i’m not as
Tuesday June 30th 2009, 11:45 pm
Filed under: change,tired Tags:

silent as you think I am.  Really.  There are words afoot, words a-hand, words to be written and words already written, words all sides of a number of tenses, with a few bonus moods and aspects thrown in for good measure.  The optative may or may not make an appearance.  All of which is to say, hold your wild fucking horses, come back from wherever it is you always go when the wind blows and god doesn’t come through, put down your cornflakes, step away from your brown eyes, change the sexy outfit you wore to my funeral, admit the crane’s off wing and you can’t hear the bells.  Just need some time, folks.  Time.  Anon.



unexpected
Tuesday June 09th 2009, 10:39 am
Filed under: grief,memory,sober,tired Tags:

Huh.  Didn’t see that one coming.  I used the faulty messenger/telephone of the malicious, scandalous, untrue, or vaguely scandal-scented on Friday, to communicate to (insert better acronym, euphemism, quasi-personal identifier than I can come up with here).  Knowing it, indeed, intending it, to come back around.  Which it indeed accomplished, three-quarters of a pot of coffee in this morning.  Professional stuff (which wasn’t all that significant) aside, unexpected tidbits include 1) in a relationship, and 2) recently suffered a similar tragedy to that which beset an over-educated over-funded friend unexpectedly absent from the big day, lo those (ummm) two and a half months back.   I know it’s utterly irrational, but hearkens back, for those of you who know, to the traumatic last months of the endgame a mere 6 years ago, but my first reaction was “it can’t be mine.  how is it possible it’s mine.  i don’t want this, like this, not now.”  I managed to wade through the impossibilities, my own innocence, if that makes any sense, so I could figure out what I was supposed to be feeling in relation to the tragedy.  Which is deep sympathy – I know how much she wants, has wanted, this, and how hard it must be to have this happen far enough into it all to be emotionally and spiritually crushing.  A sympathy I didn’t feel, last time, too deeply embedded in my own very complex reactions to the same situation, but my very different role in it.  (Apologies if I’m being too obscure [or, not obscure enough] about all of this; names have been changed, etc., but still….)  Anyway, aware of and uncomfortable about the issue for other reasons, to remain still vaguer, but an interesting re-visit to an emotional past that doesn’t, in fact, factor in to an emotional present.  I’m so sorry, for the present tense grief.



i know why my hair was blue
Monday June 08th 2009, 12:07 am
Filed under: Berkeley,Boozy,damn,memory,reminiscence,self-indulgent Tags:

And the brief experiment with dreads, and why maybe why Joy Division became my favorite band (although, Still?  Really?  I need to listen through again, perhaps.  iTunes says 1/9/09, so it’s been a handful of months since i last listened.)  And Fleurs du Mal and the edge and the demon.  None of them created, of course, by the consumption, but the consumption -years before, really, though who knows where to place, chronologically, the infinite re-reads of youth – of the book, but I doubt influence-free.  What puzzles me is whether I knew.  I can’t quite recall if I knew, or knew that I knew, first and second order distinctions of distant memory that shouldn’t bother me but do.  And the temptation to create the rose, black resin petals, green leaves and stem, chrome thorns, and merely send it along.  The re-read a prelude, as well, to the read, a large hardback French prize-winning recent book only recently translated, but one that can fit in the Manhattan Portage achingly obviously hip/unhip manbag that shall accompany me back to Manhattan (and Brooklyn, for that matter).  10 days.  Large book.  2 libraries, 5 manuscripts, 3 days, and friends and just the fucking City  to fill the rests of a week.  Green trainers, though no blue hair.  The demon that I always had, but the edge I didn’t quite know how to seize as my own, to walk on my own, to turn into an aesthetic and an attitude rather than merely a liability.  And it won’t be blue again, I don’t think, although the scar on the inside of my right forearm may well be paired by the anglicana text of an insane poem on the outside of my left forearm, someday soon.  How to be happy, to be settled, to cherish my life with YCTNW, and also not lose the edge, the work , the ink, the blue.



silky black humor
Saturday June 06th 2009, 12:58 am
Filed under: bastard,Boozy,HelLA,jazz,maudlin,New York Tags:

Or something along those lines, a review of Gaiman’s Graveyard Book.  I should read children’s books more often, and perhaps this heralds a re-read phrase, a re-reading phase.  An evening at a hipster poet / computer poetry digital artist’s show, a two night affair with an opening night party and a closing night party.  Maybe 15 people, an odd mix of 20-something hipsters, many of them students (including the one who shyly introduced herself and said she had been in my large lecture course 3 years ago) and 30- and 40-somethings, mostly artists, poets, the authentically creative, and oh yeah, me and YCTNW.  Claws that leave burns behind, as my saying goes, and now epee points leaving marks that won’t really scar.  An album of impossible past, Parlan and Shepp, the soundtrack to falling asleep for hundreds of nights, years of my life.  Candlelight and red wine, historically speaking, which reminds me that we have dozens of miniature oil lamps and my life demands more candlelight.  Mood lighting continues to thwart me, although dimmer eyesight softens the brighter lights necessary to function.  Things mostly wrapped up, now, a day of work even – I know more about something I knew very little about at the start of the day.  My instincts are good, too, as there’s plenty of room to operate in an under-thought-through, under-studied area that not only dovetails, but in fact is coexistent with, the main body (historically speaking. hahahahahahaha.) of my work.  New York in just under two weeks, a touch of solo time before then with YCTNW in NY for a friend’s bridal shower, for a visit to a past that is beloved, that actively loves back.  And work to do, for me, but increasingly in manageable bits.  Write this chapter.  Expand and revise.  But the fine, lead crystal glass of single malt is now empty, and it’s late enough and my consciousness unsharpened enough (Photoshop functions as a metaphor for life?  I’m unimpressed.  But last year’s illness might be Gaussian, and I’m grateful no one has neon-ed me or craquelured me.) to go to bed.  The last tracks of the album unlistened, vague memories of a man with thousands of CDs, many of them jazz, bought with the insurance payments from his dead older brother.  What I would have given, not having ever had a brother.  Now, loss looks different, even those losses I haven’t lost.  Father’s big weekend, fourth year running.  Fingers crossed he fucks it up a little bit less this year, if only to make his miserable fucking life a little bit easier.



Spam as Proust
Tuesday June 02nd 2009, 4:13 pm
Filed under: can't make that shit up,geek,Miscellaneous, Truly Tags:

Must go back to preparing my dog-and-pony presentation, but the email filter just emailed me to say it filtered my email (perhaps there’s a better way it might let me know these things.)  Anyhow, apparently one Albertine sent me an email with the subject “Excuse me for bothering.”  Marcel would have done anything for such a note.  Anyway, back to dogs, ponies….