, which I crave again already. I talked to some lovely people (apparently being the only young Asian single female obviously enjoying herself in all of wine country made me extremely approachable) about wine, about California, about life and about writing. Because I was always writing, all weekend long. It was extraordinary and heavenly.

At V. Satui a man came up to me as I sat outside at a picnic table with my notebook. "Are you a novelist?" he aksed. "I am a poet," I said. It was the first and only time I've ever said those words, but I figure, what the hey, he's a stranger and I'm on vacation. "I'm going in with my family to do the tasting," he continued. "Write a poem about wine and I'd like to look at it later."

I agreed but I wrote quickly and had to leave before he finished with the tour and the tasting. So whomever you were, wherever you are, here is your poem:

The same chill that

makes the intractable

grapes cluster together

into byzantine knots

makes my heart demur

at the rarefied touch

of their juices, cold

in my mouth

in spite of

the cedar fire.

And now I know

that I miss you. But

that is not the lesson

the wine wants

to teach. The grapes

flourish because

in the end they

hold themselves apart.

And so I toast

the blaze and

the ashes. I drink

to the letting go.

So yes, it was a lovely trip, which I think will continue to reward me for quite a while. Napa was beautiful. But then, how could Napa not be beautiful?

Movies of Myself Lexicon #1

So I thought to myself, "If Daily Candy can have it's own silly seasonal tongue-in-cheek vocab list then why can't I?" Despite the fact that I am neither hip, elitist, posh, glorified nor gifted with a gazillion subcribers, I deserve this too. So here:

• vomitad-o/a - adjective.  gross, repellent, uncouth, foul, etc.  Ex: I avoid eating at Taco Bell because the meat is vomitada.
• River Pig - noun.  Jason and his dad get credit for this one, a pitiably unpleasant and boorish individual, usually with poor hygiene.   Ex: Why is River Pig wearing that skimpy dress that shows all the scars on her back?
• chonies - noun.  underwear.  Ex: If you liked the Cure show so much why didn't you throw your black lace chonies at Robert Smith?
• sha-du-do - command.  Shut the door, as pronounced in Huckleberry Finn by Jim, and mistaken by Steph and her classmates as some altogether new vocab word; used by myself as a mild expletive. Ex: Sha-du-do! I left my KCRW card in my other purse!
• cookie - noun.  brilliant Megan-coined euphemism for female private parts.  Ex: I was talking about the Pittsburgh Pirates, but River Pig heard only part of the conversation and started to tell me how she had a tattoo of a pirate ship on her cookie. Vomitada!
• booty shorts - noun (also see booty jeans, booty skirt or any other booty item).  an article of clothing which makes its wearer appear so hot as to cause you to break your own mama's back getting to them.  Ex: "Hello! Of course I had to tap that--did you see those Seven booty jeans she was wearing?"
• MIT - acronym.  Made in Taiwan.  Ex: I am V.C. but a lot of my friends are MIT.
• chantico - noun/verb.  new, intense chocolate drink at Starbucks, but used by myself as a verb. Today when I went in to the store Kate came out and we hugged for 5 minutes and caught up on life. Then she offered to buy me a drink and I chose an add-shot chantico. Upon first sip,  Ex: "Kate, I want to chantico you; and you go ahead and take that any way you like."
• pimpsta - noun.  a combination of pimp and gangsta.  Ex: Steph and I think we are total pimpstas.
• angsta-gay - noun. a person who mistakenly thinks they are a pimpsta (from the pig Latin)  Ex: "Did you see that angsta-gay wearing that Kobe Bryant jersey and reading that book of Jewel's poetry? Please."
• freestyle walking - action verb.  the Chris-invented pastime of inserting small but special hops, leaps, kicks, and hiney tucks into everyday movement.  Ex: "Watch my sweet jump off of this planter! Yes! I'm the master of freestyle walking!"
• nalgas - noun.  Spanish slang for "ass", according to Erick.  Ex: "I worked my nalgas off building this dresser for you and you won't even look at it!"

And my absolute favorite, sent to me by Steph via e-mail:

• "bucle - noun. curl; ringlet, bend; loop.  Notice, the 'curl'.  So, in a nutshell, bucle = mexican curl biattchhhhhhh!
  
  btw, for a real life example, in the pic of you and i pointing at the
  levitating-self-pouring beer bottle, i have a small bucle beginning to
  form, but just beginning."

Read 'em and Weep

I ran into Nicks and MJ and their friend Nat at Target while I was at the Kodak digital prints machine and of course we started to talk about what writing we've done lately. I just happen to be very enthused about some of my recent poetry, not because it's that good but just because it's made me feel great to write it. Sometimes the well runs very dry, so when I can actually get a decent amount onto paper I count myself blessed.

We decided to have a brief and casual writing clinic; more of a quiet reading and suggestion period. It's always hard for me to focus my direction so I think I got some very practical pointers on my work (especially thanks to MJ.) It was inspiring just to read others' work in progress--MJ's haiku, Nicks' intense experimenting and Nat's sharp and cunning verse.

And, just as importantly, we shared some of the poems we're reading now. I think the bit of Kinnell I read went over very well, though it brought an uneasy quiet. Kinnell has a way of doing that; they're poems for thinking. I heard some newer poetry tonight, which was cool. But what brought the house down, you ask? Neruda, of course. The Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Drunken and sweet; pensive, breathtaking fire. Read until my voice sounded like a secret smokey room and I had to pass the book to Nicks. What resounding and rousing words for a thoughtful winter's night. "I have gone marking the atlas of your body with crosses of fire..."

Let the book fall open...

:..and it will open to the page you need. One of you asked for something juicy, sweet and private to read; one of you asked for something to alleviate. One of you needs to be set free; another needs to find peace inside their own heads. This is what I found, for all of you:

Homecoming

Imagine me as a place.

I would be green like
the country you came from.
The low mounds decaying in a new light,
what we now call glory.
The alcove of my arms and legs.

This house of stone
is my covetous assumption.
The tiny rooms
with their forced perspectives
and the force of a shutter
smashing wind.

My children fly wild in the dell,
then tumble down.
Weeds crown little birds. Where they fall,
a spring will be born; a trickle.

Have you ever tried
to carve something into the swollen ground?
Upon my sea-cliff knees which lead
to the door someone has etched
their bright name.

And in the farflung causeway
between the tides, someone
has put horses to pasture.

That's what you'll see running
in my mind. That's why I can't
see where I'm running to.

Imagine me as a place.
Almost recognizable but not
quite under your feet.

The white walls
of my father's country.
That's what I would be.

Grain waving in a low hedge.
Grain growing from a marsh.