Monday, November 15, 2004
 
e.e. cummings
voices to voices, lip to lip
i swear (to noone everyone) constitutes
undying; or whatever this and that petal confutes...
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep

what's beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated: i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May

-bring forth your flowers and machinery: sculpture and prose
flowers guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods, Heaven knows

(yet are we mindful, though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling, being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)

i mean that the blond absence of any program
except last and always and first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn...

bring on your fireworks, which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil; very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub, like any other pastel.

(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some oneeyed son of a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

each dream nascitur, is not made...)
why then to Hell with that: the other; this,
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flowers and not to be afraid.




Saturday, November 06, 2004
 
kill
oh.
my.
god.

I watched Kill Bill vol. I last night, and it was so good! I was not expecting to enjoy it, and only rented it for research purposes (you know, keeping up with the culture around you). I really liked it. I wasn't expecting the women to be such bad-asses. I was expecting that kind of sexist fake badassery...You know, an excuse for women to run around in bikinis, and lots of screen time for ass. I can tell whether a film's women are really bad-asses or just t'n'a with bad-ass facial expressions by how I feel after the film. Sounds weird, but it's true. (sometimes the message can be subtle enough that I don't totally get it consciously.) If I see a film where the women are window dressing, I leave feeling empty. And I am temporarily aware of how important it is for women to be thin and hot (as exhibited by the film's main purpose for the women), so I'm thinking, hmm, maybe I need to lose some weight, while simultaneously feeling bored and disinterested enough to want to eat a pound of M&Ms.

After Kill Bill, however, I did not have that weird diet ennui thing. I literally stood up and started do faux kung fu moves around the apartment. Seriously. The women in the film were such undeniable bad-asses that I actually felt stronger and tougher and better about my life after watching it. It's a good thing the citizens of Oakland were safely in their beds because I could feel the power in my thighs and my biceps, and I was jonesing for something to do with that power! After ha-ya-ing and tae-bo-ing my way around my apartment, vanquishing imaginary foes, I drove the video back to it's store in my little flip flops and pajama bottoms, my hair in a bun. I may be a hidden bad-ass, but I don't mess around with late fees. I filed my nails a little and cuddled up in bed with the boys. I couldn't come up with any badassery to get myself into last night, but beware Bay Area! I still have Kill Bill vol. II to watch.


Friday, November 05, 2004
 
ok, another favorite poem
--Benevolence--
by Tony Hoaglund

When my father dies and comes back as a dog,
I already know what his favorite sound will be:
the soft, almost inaudible gasp
as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door
unstick, followed by that arctic

exhalation of cold air;
then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink
and the quiet ching the cubes make
when dropped into a glass.

Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express
his preference for single malt,
he will utter one sharp bark
and point the wet black arrow of his nose
imperatively up
at the bottle on the shelf,

then seat himself before me,
trembling, expectant, water pouring
down the long pink dangle of his tongue
as the memory of pleasure from his former life
shakes him like a tail.

What I'll remember as I tower over him,
holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube
above his open mouth,
relishing the power rushing through my veins
the way it rushed through his,

what I'll remember as I stand there
is the hundred clever tricks
I taught myself to please him,
and for how long I mistakenly believed
that it was love he held concealed in his closed hand.


 
and now, a poem
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


one of my favorite poems, (I even memorized it once upon a time!) by W.H. Auden


10/2004
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12/2004
02/2005
03/2005
06/2005
07/2005
08/2005
10/2005
11/2005
12/2005
02/2006
03/2006
04/2006
06/2006

Of Course:
The views expressed here are my own and do not represent in any way my employer. Or my school. Or even my friends. And heaven knows the views here aren't representative of my family. Ha! This is a personal blog and it only represents me. And on some days, even that is questionable. So there.



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