![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
sad to not be home....but looking so forward to finishing my manuscript revision and chilllllllllling out on anni's couch tomorrow....we have big plans to go to the NATIVE AMERICAN SUNRISE CELEBRATION on Alcatraz, and then to Vinyasa Yoga to raise money for the Oil Spill.....and then onto debaucherous mashed potatoes and wine at her house. it will be nice to take a day off. this week is murder. after an unfortunate trip to the ER, a long day at San Quentin, and a job interview with the Alameda Arts Comission....I am in need of some R&R....at least for one day.
in other news....my sister kate is coming to visit next week...well, actually shes coming for her residency interview in Martinez, but i will hopefully get to see her.
mostly i am enjoying the quiet chaos of life and feeling lucky for all you beautiful people who inspire me everyday. [insert sappy "i am thankful for you" byline] esp those of you who are new to my world.
now go eat football and watch turkey like good Americans.... and remember the atrocities we were complacent in while forming this great country!
in other news....my sister kate is coming to visit next week...well, actually shes coming for her residency interview in Martinez, but i will hopefully get to see her.
mostly i am enjoying the quiet chaos of life and feeling lucky for all you beautiful people who inspire me everyday. [insert sappy "i am thankful for you" byline] esp those of you who are new to my world.
now go eat football and watch turkey like good Americans.... and remember the atrocities we were complacent in while forming this great country!
My translation class blew the back of my head off yesterday. we were reading Derrida and i got carried away.
here is an email from Lisa Robertson, my professor, she sent after class:
"Second. On the way home on BART, not being able to disengage from the
excellent Monsieur Derrida, I read another of his essays (Form and
Meaning: A note on the Phenomenology of Language) from that same
volume, Margins of Philosophy. The final paragraph seems to pertain so
very closely to the problem we finished by investigating (and mapping!
thanks Mary!), the problem of the change in social values asscribed to
the two chains (p 147)
decadence-illness-death-north
and origin-life-summer-heat
the paragraph I found-
"Thus, one probably does not have to choose between the two lines of
thought. Rather, one has to meditate upon the circularity which makes
them pass into one another indefinitely. And also, by rigorously
repeating this circle in its proper historical possibility, perhaps to
let some elliptical displacement be produced in the difference of a
repetition: a deficient deplacement, doubtless, but deficient in a way
that is not yet-- or is no longer-- absense, negativity, non-Being,
lack, silence. Neither matter nor form, nothing that could be cast by
some philosopheme, that is, by some dialectics, in whatever sense
dialectics may be determined. An ellipsis both odf meaning and of
form: neither full speech nor a perfect circle. More and less, neither
more or less. Perhaps an entirely other question."
Am I alone in being intrigued by this? If Mary's map** is a picture of
dialectics-- that is, a circular exchange of value between the
components of two systems (say, the systems of poetry and prose, or
simplicity/complexity(pretensi
engaging in the substitutions of value that prolong the longevity of
the circle, the field or in Rachel's terms, the frame-- through
refutation and entrenchment, however passionate-- to imagine an
"elliptical displacement". That is, to coolly (meditatively) step to
the side, out of the circle. Elizabeth S's non-engagement would be an
example of a displacement. Could such a displacement be enacted within
the from of writing itself? How could we write elliptically? --rather
than falling again and again into the trap of non-being, etc, the
margin established by the dominant line of the two chains of thought?
meditate well!
**here is the map i drew:
the map is not by any means my stance on the nature vs. artifice/ poetry vs. prose debate...in fact it stemmed from a conversation highlighting how ridiculous it is to push these complex spherical concepts into a harsh binary. the map was intended to illustrate how, when you attempt to pull these things apart, the argument breaks down and looks rather absurd... this all came out of the continuing issues that arise with people who tag poetry or "intellectual writing" [which to me seems a redundant statement...at least in terms of good writing] as pretentious. which is essentially what i believe some folks in one of my workshops think about having to read in close proximity to a dictionary. not that i don't see their point, and in some ways, sure, its valid. but to me, no matter what your subject matter and form is, it needs to actively wrestle the intellectual phenomenon that is articulation. but then, i am a pretentious poet...and in today's world, the less people thinking for themselves, the better...right? i mean, how else could we all be so complacent in the atrocities our country is engaged in? our government has re-conditioned society to think that inquiry, intellectualism, investigation etc. is somehow unnatural to our human condition...and harry potter is what good writing should be. anyway, it has spurred an idea for an essay i want to write [tentatively] called: "the denaturalization of thinking." which i'm sure i have no real ability to engage in on any truly sophisticated way, but am hoping to turn my thanksgiving into an attempt at such.
more on that this weekend. have to get to class.
here is an email from Lisa Robertson, my professor, she sent after class:
"Second. On the way home on BART, not being able to disengage from the
excellent Monsieur Derrida, I read another of his essays (Form and
Meaning: A note on the Phenomenology of Language) from that same
volume, Margins of Philosophy. The final paragraph seems to pertain so
very closely to the problem we finished by investigating (and mapping!
thanks Mary!), the problem of the change in social values asscribed to
the two chains (p 147)
decadence-illness-death-north
and origin-life-summer-heat
the paragraph I found-
"Thus, one probably does not have to choose between the two lines of
thought. Rather, one has to meditate upon the circularity which makes
them pass into one another indefinitely. And also, by rigorously
repeating this circle in its proper historical possibility, perhaps to
let some elliptical displacement be produced in the difference of a
repetition: a deficient deplacement, doubtless, but deficient in a way
that is not yet-- or is no longer-- absense, negativity, non-Being,
lack, silence. Neither matter nor form, nothing that could be cast by
some philosopheme, that is, by some dialectics, in whatever sense
dialectics may be determined. An ellipsis both odf meaning and of
form: neither full speech nor a perfect circle. More and less, neither
more or less. Perhaps an entirely other question."
Am I alone in being intrigued by this? If Mary's map** is a picture of
dialectics-- that is, a circular exchange of value between the
components of two systems (say, the systems of poetry and prose, or
simplicity/complexity(pretensi
engaging in the substitutions of value that prolong the longevity of
the circle, the field or in Rachel's terms, the frame-- through
refutation and entrenchment, however passionate-- to imagine an
"elliptical displacement". That is, to coolly (meditatively) step to
the side, out of the circle. Elizabeth S's non-engagement would be an
example of a displacement. Could such a displacement be enacted within
the from of writing itself? How could we write elliptically? --rather
than falling again and again into the trap of non-being, etc, the
margin established by the dominant line of the two chains of thought?
meditate well!
**here is the map i drew:
the map is not by any means my stance on the nature vs. artifice/ poetry vs. prose debate...in fact it stemmed from a conversation highlighting how ridiculous it is to push these complex spherical concepts into a harsh binary. the map was intended to illustrate how, when you attempt to pull these things apart, the argument breaks down and looks rather absurd... this all came out of the continuing issues that arise with people who tag poetry or "intellectual writing" [which to me seems a redundant statement...at least in terms of good writing] as pretentious. which is essentially what i believe some folks in one of my workshops think about having to read in close proximity to a dictionary. not that i don't see their point, and in some ways, sure, its valid. but to me, no matter what your subject matter and form is, it needs to actively wrestle the intellectual phenomenon that is articulation. but then, i am a pretentious poet...and in today's world, the less people thinking for themselves, the better...right? i mean, how else could we all be so complacent in the atrocities our country is engaged in? our government has re-conditioned society to think that inquiry, intellectualism, investigation etc. is somehow unnatural to our human condition...and harry potter is what good writing should be. anyway, it has spurred an idea for an essay i want to write [tentatively] called: "the denaturalization of thinking." which i'm sure i have no real ability to engage in on any truly sophisticated way, but am hoping to turn my thanksgiving into an attempt at such.
more on that this weekend. have to get to class.
here is the new CCA literary journal/press.
these guys are awesome for finally getting it off the ground.
these guys are awesome for finally getting it off the ground.
**here is the thesis proposal i submitted to my committee.**
PROPOSING*/ PUTTING FORTH/ PLAN OF ACTION/ FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION/
ie. STATEMENT ie. INTENT
*marydiaz
lots and lots of beginnings and don’t hold me to this and I’ve never done this before and I do this everyday and bear with me and its really no big deal. and yes, yes it is.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>TRYING NOT TO L IE TO YOU.<<<<<<<<<<<<
There is something to be said for seeing it through.
There is something to be said for continuing.
There is something to be said.
There is something.
“To lift poetry out of its difficulty is to betray it.” Lisa Robinson
A possible list of possibilities: [for the future]
1. lyric investigations: poems as incantation poems as faith/prayer. patron saint manuscripts.
2. dialogues. librettos. oratorios. words as performance. performance forms as FORM.
[on page/on stage]
3. cohesiveness. titling. naming parts. ie. somehow it all fits. I need to find a spine. in theme or form or what?
sections of a whole. threading it together. the words.
4. lyric essay. ie. <Creative Non-Fiction> ie. philosophical inquiry ie. essays and is this where it will come together?
and pushing form and using form to create cohesion. letting branches branch.
5. possible cataclysmic wildfire. [instead of a thesis.]
6. explaining things I do not understand.
7. this may not work.
8. play/playlet/scene/performance for Poet’s Theater Jamboree: January 2007. [will be included?]
9. other
10. making words mean.
>>>>>>>>>>>>> and is that ok? <<<<<<<<<<<<<<
[read: enough?]
[some] things that matter to me: [now & then]
1. Pan Tolmaton: Sappho: all is to be dared.
2. consistency: in voice, in ____________.
3. filling in the blanks. [see above]
4. high productivity. [and what does that even mean?]
5. fear to risk ratios.
6. sticking to my guns.
7. surprise.
8. letting things go.
9. organic unraveling of form.
10. “ “ of content.
11. pinning. it. down.
12. it.
13. listening intently.
14. climate of country.
15. histories of consciousness.
16. mapping of unconsciousness.
17. overcoming crutches. [like ambiguity]
18. language and silence. and their infinite return.
19. the story of thinking/ the story of thought.
20. etymology of experience.
21. the etymology of etymology is truth. like an excavation.
22. pleasure. Its rare enough to be important.
23. not knowing what I’m doing
24. broadening the lexicon
25. form as extension of content.
26. mistakes, always
27. the experience of experiencing
28. finding home in a poem
29. what is before us/ what is within us?
30. records: in the midst of being/ can this be thought?
some work and some titles:
A HESITATION WALTZ
ON CARTOGRAPHY AND OTHER FORMS OF EXCLUSION
APORIA’S APORIA
UP IN ARMS
ARIA FOR LOST CAUSES
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CANTILEVER AND A CATAPULT
TABULA RASA
MINISTRIES AND HAPPENSTANCE
Mostly, I just want to keep going.
Sincerely/ mary diaz
PROPOSING*/ PUTTING FORTH/ PLAN OF ACTION/ FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION/
ie. STATEMENT ie. INTENT
*marydiaz
lots and lots of beginnings and don’t hold me to this and I’ve never done this before and I do this everyday and bear with me and its really no big deal. and yes, yes it is.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>TRYING NOT TO L IE TO YOU.<<<<<<<<<<<<
There is something to be said for seeing it through.
There is something to be said for continuing.
There is something to be said.
There is something.
“To lift poetry out of its difficulty is to betray it.” Lisa Robinson
A possible list of possibilities: [for the future]
1. lyric investigations: poems as incantation poems as faith/prayer. patron saint manuscripts.
2. dialogues. librettos. oratorios. words as performance. performance forms as FORM.
[on page/on stage]
3. cohesiveness. titling. naming parts. ie. somehow it all fits. I need to find a spine. in theme or form or what?
sections of a whole. threading it together. the words.
4. lyric essay. ie. <Creative Non-Fiction> ie. philosophical inquiry ie. essays and is this where it will come together?
and pushing form and using form to create cohesion. letting branches branch.
5. possible cataclysmic wildfire. [instead of a thesis.]
6. explaining things I do not understand.
7. this may not work.
8. play/playlet/scene/performance for Poet’s Theater Jamboree: January 2007. [will be included?]
9. other
10. making words mean.
>>>>>>>>>>>>> and is that ok? <<<<<<<<<<<<<<
[read: enough?]
[some] things that matter to me: [now & then]
1. Pan Tolmaton: Sappho: all is to be dared.
2. consistency: in voice, in ____________.
3. filling in the blanks. [see above]
4. high productivity. [and what does that even mean?]
5. fear to risk ratios.
6. sticking to my guns.
7. surprise.
8. letting things go.
9. organic unraveling of form.
10. “ “ of content.
11. pinning. it. down.
12. it.
13. listening intently.
14. climate of country.
15. histories of consciousness.
16. mapping of unconsciousness.
17. overcoming crutches. [like ambiguity]
18. language and silence. and their infinite return.
19. the story of thinking/ the story of thought.
20. etymology of experience.
21. the etymology of etymology is truth. like an excavation.
22. pleasure. Its rare enough to be important.
23. not knowing what I’m doing
24. broadening the lexicon
25. form as extension of content.
26. mistakes, always
27. the experience of experiencing
28. finding home in a poem
29. what is before us/ what is within us?
30. records: in the midst of being/ can this be thought?
some work and some titles:
A HESITATION WALTZ
ON CARTOGRAPHY AND OTHER FORMS OF EXCLUSION
APORIA’S APORIA
UP IN ARMS
ARIA FOR LOST CAUSES
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A CANTILEVER AND A CATAPULT
TABULA RASA
MINISTRIES AND HAPPENSTANCE
Mostly, I just want to keep going.
Sincerely/ mary diaz
Thanks to all who came to the Aardvark/ MAPP reading. It was a great success...we packed the place! i read my mathematician dialogue and selections from my new chapbook: "up in arms" here is a little video Jessica Wickens took of the Aporia piece... it's about 3/4 of the whole thing... so you miss the set up... But thanks Jess for taping it, and Adam for reading it with me.
things are looking up.
its been a very intense week. not bad. just very busy.
i have been adhering to my Eleanor Roosevelt: do something every day that scares you policy.
Though, some days are more exciting than others...I admit.
Life high/low lights as of late:
* Blue grass fest: free viewings of Emmy Lou singing WITH Gillian Welch, and too many more to count.
*Salon at Gloria Frym's house. Brenda Hillman presented on the importance of being an artist in the time of war. She talked about going to congress and coordinating these insane protests at all these functions for Conservative think-tanks like the Heritage Foundation. She talked about this woman in DC throwing a camera at her and calling her "human scum" for protesting the war and demanding they bring the troops home now. Even if you don't agree with her stance on every level, this woman is a fierce hero in today's indifferent suburban haze. She is married to the ex-poet Laureate of the US Robert Hass ...and also happens to be one of the sweetest women I've ever met.
* After the salon, I stayed over at Gloria's and we sat up and drank wine and gossiped shamelessly. In the morning, over coffee, we had a meeting about my new work... it was balls-to-the-walls. Then we went hiking in Tilden Park in Berkeley... best part of the weekend...absolutely beautiful day. We were bird watching and talking about Japan.
* My sister's in Botswana! She is working at a Pediatric AIDS clinic...saving the world... I know. Read about it HERE!!
* I ran out of gas on Valencia on Friday during rush hour. I had to PARALLEL PARK my beast by pushing it in neutral. Luckily, it was happy hour and i happened to be right outside The Phoenix, so there were a couple Irishmen already 2 out of 3 sheets to the wind, who were very willing to help. though i will say i pushed it pretty far on my own.
*I went on a very long bike ride on Saturday, got car-doored on 16th but managed to escape with only a bruise on my arm. I swerved at the last minute and kicked the door. haha.
*At the threat of prescribed medication, I have really been trying to sleep more. I slept 6 hours the other night. This is progress.
*Whilst on my ride, i stopped at China Basin Park and read "I Am My Own Wife" by Doug Wright. Incredible story about the playwright's fascination with Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a German transvestite caught up in the great European dramas of the 20th century. "Unlike many contemporaries, von Mahlsdorf survived the Nazi regime and its replacement in East Germany, the Soviet-dominated Communist dictatorship..." I'll stop there. bottom line: Read this book/ see the play.
*i'm so in my head right now i got out of the shower the other day and had to hunt down my hairbrush...it was in my kitchen cupboard.
*i pierced my belly button. i know i know... what...am i 16? i dunno...it was a dare. i figure by now, its so out that its back in.
* Turns out working 16 hours is not good for the body/mind/ or soul.
*Lunch with Wesley in the Castro in the rain was great even though my head is mush. We walked in the rain and he bought me a vegan cookie at the Buffalo Food market. The play he is working on is coming up...BEAUTIFUL with the Elastic Futures theater... Erin Gilley and Marc Binder's theater co.
*Looking forward to the reading [below] on sat...and the MAPP members happy hour on Thursday. We are hoping to pack the seats...so if you're in town please come.
*I keep meeting amazing ladies in this city. Fun, independent, intelligent, exciting, radical, empowered women. Lucky me! Kori-Renee, Laura, Lee, Pita, Rebeka... you know who you are. This is all thanks to the two matriarchs of awesome...Julie and Anni... for real.
* Oh, and I officially eat raw fish. i'm a terrible vegetarian. i have always loved sushi...but was very picky...give me an avo roll and some goma ay and i was good to go... not anymore. sashimi. raw. please. went out with adam and kate in Japantown to show off my new skiils and they were very proud.
* I need to go walk myself to sleep.
* My bad dreams won't stop no matter what. Why is that?
its been a very intense week. not bad. just very busy.
i have been adhering to my Eleanor Roosevelt: do something every day that scares you policy.
Though, some days are more exciting than others...I admit.
Life high/low lights as of late:
* Blue grass fest: free viewings of Emmy Lou singing WITH Gillian Welch, and too many more to count.
*Salon at Gloria Frym's house. Brenda Hillman presented on the importance of being an artist in the time of war. She talked about going to congress and coordinating these insane protests at all these functions for Conservative think-tanks like the Heritage Foundation. She talked about this woman in DC throwing a camera at her and calling her "human scum" for protesting the war and demanding they bring the troops home now. Even if you don't agree with her stance on every level, this woman is a fierce hero in today's indifferent suburban haze. She is married to the ex-poet Laureate of the US Robert Hass ...and also happens to be one of the sweetest women I've ever met.
* After the salon, I stayed over at Gloria's and we sat up and drank wine and gossiped shamelessly. In the morning, over coffee, we had a meeting about my new work... it was balls-to-the-walls. Then we went hiking in Tilden Park in Berkeley... best part of the weekend...absolutely beautiful day. We were bird watching and talking about Japan.
* My sister's in Botswana! She is working at a Pediatric AIDS clinic...saving the world... I know. Read about it HERE!!
* I ran out of gas on Valencia on Friday during rush hour. I had to PARALLEL PARK my beast by pushing it in neutral. Luckily, it was happy hour and i happened to be right outside The Phoenix, so there were a couple Irishmen already 2 out of 3 sheets to the wind, who were very willing to help. though i will say i pushed it pretty far on my own.
*I went on a very long bike ride on Saturday, got car-doored on 16th but managed to escape with only a bruise on my arm. I swerved at the last minute and kicked the door. haha.
*At the threat of prescribed medication, I have really been trying to sleep more. I slept 6 hours the other night. This is progress.
*Whilst on my ride, i stopped at China Basin Park and read "I Am My Own Wife" by Doug Wright. Incredible story about the playwright's fascination with Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a German transvestite caught up in the great European dramas of the 20th century. "Unlike many contemporaries, von Mahlsdorf survived the Nazi regime and its replacement in East Germany, the Soviet-dominated Communist dictatorship..." I'll stop there. bottom line: Read this book/ see the play.
*i'm so in my head right now i got out of the shower the other day and had to hunt down my hairbrush...it was in my kitchen cupboard.
*i pierced my belly button. i know i know... what...am i 16? i dunno...it was a dare. i figure by now, its so out that its back in.
* Turns out working 16 hours is not good for the body/mind/ or soul.
*Lunch with Wesley in the Castro in the rain was great even though my head is mush. We walked in the rain and he bought me a vegan cookie at the Buffalo Food market. The play he is working on is coming up...BEAUTIFUL with the Elastic Futures theater... Erin Gilley and Marc Binder's theater co.
*Looking forward to the reading [below] on sat...and the MAPP members happy hour on Thursday. We are hoping to pack the seats...so if you're in town please come.
*I keep meeting amazing ladies in this city. Fun, independent, intelligent, exciting, radical, empowered women. Lucky me! Kori-Renee, Laura, Lee, Pita, Rebeka... you know who you are. This is all thanks to the two matriarchs of awesome...Julie and Anni... for real.
* Oh, and I officially eat raw fish. i'm a terrible vegetarian. i have always loved sushi...but was very picky...give me an avo roll and some goma ay and i was good to go... not anymore. sashimi. raw. please. went out with adam and kate in Japantown to show off my new skiils and they were very proud.
* I need to go walk myself to sleep.
* My bad dreams won't stop no matter what. Why is that?
wants one of my pieces for their January jamboree.
They are a part of the Bay Area's SPT [small press traffic] : http://www.sptraffic.org/index.htm
i get to cast and direct it myself.
either the opera, the oratorio, or the scene from last year's "...Nimrod" play.
i believe kevin killian and/or dodie bellamy put in the good word. they're amazing.
these horizons are fresh and welcomed. and needed.
shit gets rough.
happy things today.
more on SPT and Poet's Theater:
http://www.pw.org/mag/0601/newsmantzari
They are a part of the Bay Area's SPT [small press traffic] : http://www.sptraffic.org/index.htm
i get to cast and direct it myself.
either the opera, the oratorio, or the scene from last year's "...Nimrod" play.
i believe kevin killian and/or dodie bellamy put in the good word. they're amazing.
these horizons are fresh and welcomed. and needed.
shit gets rough.
happy things today.
more on SPT and Poet's Theater:
http://www.pw.org/mag/0601/newsmantzari
This is made to disappear
most things
in the end
mean something:
a game face
and the violence just falls out
flat and burdened
cadenced remainders
phantom trains testing tracks
falling easy enough
with no where to climb
most things
in the end
mean something:
a game face
and the violence just falls out
flat and burdened
cadenced remainders
phantom trains testing tracks
falling easy enough
with no where to climb
Can’t have…could have
in a singular stumble
let go in a nostrum
where your appetite
is beaked in the sink
and your glory is in the coo-re-er
tantalizing first names
and little services
feel the first seven of Your Fathers
rolled out so nuts
and pock the cur-cur in mind
because to have the system in place
we build antiques brand new
and put the oven to use
more and more vi-vi!
came from life things
there is nothing more beautiful
than this modern fever of peace
sweated out for saints’ honed graves
counted coming lips
wine and where you last left
the yearly outside
weary colors from all those Tuesdays
where nothing was left to us.
/a humble cluster of productive ones.
this lifestyle is making me into an invalid i swear to god.
i am aching.
too tired to go for a walk.
too wound up to sleep.
its funny how the creative process so clearly mirrors the conscious life:
i step back,
i become aware of my habits-- good and bad
i struggle to repeat and defeat them respectively
i am so aware of my compulsions
nothing goes as planned
the unexpected is always the most rewarding
stubbornness is not always bad
openness is dangerous and necessary
institutions and allegiances are a cop-out
listening is often more telling than speaking
knowing when to quit is important
choice is a powerful thing
maps and plans are a waste of time
towards the end, wine always helps...
and on and on....
i've been translating all day, all night. from what to what i no longer know. everything is a translation at this point. if a translation is a bringing forth of one thing into another, all we are is translation. it is the only way we know each other, or anything outside of ourselves for that matter. there are always losses. i learned that tonight... letting things go...all those clumsy words, purging and preening clusters into themselves--without excess. And there is no such thing as a DIRECT translation. that is both so sad and so vital to understanding ourselves and the world i think: understanding that the other, whatever that other may be, will always be lost in translation, in some way. really, thats okay, and rather beautiful, but we use this to fuel evil and hatred, to fuel war and fear and wretched fundamentalism. we use this as an excuse to destroy each other.
people think poetry is passive or luxurious or indulgent--- it is not. it is absolutely vital to interpreting to translating the world around us. without it we will destroy each other. it is the rock on which FAITH in absolutely every sense of the word is built. it is something we all engage everyday, poet or not. at least that's what i think...
...and frankly, i've been engaging it too long to see straight right now. i live in a state of constant inspiration. i have my peers and friends and books and strangers to thank for that. and the good work they do in this world.
i'm going to go sit on my fire escape and read [the waterfront journals] until i fall asleep, which i inevitably will, in a ball, outside, folding in on myself, until the sun starts starts coming up and reminds me to go to bed, where i will sleep soundly, for 2 or 3 hours.
sometimes its okay to be tired. i always forget that.
this lifestyle is making me into an invalid i swear to god.
i am aching.
too tired to go for a walk.
too wound up to sleep.
its funny how the creative process so clearly mirrors the conscious life:
i step back,
i become aware of my habits-- good and bad
i struggle to repeat and defeat them respectively
i am so aware of my compulsions
nothing goes as planned
the unexpected is always the most rewarding
stubbornness is not always bad
openness is dangerous and necessary
institutions and allegiances are a cop-out
listening is often more telling than speaking
knowing when to quit is important
choice is a powerful thing
maps and plans are a waste of time
towards the end, wine always helps...
and on and on....
i've been translating all day, all night. from what to what i no longer know. everything is a translation at this point. if a translation is a bringing forth of one thing into another, all we are is translation. it is the only way we know each other, or anything outside of ourselves for that matter. there are always losses. i learned that tonight... letting things go...all those clumsy words, purging and preening clusters into themselves--without excess. And there is no such thing as a DIRECT translation. that is both so sad and so vital to understanding ourselves and the world i think: understanding that the other, whatever that other may be, will always be lost in translation, in some way. really, thats okay, and rather beautiful, but we use this to fuel evil and hatred, to fuel war and fear and wretched fundamentalism. we use this as an excuse to destroy each other.
people think poetry is passive or luxurious or indulgent--- it is not. it is absolutely vital to interpreting to translating the world around us. without it we will destroy each other. it is the rock on which FAITH in absolutely every sense of the word is built. it is something we all engage everyday, poet or not. at least that's what i think...
...and frankly, i've been engaging it too long to see straight right now. i live in a state of constant inspiration. i have my peers and friends and books and strangers to thank for that. and the good work they do in this world.
i'm going to go sit on my fire escape and read [the waterfront journals] until i fall asleep, which i inevitably will, in a ball, outside, folding in on myself, until the sun starts starts coming up and reminds me to go to bed, where i will sleep soundly, for 2 or 3 hours.
sometimes its okay to be tired. i always forget that.
...for no particular reason. not because its friday or because i just had a kick ass meeting with my mentor or because there is an airplane flying by with a banner for car insurance [of all things] that says "california is for lovers" and it got me thinking that i want to put poems on banners and pull them accross the city in a lockheed vega airplane...not because I get to go hear Jess Walter speak tonight not because I met a cute Australian boy last night at the Phoenix not because i have a ton of work to do this weekend not because i hurt my back moving boxes and have abandoned my chore because of it not because he was mean to me again not because Kate Lynn and I scarfed on spicy chinese food and soju martinis last night not because my mom never calls me anymore not because i lost an earring not because my grandpa is better and walking from his driveway to the corner every day not because i can't help it not because he told me i didn't have to do this alone not because i absolutely have to do it on my own not because gloria made me feel better and said i was prolific not because im hurting not because the work is taking its own direction not because that is scaring me not because i was supposed to come home and do dishes and instead i wrote about dishes not because seeing happy people makes me really happy not because i was tempted to go into the goodwill for those cowboy boots in the window but did not not because i forget things not because there are certain things i miss dearly not because i am the only one not because i was wrong not because i got scared on my most recent night walk and was more scared about the fact that i got scared than i was of the creep following me not because i want to go to antarctica really really really bad not because i drink too much not because i drink with my professors too much not because i don't like to admit i am a poet not because gloria says i use generatives too much in my writing which i do not because at dinner last night kate lynn and i talked and talked about being dancers when we were young and it was so nice to just talk about something sweet like that not because i lost the key to the writers studio already not because i feel like i am closing so many doors right now not because it is astonishing how many new doors keep popping up not because im turning the tabula rasa piece into a chapbook and its going to be splendid not because i doubt myself and can't figure out if thats good or bad not because saying im strong and being strong are very different things not because i am not making room in my life for people who lie about their convictions not because im so not strong not because people don't know what they say not because my bed is so cozy and i wish i spent more time in it not because i sleep three hours a night not because one time someone said "im not the one you need" not because that is a ridiculous thing to say not because they were right but wrong about so many other things not because they were so wrong about me not because i got three non writers to write poems this week without even asking them to, not because they were all fabulous not because its time for seminar and im not even dressed not because my dad reads my blog not because he probably shouldn't not because i don't need anybody thank you very much not because i will never ever make that mistake again not because i am so feverishly content not because i really even like tap dancing all that much. thats just how it is.
1. my apartment is freezing cold. I actually had to turn on the janky little space heater last night...was afraid the place was going to burst into flames....
2. i added a second workshop within the very last few minutes of add/drop: creative non-fiction. god help me....in sad news, i had to drop my Visual Criticism class...there's just not enough time in a week...gotta focus on thesis.
3. my sister passed her boards!!!!!!!! [wooooooeeeeeeeeeee!!] ....as if i was holding my breath...as difficult as that thing undoubtedly was, when a person has absolutely never failed at anything her entire life, its really hard to get nervous for her. sorry kate....CONGRATS anyway! :)
4. was up late last night with George Oppen and his "Discrete Series" for workshop today....and all this Lyn Hejinian is really messing up my world [again]...
5. also last night: crazy todd and i got into a text message jam. he's been trying to get me out with his DJ friends to freestyle with him; this is because of the crazy shit we Improv- ed last spring, but so far that has not happened [probably because i am admittedly weary of freestyling...esp w/ those dudes...which is exactly why i should do it...] but last night he was out drunk in the city somewhere and i was holed up in the studio and he kept sending me messages and telling me to riff off them....we went back and forth for a while...it was hilarious.
6. examples of text message jam:
todd: [backed into braces//thiefs move rocks. this is capatilinvestment nunnery and miles...]
me: [like said smiles and drawn out like pitches and like dust on hipsters wed or unwed left wilds unsaid yields sight for sight amidst thick delights...]
todd: [...conjouring the south....]
me: [pull from all those unspoke mouths:::pull sad and red:::people went/ people said//brittle tongues left in bed.]
and my favorite....from todd....is the title of this post.
7. in other text message news...there was this: "hope ur home safe Mary// Im crazed for a bit but we should hang agaim soon." hmmm...
8. saw a lovely marriage rights protest with all sorts of beautifully mixed families. this happened shortly after deciding [once again] I am very angry with this god-damned country. reminded me gently of the difference between country and government...between people and institutions.
9. in preparation for non-fiction, I picked up Deborah Copaken Kogan's Shutterbabe again. Its a memoir of a woman photojournalist going from Zimbabwe to Romania, from Russia to Haiti...all over the place...by herself in the late 80's/early 90's... starts with her in Afghanistan on the back of a truck in the mountains with a convoy of mujahideen, rebel "freedom fighters." I met her and saw her speak in Milwaukee a few years ago. She is amazing. And hilarious. Each chapter of her book is titled after a different man she was caught up with in different places of the world. So while there is much historical documentation, there is also a sexy soap opera subpolt...esp since most of the men are absolutely ridiculous. She was actually one of the first journalists to uncover the horrendous Romanian Orphanages back in the early 90's, but because she was a woman, she had no choice but to pass the story [and her film] along to a man in order to get the word out. Its excruciating, the chapter when she discovers those awful places. Her story is all about the journey and she seemlessly blends her personal battles--sexism, battery, life-threatening danger--with historical ones--wars, revolution, unfathomable suffering--recording it all. anyway, im not into memoir persay... [babbering about my life is reserved for ego-blogs like this that no one reads anyway] i want to use the non-fiction workshop to develop the lyric essay form and not for autobiography...but it was still great to pick up this book again. here's the first paragraph:
"There's a war going on, and I'm bleeding.
An unfortunate situation, to be sure, but considering it's 2am, fresh snow is falling and I'm squished in the back of an old army truck with a band of Afghani freedom fighters who, to avoid being bombed by the Soviet planes circling above, have decided to drive without headlights through the Hindu Kush mountains over unpaved icy roads with land mines, it's also one without obvious remedy. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ask the driver to pull over for a sec so I can squat behind the nearest snowbank to change my tampon?"
10. heard Terrance Blancher's "Levees" from "A Requiem for Katrina" on KCRW this morning. It's from the Spike Lee movie, which is incredible, but it was great to hear just the music on its own. I definitely recommend it.
11. Today is a busy day...but it will end with dinner in the mission with my absolute favorite freedom fighter: Kate Lynn!
2. i added a second workshop within the very last few minutes of add/drop: creative non-fiction. god help me....in sad news, i had to drop my Visual Criticism class...there's just not enough time in a week...gotta focus on thesis.
3. my sister passed her boards!!!!!!!! [wooooooeeeeeeeeeee!!] ....as if i was holding my breath...as difficult as that thing undoubtedly was, when a person has absolutely never failed at anything her entire life, its really hard to get nervous for her. sorry kate....CONGRATS anyway! :)
4. was up late last night with George Oppen and his "Discrete Series" for workshop today....and all this Lyn Hejinian is really messing up my world [again]...
5. also last night: crazy todd and i got into a text message jam. he's been trying to get me out with his DJ friends to freestyle with him; this is because of the crazy shit we Improv- ed last spring, but so far that has not happened [probably because i am admittedly weary of freestyling...esp w/ those dudes...which is exactly why i should do it...] but last night he was out drunk in the city somewhere and i was holed up in the studio and he kept sending me messages and telling me to riff off them....we went back and forth for a while...it was hilarious.
6. examples of text message jam:
todd: [backed into braces//thiefs move rocks. this is capatilinvestment nunnery and miles...]
me: [like said smiles and drawn out like pitches and like dust on hipsters wed or unwed left wilds unsaid yields sight for sight amidst thick delights...]
todd: [...conjouring the south....]
me: [pull from all those unspoke mouths:::pull sad and red:::people went/ people said//brittle tongues left in bed.]
and my favorite....from todd....is the title of this post.
7. in other text message news...there was this: "hope ur home safe Mary// Im crazed for a bit but we should hang agaim soon." hmmm...
8. saw a lovely marriage rights protest with all sorts of beautifully mixed families. this happened shortly after deciding [once again] I am very angry with this god-damned country. reminded me gently of the difference between country and government...between people and institutions.
9. in preparation for non-fiction, I picked up Deborah Copaken Kogan's Shutterbabe again. Its a memoir of a woman photojournalist going from Zimbabwe to Romania, from Russia to Haiti...all over the place...by herself in the late 80's/early 90's... starts with her in Afghanistan on the back of a truck in the mountains with a convoy of mujahideen, rebel "freedom fighters." I met her and saw her speak in Milwaukee a few years ago. She is amazing. And hilarious. Each chapter of her book is titled after a different man she was caught up with in different places of the world. So while there is much historical documentation, there is also a sexy soap opera subpolt...esp since most of the men are absolutely ridiculous. She was actually one of the first journalists to uncover the horrendous Romanian Orphanages back in the early 90's, but because she was a woman, she had no choice but to pass the story [and her film] along to a man in order to get the word out. Its excruciating, the chapter when she discovers those awful places. Her story is all about the journey and she seemlessly blends her personal battles--sexism, battery, life-threatening danger--with historical ones--wars, revolution, unfathomable suffering--recording it all. anyway, im not into memoir persay... [babbering about my life is reserved for ego-blogs like this that no one reads anyway] i want to use the non-fiction workshop to develop the lyric essay form and not for autobiography...but it was still great to pick up this book again. here's the first paragraph:
"There's a war going on, and I'm bleeding.
An unfortunate situation, to be sure, but considering it's 2am, fresh snow is falling and I'm squished in the back of an old army truck with a band of Afghani freedom fighters who, to avoid being bombed by the Soviet planes circling above, have decided to drive without headlights through the Hindu Kush mountains over unpaved icy roads with land mines, it's also one without obvious remedy. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ask the driver to pull over for a sec so I can squat behind the nearest snowbank to change my tampon?"
10. heard Terrance Blancher's "Levees" from "A Requiem for Katrina" on KCRW this morning. It's from the Spike Lee movie, which is incredible, but it was great to hear just the music on its own. I definitely recommend it.
11. Today is a busy day...but it will end with dinner in the mission with my absolute favorite freedom fighter: Kate Lynn!
**great song:
We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes in the air
Send in the trumpets
The marching wheelchairs
Open the blankets and give them some air
Swords and arches bones and cement
The light and the dark of the innocent of men
We know your house so very well
And we will wake you once we've walked up
All your stairs
There's nothing like living in a bottle
And nothing like ending it all for the world
We're so glad you will come back
Every living lion will lay in your lap
The kid has a homecoming the champion the horse
Who's going to play drums, guitar or organ with chorus
As far as we've walked from both of ends of the sand
Never have we caught a glimpse of this man
We know your house so very well
And we will bust down your door if you're not there
We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes out of here
We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes in the air
Send in the trumpets
The marching wheelchairs
Open the blankets and give them some air
Swords and arches bones and cement
The light and the dark of the innocent of men
We know your house so very well
And we will wake you once we've walked up
All your stairs
There's nothing like living in a bottle
And nothing like ending it all for the world
We're so glad you will come back
Every living lion will lay in your lap
The kid has a homecoming the champion the horse
Who's going to play drums, guitar or organ with chorus
As far as we've walked from both of ends of the sand
Never have we caught a glimpse of this man
We know your house so very well
And we will bust down your door if you're not there
We've lived in bars
And danced on tables
Hotel trains and ships that sail
We swim with sharks
And fly with aeroplanes out of here
1. i ate firecracker soup and bought cheap wine from Sammy [again this week]
2. you went back and got me cigarettes [i threw them away]
3. i drank as much wine as i could [not much]
4. i walked to a cafe much farther away then it seemed and sat in the pew where the wind kept coming in from the door and i kept shivering but didn't move even though there were other seats and i didn't have a sweater. it felt like fall in Minnesota. it felt good.
5. the funny girl in class was right, there is a siren that goes off at noon every day.
6. my mother tells me to be careful; i take this advice out of context and apply it to everything else. [for a change]
7. i threw away all my sticky notes.
8. there are 19 books on my desk, 15 of them are open with their spines up. i like that one of them is my Bible from 8th grade. [it still has hearts drawn in the margins and half the book of Revelation is highlighted, which is hilarious]
9. i keep a cup full of white feathers at my window by my desk, when its open and there's a breeze they fly outside down the street and i watch people pick them up.
10. i keep refilling this cup; i am almost out of white feathers.
11. lindsey texted that that girl asked her on a date this weekend. i see them walking next to tall buildings and each secretly not wanting to be anywhere else in the whole world.
12. when you buzzed my door i learned the cat knows what that sound means...someone's here to see us.
13. a boy called me; i didn't call him back.
14. i talked with a british cabbie this weekend aboutRochmaninov's Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto. He was blasting it at 2am and i actually recognized it. He showed me his whole cd collection and told me i was his favorite customer.
15. i walked all the way home from the tenderloin because i'm stubborn.
16. i wish it was raining.
17. i missed the Robin Blaser lecture at SFSU. damn it.
18. there is a little girl out my window screaming "you're going to make it, you're going to make it!!" to her brother sitting on a skateboard down the hill.
19. sammy's wife mariska is washing cars on the corner, i need to ask to borrow their hose to wash mine.
20. things are good.
2. you went back and got me cigarettes [i threw them away]
3. i drank as much wine as i could [not much]
4. i walked to a cafe much farther away then it seemed and sat in the pew where the wind kept coming in from the door and i kept shivering but didn't move even though there were other seats and i didn't have a sweater. it felt like fall in Minnesota. it felt good.
5. the funny girl in class was right, there is a siren that goes off at noon every day.
6. my mother tells me to be careful; i take this advice out of context and apply it to everything else. [for a change]
7. i threw away all my sticky notes.
8. there are 19 books on my desk, 15 of them are open with their spines up. i like that one of them is my Bible from 8th grade. [it still has hearts drawn in the margins and half the book of Revelation is highlighted, which is hilarious]
9. i keep a cup full of white feathers at my window by my desk, when its open and there's a breeze they fly outside down the street and i watch people pick them up.
10. i keep refilling this cup; i am almost out of white feathers.
11. lindsey texted that that girl asked her on a date this weekend. i see them walking next to tall buildings and each secretly not wanting to be anywhere else in the whole world.
12. when you buzzed my door i learned the cat knows what that sound means...someone's here to see us.
13. a boy called me; i didn't call him back.
14. i talked with a british cabbie this weekend about
15. i walked all the way home from the tenderloin because i'm stubborn.
16. i wish it was raining.
17. i missed the Robin Blaser lecture at SFSU. damn it.
18. there is a little girl out my window screaming "you're going to make it, you're going to make it!!" to her brother sitting on a skateboard down the hill.
19. sammy's wife mariska is washing cars on the corner, i need to ask to borrow their hose to wash mine.
20. things are good.
- Mood:awake
mdiaz
If spaces are meant to put forth, to be moved through, a corner is a space that negates mobility. It is an uncommunicative observance rather than a matter through which to pass. A corner, on one hand, is a mere geometry and is allowed little more celebrity than as the end result of two vast and pretentious walls. A seam of two worlds, always mistakenly presumed square, the corner is a chalky haven, proud and yet chaste. This is a space of indignant solitude, an intimate span committed to accepting its vagrant residents without conjecture and with an invulnerable openness. The world happens around these niches; our being comes forth from them and their withdrawal from consciousness is no evaluation on their merit. A corner is a white work formalism, a by product, the residual affect of an agreement between gaudy frames in the architecture of dwelling. Here we think we are safe, yet it is here we are confronted with our most jeopardized selves. The novelists crouch here, the child learns hard lessons, the actors rehearse empty lines, and the astronomers accept their guilt, confronted with the hard edge of a nook so non-negotiable.
If we push on a corner, we face the terror of the corner pushing back. We face the consideration that our voices will bounce, our knuckles rip, our boldness will halt against itself at these reckless seams.
Corners do not hold secrets. They are terrible at keeping secrets because they are unable to contain. Their gossips seep out from their spine, dripping across walls until hidden words fill rooms. In this way, we must never trust a corner’s false securities. We must understand them as they are.
Yelling rooms for quiet.
A darkened pairing from which to consider light.
The parting of self from self.
A banquet of isolation.
A corner is these things.
Corners are for adjectives, not verbs. And in daydreams, the universe converges into pockets like corners. When we have become aware, corners precede the universe, especially in the morning. The place where we can trust corners most is in regards to light. Light is the only truth a corner can contain. When light is cradled in a corner we are reminded of the notable distinction between embracing and containing.
Contrary to what they say, corners are terrible places to hide.
Lady bugs are perhaps goddesses of these kingdoms.
Corners are forgotten by brooms and house the souls of the oldest dust.
Poets claim all the universe is contained along these spines.
Objects admittedly lean well in corners.
Sticks, brooms, broken curtain rods and bad dancers have come to trust them.
If we push on a corner, we face the terror of the corner pushing back. We face the consideration that our voices will bounce, our knuckles rip, our boldness will halt against itself at these reckless seams.
Corners do not hold secrets. They are terrible at keeping secrets because they are unable to contain. Their gossips seep out from their spine, dripping across walls until hidden words fill rooms. In this way, we must never trust a corner’s false securities. We must understand them as they are.
Yelling rooms for quiet.
A darkened pairing from which to consider light.
The parting of self from self.
A banquet of isolation.
A corner is these things.
Corners are for adjectives, not verbs. And in daydreams, the universe converges into pockets like corners. When we have become aware, corners precede the universe, especially in the morning. The place where we can trust corners most is in regards to light. Light is the only truth a corner can contain. When light is cradled in a corner we are reminded of the notable distinction between embracing and containing.
Contrary to what they say, corners are terrible places to hide.
Lady bugs are perhaps goddesses of these kingdoms.
Corners are forgotten by brooms and house the souls of the oldest dust.
Poets claim all the universe is contained along these spines.
Objects admittedly lean well in corners.
Sticks, brooms, broken curtain rods and bad dancers have come to trust them.
"I am here alone for the first time in weeks, to take up my "real" life again at last. That is what is strange--that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life unless there is time alone in which to explore and to discover what is happening or has happened. Without the interruptions, nourishing and maddening, this life would become arid. Yet I taste it fully only when I am alone here and "the house and I resume old conversations."
**
"When I talk about solitude I am really talking also about making space for that intense, hungry face at the window, starved cat, starved person. It is making space to be there. Lately a small tabby cat has come every day and stared at me with a strange, intense look. Of course I put food out, night and morning. She is so terrified that she runs away at once when I open the door, but she comes back to eat ravenously as soon as I disappear. Yet her hunger is clearly not only for food. I long to take her in my arms and hear her purr with relief at finding shelter. Will she ever become tame enough for that, to give in to what she longs to have? It is such an intense look with which she scans my face at the door before she runs away. It is not a pleading look, simply a huge question: "Can I trust?" Our two gazes hang on its taut thread. I find it painful."
**
"Does anything in nature despair except man? An animal with a foot caught in a trap does not seem to despair. It is too busy trying to survive. It is all closed in, to a kind of still, intense waiting. Is this a key? Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."
**
"We have to keep the channels in ourselves open to pain. At the same time it is essential that true joys be experienced, that the sunrise not leave us unmoved, for civilization depends on the true joys, all those that have nothing to do with money or affluence--nature, the arts, human love.
Life must flow through you at every moment and every day and through every year. You're really a receptacle, an instrument for life to flow through and if you keep stopping it by over control, it's not good. It's not good I mean whether you're a creator or not.
I've tried to be honest. It's harder than it looks in a book that you know is going to be published to find the right line between indiscretion or between sort of self-exposure in the negative sense and to try to give, to be open, to be absolutely open and transparent. Again, the word "transparent" which is very dear to me. I try to be transparent in my human relations and in my work. But, of course, that makes you very vulnerable and few people dare. It's too dangerous."
**
"If you are a writer or an artist, it is work that fulfills and makes you come into wholeness, and that goes on through a lifetime. Whatever the wounds that have to heal, the moment of creation assures that all is well, that one is still in tune with the universe, that the inner chaos can be probed and distilled into order and beauty."
**
"...the woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist is is mandatory. Unable to fulfill it, he goes mad. But when the artist is a woman she fulfills it at the expense of herself as a woman."
**
"...if to be a poet means allowing life to flow through one rather than forcing it into a mold the will has shaped; if it means learning to let the day shape the work, not the work, the day, and so live towards essence as naturally as a bird or a flower."
**
"What kept me going was, I think, that writing for me is a way of understanding what is happening to me, of thinking hard things out. I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself. Perhaps it is the need to remake order out of chaos over and over again. For art is order but it is made out of the chaos of life."
from May Sarton's Well
**
"When I talk about solitude I am really talking also about making space for that intense, hungry face at the window, starved cat, starved person. It is making space to be there. Lately a small tabby cat has come every day and stared at me with a strange, intense look. Of course I put food out, night and morning. She is so terrified that she runs away at once when I open the door, but she comes back to eat ravenously as soon as I disappear. Yet her hunger is clearly not only for food. I long to take her in my arms and hear her purr with relief at finding shelter. Will she ever become tame enough for that, to give in to what she longs to have? It is such an intense look with which she scans my face at the door before she runs away. It is not a pleading look, simply a huge question: "Can I trust?" Our two gazes hang on its taut thread. I find it painful."
**
"Does anything in nature despair except man? An animal with a foot caught in a trap does not seem to despair. It is too busy trying to survive. It is all closed in, to a kind of still, intense waiting. Is this a key? Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."
**
"We have to keep the channels in ourselves open to pain. At the same time it is essential that true joys be experienced, that the sunrise not leave us unmoved, for civilization depends on the true joys, all those that have nothing to do with money or affluence--nature, the arts, human love.
Life must flow through you at every moment and every day and through every year. You're really a receptacle, an instrument for life to flow through and if you keep stopping it by over control, it's not good. It's not good I mean whether you're a creator or not.
I've tried to be honest. It's harder than it looks in a book that you know is going to be published to find the right line between indiscretion or between sort of self-exposure in the negative sense and to try to give, to be open, to be absolutely open and transparent. Again, the word "transparent" which is very dear to me. I try to be transparent in my human relations and in my work. But, of course, that makes you very vulnerable and few people dare. It's too dangerous."
**
"If you are a writer or an artist, it is work that fulfills and makes you come into wholeness, and that goes on through a lifetime. Whatever the wounds that have to heal, the moment of creation assures that all is well, that one is still in tune with the universe, that the inner chaos can be probed and distilled into order and beauty."
**
"...the woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist is is mandatory. Unable to fulfill it, he goes mad. But when the artist is a woman she fulfills it at the expense of herself as a woman."
**
"...if to be a poet means allowing life to flow through one rather than forcing it into a mold the will has shaped; if it means learning to let the day shape the work, not the work, the day, and so live towards essence as naturally as a bird or a flower."
**
"What kept me going was, I think, that writing for me is a way of understanding what is happening to me, of thinking hard things out. I have never written a book that was not born out of a question I needed to answer for myself. Perhaps it is the need to remake order out of chaos over and over again. For art is order but it is made out of the chaos of life."
from May Sarton's Well
Yesterday I went to the Anselm Berrigan seminar and caught up with all sorts of cool folks...particularily the one and only Zachary Walter, heading out of the Bay Area on Tuesday....off to corrupt the minds of impressionable undergraduate Oregonians at EOU. Well, Zach, I can only hope you give them as much hell as you gave me in workshop. The Berrigan reading was really good...I like his work a lot more when he reads it aloud. It didn't hurt that he was also totally dreamy. He is the love child of Ted Berrigan and Alice Notley...what a strange upbringing he must have had. His book is called Zero Star Hotel, if you're interested. Here is a piece he read, THE TOKEN ENABLER, which is about his pet parrot going on anti-depressents. The last line is my favorite, and when he read it aloud Stan and I busted out laughing. [i will bold it if the html coding works]. Nothing better than laughing inappropriately at a reading when everyone is working really hard to take themselves seriously.
ANSELM BERRIGAN
Token Enabler
Autumn 2002
forced to cuddle but some heirloom of power and peril it must be
I have sufferings natural to me and a desire to repeat the clear truth
let me out of here— plunder and I, we hawk light to random passers-by
brutal on our own time sweet phantasm’s inner thigh kisses back
fully equipped token enabler glazed anxiety picks feathers under wings
with stunted emotions to shriek freely about the dollars for space do call
contracts are meant to be signed then read wake up and check birdy’s collar
has he chewed through it? opened up his back? give vet hundreds for another
chew toy blood test rapid cycling on the window sill wracked by construction
but he still loves he doesn’t know the syringe full of nasty-ass meds
is for his calamity he just knows I’m gonna jam it into his beak traced out
loophole to intelligence stations’ mayday flood the hull with fuel and detonate
when sick o write a poem you take care of me trapped things with power we be
androgyne vs. cyborg drapes this event outside the body box I owe you
a working clash conscience piggy scrape something scabbed off your and my backs
repeat ten thousand times a day: self-mutilation a poetics when I feel fine in place
I know I’m fucked by soft thoughts green panda blankies clear band-aids
wireless craniums spread silence rations ‘twas friendly in caves a pity
about those emotions getting in the way of rational resistance to The Fury stacked
upside down on the citizenry I’m said to be in contempt of a wiser love should I
write your vows? Whenever I know how to spill my guts all over the polemic
lifetime original drooling in a network’s daring choice of subjection no one
knows what happens when giant squids mate world authorities yearn to witness
beacon suckers emerge while subject to a harsh environmental variable surrounding
object flesh panel by panel legit as flow and just enough clothes and shit to present
a virus comes and considers going I see my person every morning and it ain’t me
and I like it that way with song and difficulty taking the opportunity to take care
of us as total time to spend no dumping get your health forms into the right slot
I know in my experience at work my problem is not my communication
skills it’s the fact that I’m communicating to the wrong people
...maybe you had to be there...i dunno....
Anyway, after the reading I went out for a drink with my professor Gloria [http://books.google.com/books?ct=ti
**here is an annotated preview, sparing you the details [and yes, there were a lot of details]:
-one armed roomie with pink velvet/ dolphin/ blacklight sex den set up under his bed.
-roomie named DAVID LYNCH [for real] with abhorring hygeine and a very strange, lets just say questionable patch of back hair.
-[white] roommate who wore a traditional african tribal dress out on a date with a black girl...and got beat up.
-roomie who was in ROTC and ate a year's worth of freeze dried army rations in one night.
-roomie who was a male cheerleader and got his ass branded with a paper clip at the cheerleading party.
....actually those last three were all the same roommate...and that was at Princeton.
-panty stealers and Hooter's girls [that one i borrowed from Jean]
-bubbling, oozing substance coming from dresser drawer
-nymphomaniacs
-cleptomanics
This list goes on....and this was just a spontaneous question I threw out there...Imagine if I really collected people's stories? I dunno....good book material I'd say. Send me your insane roommate story and maybe one day I will put it in a book...and you will be famous.
I titled this post thus because that is what I was hoping to talk about... this sushi dinner with my friend Isreal and him telling me about this four day Vision Quest he went on...no food or water or anything...but alas, I have digressed. Anyway, I've come to realize that is a conversation I could never aptly quantify on a blog. Suffice it to say, it was the most terrifying and inspirational story I've ever heard.
But now Saturday has come and gone peacefully, with work and lots of sun and David Mamet's True and False, and the sweet evening is upon us. It's time to go make dinner with Anni and her man and then go to either her friend's band's show [back stage passes??] or Soul Night at the Elbo Room...either way, I'm puttin' flowers in my hair because tonight, the perfect city of San Francisco is my hot date...[as long as he lets me flirt shamelessly with dirty hipster boys.]
ANSELM BERRIGAN
Token Enabler
Autumn 2002
forced to cuddle but some heirloom of power and peril it must be
I have sufferings natural to me and a desire to repeat the clear truth
let me out of here— plunder and I, we hawk light to random passers-by
brutal on our own time sweet phantasm’s inner thigh kisses back
fully equipped token enabler glazed anxiety picks feathers under wings
with stunted emotions to shriek freely about the dollars for space do call
contracts are meant to be signed then read wake up and check birdy’s collar
has he chewed through it? opened up his back? give vet hundreds for another
chew toy blood test rapid cycling on the window sill wracked by construction
but he still loves he doesn’t know the syringe full of nasty-ass meds
is for his calamity he just knows I’m gonna jam it into his beak traced out
loophole to intelligence stations’ mayday flood the hull with fuel and detonate
when sick o write a poem you take care of me trapped things with power we be
androgyne vs. cyborg drapes this event outside the body box I owe you
a working clash conscience piggy scrape something scabbed off your and my backs
repeat ten thousand times a day: self-mutilation a poetics when I feel fine in place
I know I’m fucked by soft thoughts green panda blankies clear band-aids
wireless craniums spread silence rations ‘twas friendly in caves a pity
about those emotions getting in the way of rational resistance to The Fury stacked
upside down on the citizenry I’m said to be in contempt of a wiser love should I
write your vows? Whenever I know how to spill my guts all over the polemic
lifetime original drooling in a network’s daring choice of subjection no one
knows what happens when giant squids mate world authorities yearn to witness
beacon suckers emerge while subject to a harsh environmental variable surrounding
object flesh panel by panel legit as flow and just enough clothes and shit to present
a virus comes and considers going I see my person every morning and it ain’t me
and I like it that way with song and difficulty taking the opportunity to take care
of us as total time to spend no dumping get your health forms into the right slot
I know in my experience at work my problem is not my communication
skills it’s the fact that I’m communicating to the wrong people
...maybe you had to be there...i dunno....
Anyway, after the reading I went out for a drink with my professor Gloria [http://books.google.com/books?ct=ti
**here is an annotated preview, sparing you the details [and yes, there were a lot of details]:
-one armed roomie with pink velvet/ dolphin/ blacklight sex den set up under his bed.
-roomie named DAVID LYNCH [for real] with abhorring hygeine and a very strange, lets just say questionable patch of back hair.
-[white] roommate who wore a traditional african tribal dress out on a date with a black girl...and got beat up.
-roomie who was in ROTC and ate a year's worth of freeze dried army rations in one night.
-roomie who was a male cheerleader and got his ass branded with a paper clip at the cheerleading party.
....actually those last three were all the same roommate...and that was at Princeton.
-panty stealers and Hooter's girls [that one i borrowed from Jean]
-bubbling, oozing substance coming from dresser drawer
-nymphomaniacs
-cleptomanics
This list goes on....and this was just a spontaneous question I threw out there...Imagine if I really collected people's stories? I dunno....good book material I'd say. Send me your insane roommate story and maybe one day I will put it in a book...and you will be famous.
I titled this post thus because that is what I was hoping to talk about... this sushi dinner with my friend Isreal and him telling me about this four day Vision Quest he went on...no food or water or anything...but alas, I have digressed. Anyway, I've come to realize that is a conversation I could never aptly quantify on a blog. Suffice it to say, it was the most terrifying and inspirational story I've ever heard.
But now Saturday has come and gone peacefully, with work and lots of sun and David Mamet's True and False, and the sweet evening is upon us. It's time to go make dinner with Anni and her man and then go to either her friend's band's show [back stage passes??] or Soul Night at the Elbo Room...either way, I'm puttin' flowers in my hair because tonight, the perfect city of San Francisco is my hot date...[as long as he lets me flirt shamelessly with dirty hipster boys.]
there is a dude on the street out my window with a boombox blasting barbara streisand. just needed you all to know that.