Friday, December 23, 2005
hehe
This little rant from Lars Walker on Mercurochrome is great. Somehow, even though I was born in the 80s, I have very vivid memories of its application. Jake and I called it the "jumping-up-and-down medicine."
Thursday, December 01, 2005
That speech on feet ...
Do you all remember Brooks' infamous Rhetoric speech on the topic of feet? I always have these visions of Dana's feet when I think of it. Well, it's not often you meet feet in literature. But you meet just about everything in Pushkin's Onegin, as I am discovering when I read it on the bus. Speaking of the ladies at balls, Pushkin (stepping out of his storyteller role) says:
"I love their feet - although you'll find
That all of Russia scarcely numbers
Three pairs of shapely feet ... And yet,
How long it took me to forget
Two special feet. And in my slumbers
They still assail a soul grown cold
And on my heart they retain their hold."
(from Eugene Onegin, 1.30)
By the way, Eugene Onegin is one of most enjoyable pieces of literature I've encountered. If you're interested in reading it, my friends (who studied Russian) recommended getting a translation that preserves the rhyme scheme of the "Onegin stanza" (vs. Nabokov's more literal translation, which is content-driven, yet not as interesting to read). Anyway, it's a delight.
My question is: how would David Cooper survive in Russia? Looks pretty bleak for him.
One more week of playing the tricky student-teacher role! My first semester is winding down, but not without a bang. These last two weeks have been rough ... lots of grading to do, reading, writing, and technical stuff - like administering evaluations, submitting grades, finalizing my Spring syllabus and reading schedule, and working out my own schedule as a student. They have you here, coming and going. There's always a scorpion's sting at the end ...
Love to all. Drink lots of piping hot tea this winter - and eat English muffins!
"I love their feet - although you'll find
That all of Russia scarcely numbers
Three pairs of shapely feet ... And yet,
How long it took me to forget
Two special feet. And in my slumbers
They still assail a soul grown cold
And on my heart they retain their hold."
(from Eugene Onegin, 1.30)
By the way, Eugene Onegin is one of most enjoyable pieces of literature I've encountered. If you're interested in reading it, my friends (who studied Russian) recommended getting a translation that preserves the rhyme scheme of the "Onegin stanza" (vs. Nabokov's more literal translation, which is content-driven, yet not as interesting to read). Anyway, it's a delight.
My question is: how would David Cooper survive in Russia? Looks pretty bleak for him.
One more week of playing the tricky student-teacher role! My first semester is winding down, but not without a bang. These last two weeks have been rough ... lots of grading to do, reading, writing, and technical stuff - like administering evaluations, submitting grades, finalizing my Spring syllabus and reading schedule, and working out my own schedule as a student. They have you here, coming and going. There's always a scorpion's sting at the end ...
Love to all. Drink lots of piping hot tea this winter - and eat English muffins!
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Breaking the Silence
Hello. I thought it high time to create some content for this sluggish blog that looks so forlorn - this was getting on my nerves since it''s set as my homepage in tribute to you all.
Yes, Em: I owe you an email!
I was at Border's today and wanted to rattle off some interesting new(-ish) books:
Blogosphere: The Best of Blogs (Reminds me of crisis-free social commentary; nothing critical here, lots of information. Master Lampe, please attack this one. Your innumerable online fans will be holding their breath until you do. Be a social servant, please).
The Better of McSweeney's, Volume One (while not as committed as their circulated and celebrated brainchild, The Believer, at least this collection doesn't look too terribly frivolous. Good authors included too)
Will in the World, by Greenblatt (Em, could you please give us the scoop in this book? Thought of you when I saw it today. I've seen bits and pieces about it on your esteemed blog)
How We are Hungry, by Eggers (Groan. More apparent self-indulgence by the author of A Heart-Breaking Work of Staggering Genius. Yes folks, irony as a cultural foundation is over. Passe. Move on!)
"Breakback Mountain," by Proulx (From her story collection Ace in the Hole. I was shocked to see that one of my favorite authors had sparked the current Hollywood controversy about the "gay cowboy" movie. I think this is unfortunate, since Proulx ought to known more her compelling work, like The Shipping News or Postcards)
Are Men Necessary?, by Dowd (Wow. Where do I begin? Em can you give us the compass?)
The Trouble with Poetry, by Collins (Brooks, this one's for you, baby. A new collection of poetry from the poet laureate. Shades of Heaney here?)
Summer Crossing, by Capote (Imagine the thrill of being a Capote fan or scholar right now. Yes, I do realize that Capote has been dead for a bit)
The Cambridge Companion to Nabokov, ed. Connolly (This one's for me. Yum yum is all I can say. Nabokovian criticism appears to be alive and well - confirming my quasi-decision to pursue it a bit more in graduate school. Really folks, a quality collection of essays not stuck in outdated modes of poststructuralist criticism)
As for my life ...
That's what emails are for!
Travis
Yes, Em: I owe you an email!
I was at Border's today and wanted to rattle off some interesting new(-ish) books:
Blogosphere: The Best of Blogs (Reminds me of crisis-free social commentary; nothing critical here, lots of information. Master Lampe, please attack this one. Your innumerable online fans will be holding their breath until you do. Be a social servant, please).
The Better of McSweeney's, Volume One (while not as committed as their circulated and celebrated brainchild, The Believer, at least this collection doesn't look too terribly frivolous. Good authors included too)
Will in the World, by Greenblatt (Em, could you please give us the scoop in this book? Thought of you when I saw it today. I've seen bits and pieces about it on your esteemed blog)
How We are Hungry, by Eggers (Groan. More apparent self-indulgence by the author of A Heart-Breaking Work of Staggering Genius. Yes folks, irony as a cultural foundation is over. Passe. Move on!)
"Breakback Mountain," by Proulx (From her story collection Ace in the Hole. I was shocked to see that one of my favorite authors had sparked the current Hollywood controversy about the "gay cowboy" movie. I think this is unfortunate, since Proulx ought to known more her compelling work, like The Shipping News or Postcards)
Are Men Necessary?, by Dowd (Wow. Where do I begin? Em can you give us the compass?)
The Trouble with Poetry, by Collins (Brooks, this one's for you, baby. A new collection of poetry from the poet laureate. Shades of Heaney here?)
Summer Crossing, by Capote (Imagine the thrill of being a Capote fan or scholar right now. Yes, I do realize that Capote has been dead for a bit)
The Cambridge Companion to Nabokov, ed. Connolly (This one's for me. Yum yum is all I can say. Nabokovian criticism appears to be alive and well - confirming my quasi-decision to pursue it a bit more in graduate school. Really folks, a quality collection of essays not stuck in outdated modes of poststructuralist criticism)
As for my life ...
That's what emails are for!
Travis
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Visual/Aural Poetry
If one of the essential sensual dimensions by which a poem works its magic is the visual presentation--it's material presence on the page--should a poem be confined to a single sheet of paper? Poe said a story can only be long enough to read in one sitting; perhaps a poem should fit on a single page (or perhaps a double spread) so that the viewer can "see" all of the poem at once. This would be a New Criticism-ish view, but I thought I'd throw it out there for you Farm Animals.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Journaling Again
I started writing in my journal again. Last night I felt obliged to complete the whole picturesque evening--a waxing moon, courting crickets, bronzy street lights--with me scribbling, a slippery pointed ink pen across the pages of a blue journal. It was part of my attempt to begin writing again. To make myself start writing I have to think of it in its most innocent form--as a pen and a piece of paper. Words wrap me in a paralysis when I think about what they can do. At the same time, I am afraid of what happens without them. Every day at work my words consists of about five little speeches concerning homeschooling. I hope my vocabulary isn't shrinking to only those words necessary for communicating homeschool laws to southern mothers. My impoverished state is evidenced in the fact that I spent several hours of elation when someone used the word "mercurial" (which they had probably read that morning on their dictionary calender card before ripping it off). My only other consolation (at work) is the West Virginian pidgin and their incorrect use of verb tenses. I have decided that an "office of one's own" is not the space that Virginia Woolf was talking about when she discussed feminine art. Reflecting on my own schedule, I think the space she was talking about was time. Lots of leisurely hours within to write and clip your toe nails.
Friday, September 09, 2005
The Milton Center and Image Journal
Read this article about a new book that my theory prof reviewed in the recent issue of Image. The book being reviewed is called Sacred and Secular Scriptures: A Catholic Approach to Literature.
Also, check out the Milton Center. Pretty cool huh? If you click on the Fellows link, you can see that there is an eclectic mix of denominations including Catholics. Let's go to Seattle and get published and live off of $15,000 a year. :-)
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Finding me "out there"
As most of you already know, I have a personal FSU webpage that I am linking to my ENC1101 classes (don't worry, you all will be getting the link for my class sites when they are available). I wasted a few hours last night getting the site ready. Now you all can visit it at: http://writing.fsu.edu/~lae594639/tptimmonshome.html. The site's title reflects the leariness I still have about the nature of cyber mediums. I still think it is great irony that I am teaching my two classes inside a computer-equipped class room.
O, I am still not sure about my plans for the next three weeks. My family keeps talking, then not talking, about going West. Knowing them it will be a last minute decision.
O, I am still not sure about my plans for the next three weeks. My family keeps talking, then not talking, about going West. Knowing them it will be a last minute decision.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Artistic Bachlor Visits Tea Room
Looking for comments/suggestsions on this poem, which I wrote about the Stone House tea room, though obviously (and intentionally) void of Dana. Travis, thanks for your comments via email, I've already made some minor adjustments, but think it needs more overhauling. Lisa Bode says "pants down" is bad as is the final stanza "reality kept poking fun at me."
Ecstatic to have the day completely free,
I decided to try the Cream Tea at the Stone House
For the sheer thrill of it. As a boy
I used to frequent tearooms with my grandma;
She doted on how cute and beautiful
It was that I enjoyed such daintiness,
Such sophistication and finesse.
And here I was at 22, braving
The stronghold of femininity alone,
In my cargo shorts and collared shirt.
I sat down in the sun room. But as I
Looked about me I began to see
How things had changed, how out of place I was.
Behind my table, a birthday girl giggled,
Praising the joys of tea; she is “very pleased”
To have her friends and family there
At her table: tea for eight. She offers
Her sister another cup in fake-British.
Then, her dad’s cell cackles a harsh ring,
But this does not interrupt the magic
Of her imaginary world. I turn
Mine to vibrate, and just a moment later
It went off, rattling on my thigh, shattering
My half-believing moment. Is it Nichole,
That all important call of the hour?
Reluctantly I drew it out to check
The message, and as I held it to my ear
Three matriarchs emerged and processed
Through the garden and into the sun room,
Perching on the table next to mine.
My phone felt like a sin in my hand.
I was caught, pants down, without excuse:
Another unsophisticated vagrant
Making ugly the name of bachelorhood
Amidst the tearoom going crowd.
I tried to eavesdrop on their rapid chat:
Will they gossip of my dress and manner?
Or will they understand the battle we fight—
All of us—the magic world versus the real.
No. Worse—they discussed some other young man
Who is entering the priesthood. Just then
My phone began its earthquake again.
If magic was the goal then I was losing.
. . . The birthday girl still curled in bloody accent
And poured more tea for eight with innocent laughter. . . .
I felt an arrow wound my heart. I saw
It then: I was a misplaced, awkward klutz,
An agitating (but not lethal) bull
In that tearoom china closet. But my
Effort to be unnoticeable, at ease,
Could not disguise my makeshift etiquette,
As poor and grating as fake accentuation.
And I wondered how on earth those women
So confidently, casually begged strangers
To take pictures of their posing wrinkles
While donning those atrocious red hats.
Again, their source of romance confused me.
Why couldn’t I partake of that play?
Was there no role for me? No place in the
Dramatic action? Was there no space on stage,
Not even a non-speaking part, one
To wear the costume, blend in, become
A believable (unnoted) piece in the set?
(I’d like that, in fact: to be an atom
in the magic, and not its inquisitor.)
But reality kept poking fun at me
And pointing out the cracks in the urn
Of poetry and my own lack of social
Worthiness that cracked my hope. Although
I have escaped embarrassment by means of
This murmurhood of words I call my “art,”
I find I cannot live the art of life,
Cannot keep up the child’s birthday game
That makes mothers and daughters the same age,
Sharing the same story and a common joy,
Written somewhere in the mystery of tea
And diamond-sunlight glinting off the knife.
Ecstatic to have the day completely free,
I decided to try the Cream Tea at the Stone House
For the sheer thrill of it. As a boy
I used to frequent tearooms with my grandma;
She doted on how cute and beautiful
It was that I enjoyed such daintiness,
Such sophistication and finesse.
And here I was at 22, braving
The stronghold of femininity alone,
In my cargo shorts and collared shirt.
I sat down in the sun room. But as I
Looked about me I began to see
How things had changed, how out of place I was.
Behind my table, a birthday girl giggled,
Praising the joys of tea; she is “very pleased”
To have her friends and family there
At her table: tea for eight. She offers
Her sister another cup in fake-British.
Then, her dad’s cell cackles a harsh ring,
But this does not interrupt the magic
Of her imaginary world. I turn
Mine to vibrate, and just a moment later
It went off, rattling on my thigh, shattering
My half-believing moment. Is it Nichole,
That all important call of the hour?
Reluctantly I drew it out to check
The message, and as I held it to my ear
Three matriarchs emerged and processed
Through the garden and into the sun room,
Perching on the table next to mine.
My phone felt like a sin in my hand.
I was caught, pants down, without excuse:
Another unsophisticated vagrant
Making ugly the name of bachelorhood
Amidst the tearoom going crowd.
I tried to eavesdrop on their rapid chat:
Will they gossip of my dress and manner?
Or will they understand the battle we fight—
All of us—the magic world versus the real.
No. Worse—they discussed some other young man
Who is entering the priesthood. Just then
My phone began its earthquake again.
If magic was the goal then I was losing.
. . . The birthday girl still curled in bloody accent
And poured more tea for eight with innocent laughter. . . .
I felt an arrow wound my heart. I saw
It then: I was a misplaced, awkward klutz,
An agitating (but not lethal) bull
In that tearoom china closet. But my
Effort to be unnoticeable, at ease,
Could not disguise my makeshift etiquette,
As poor and grating as fake accentuation.
And I wondered how on earth those women
So confidently, casually begged strangers
To take pictures of their posing wrinkles
While donning those atrocious red hats.
Again, their source of romance confused me.
Why couldn’t I partake of that play?
Was there no role for me? No place in the
Dramatic action? Was there no space on stage,
Not even a non-speaking part, one
To wear the costume, blend in, become
A believable (unnoted) piece in the set?
(I’d like that, in fact: to be an atom
in the magic, and not its inquisitor.)
But reality kept poking fun at me
And pointing out the cracks in the urn
Of poetry and my own lack of social
Worthiness that cracked my hope. Although
I have escaped embarrassment by means of
This murmurhood of words I call my “art,”
I find I cannot live the art of life,
Cannot keep up the child’s birthday game
That makes mothers and daughters the same age,
Sharing the same story and a common joy,
Written somewhere in the mystery of tea
And diamond-sunlight glinting off the knife.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
A crumb
Well, my ENC1101 internship officially ended today.
The results: I helped lead class discussions, conduct workshops, do mini-lectures, and actually teach class on two occasions. Oh, I got to critique student papers and grade a set of papers as well. The best paper got an A-.
Today, Brandy Wilson (my teacher-mentor) had the students write a single page evaluation of Danielle (my classmate, another T.A.) and me. The results are satisfying. The highlight? From Allyson, an African-American girl from South Florida who looks like an African princess - if that makes any sense:
"Travis was a major help, and a pleasure to have in this class. When we were doing the work about finding a topic he was the person who really helped our group to narrow down our topic and something that we liked .... P.S. I thought it was really cool how you [Travis] didn't announce your Birthday. My B day is July 21st as well and I really dont like to make it known. We have more in common that we think my fellow Cancer."
I love teaching already.
My schedule for the Fall: I am teaching ENC1101-03 on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8-9am (groan!). The classroom is equipped for computers. I say, you have to learn the technology in order to negate it. Actually, there's a chance I will be teaching a second section of ENC1101 as well. I am waiting to hear back from our Writing Director on this one.
As for my student-life, I will probably be taking French, Pedogogy Workshop II, and - if I can get in - a class on the Frankfurt School. This class that counts towards the Critical Theory Certificate that I am shooting for within my Master's program.
The results: I helped lead class discussions, conduct workshops, do mini-lectures, and actually teach class on two occasions. Oh, I got to critique student papers and grade a set of papers as well. The best paper got an A-.
Today, Brandy Wilson (my teacher-mentor) had the students write a single page evaluation of Danielle (my classmate, another T.A.) and me. The results are satisfying. The highlight? From Allyson, an African-American girl from South Florida who looks like an African princess - if that makes any sense:
"Travis was a major help, and a pleasure to have in this class. When we were doing the work about finding a topic he was the person who really helped our group to narrow down our topic and something that we liked .... P.S. I thought it was really cool how you [Travis] didn't announce your Birthday. My B day is July 21st as well and I really dont like to make it known. We have more in common that we think my fellow Cancer."
I love teaching already.
My schedule for the Fall: I am teaching ENC1101-03 on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8-9am (groan!). The classroom is equipped for computers. I say, you have to learn the technology in order to negate it. Actually, there's a chance I will be teaching a second section of ENC1101 as well. I am waiting to hear back from our Writing Director on this one.
As for my student-life, I will probably be taking French, Pedogogy Workshop II, and - if I can get in - a class on the Frankfurt School. This class that counts towards the Critical Theory Certificate that I am shooting for within my Master's program.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Welcome to Royal Street
Emily, Darcy and Dana: mucho congradualtions on your wonderful new home. Darcy is already decorating I hear...
That is a definite sign of your freedom: your are free of assignments, papers and duedates. There is no more peer pressure.
Now I'm going to apply some pressure: make this blog beautiful! Post something--often. Please. :-)
I think our Blue Room is a good idea... let's give it some life.
Happy Birthday Travis! You are well into your training at FSU now and have tons of new things to learn. Give us a periodic update when the trees aren't falling from hurricanes.
That is a definite sign of your freedom: your are free of assignments, papers and duedates. There is no more peer pressure.
Now I'm going to apply some pressure: make this blog beautiful! Post something--often. Please. :-)
I think our Blue Room is a good idea... let's give it some life.
Happy Birthday Travis! You are well into your training at FSU now and have tons of new things to learn. Give us a periodic update when the trees aren't falling from hurricanes.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Going to NYC!
Here is the email I just sent out. I'm posting it as a time-capsule piece.~~
Dear Dana, Darcy & Em,
We are leaving for New York late Friday night and getting back late Sunday night. All transportation and lodgings are taken care of. All you need to do is pay me $75 (preferably cash and by the weekend so I can spend it on books and clothes . . . just kidding!).
I've included the trip itinerary and a few packing tips (including the weather forecast), just because I love you girls (order of priority goes from oldest to youngest). I know you girls know how to pack, I'm just doing this so you can be at ease that you have everything you need, which allows you to stay loose and have a great time.
MOST IMPORTANTLY: bring ID, Money, and fit everything into One Bag. If someone can find us a ride to West Falls Church late Friday night, that would be awesome. If someone could bring a good map of NYC, too, that would be helpful. And if you have anyplace you want to go particularly, bring the address and directions for that too.
The WEATHER: the high will be 90 and low will be 70 both Saturday and Sunday in both DC and NYC. Thus, obviously, dress for hot weather. 30% chance of rain on Sunday, but it's scattered, so we can avoid it if it comes.
PACKING:
The most imporatant thing to realize is that YOU WILL BE CARRYING EVERYTHING YOU BRING FOR MOST OF THE TRIP. This is a garuntee until we check into the hostile and after we check out on Sunday morning. So think about what you are packing. Bring everything you have in ONE bag, preferably something you can bear comfortably on your back for walking, such as a backpack. Don't even take a purse, if you can avoid it. (they don't call in backpacking for nothing) The lighter the better.
Other Tips:
--wear the same pants/shorts both days, but bring extra undergarments/shirt.
--Don't bring any extra footwear. Wear the most comfortable closed-toe walking shoes you own.
--Sunglasses are advisable. Waterbottle optional, probably better option is to buy a bottle and throw it away when done.
--Shirts and shorts are FINE and advisable, the city is full of very casually dressed people.
--Dana, I would advise a light, compact sweater for the play Saturday night, because you can get cold at slight breeze.
--Bring ONE book (okay, maybe 2). Someone with a tiny Bible should volunteer to bring theirs and everyone can share. Bring a camera, of course, and cell phone/charger.
--Bring a truncated toiletry kit. I think the hostile provides towels and shampoo/soap. If not we'll handle it then. Pack assuming they are. If need be, I'll make a run to the CVS. I'll bring toothpaste and shaving cream and sunblock for all to share--seriously.
--Scenario: From my past experience I would suggest one extra (total of 2) shirt and one extra (total of 2) set of undergarments (including socks) because it is nice to have this if your clothes get soaked from perspiration or precipitation. Most likely, we'll break a sweat and it would be nice to change into dry things before the bus ride back.
--Don't bring raingear, we'll have to use the gothic architecture as a shield if it rains.
The less you bring, the more shopping you can do!
ITINERARY:
1. The only kink yet to be worked out is getting someone to drive us to the Falls Church Metro station Friday night, preferably after 10pm. They can use my car if trustworthy, so if you know anyone . . . pass it on.
2. We can take metro station to ChinaTown, but we don't HAVE to be in ChinaTown until 1:30. Before then we are free to roam, and depending on how early we get dropped off, we could maybe get something to eat, chill out at a bar, booze up . . . you know.
3. At 1:30 we will need to be at 513 H ST NW Washington, DC 20001, which I'll get directions for. We'll load the bus. It's a nice bus, air conditioned and fairly comfortable chairs. Whether or not you'll be able to sleep in them is a toss up, but it can be done--especially if you have a significant other with shoulder to lean on. Don't bring pillows unless they are inflatable or you want to throw them away or carry them the entire weekend. THere is also a very small restroom which consists of a toilet with no sink and usually no paper-you get the idea.
4. We should be pulling to ChinaTown around 6am, we'll go to Central Park using the subway (which will cost you a total of $14 for both days), and we'll wait . . . and you girls can go off by yourselves if you ask nicely.
5. One we get the tickets we are free. The only other idea I had was to see either the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Modern Museum of Art. The rest is up to you three to figure out, whether you want to plan ahead or act intuitively is up to you (both work fine in this city).
6. Our hostile should be very easy to get to and we could probably drop off our bags there after noon, IF they are giving us a key and the door locks.
7. We are free all day Sunday, just have to be at 88 E. Broadway by 5:30pm to get on the bus and head back.
8. Once we get back we'll get back on the Metro and go to Falls Church. Steve Rybicki will pick us up and take us home.
-Brooks
Dear Dana, Darcy & Em,
We are leaving for New York late Friday night and getting back late Sunday night. All transportation and lodgings are taken care of. All you need to do is pay me $75 (preferably cash and by the weekend so I can spend it on books and clothes . . . just kidding!).
I've included the trip itinerary and a few packing tips (including the weather forecast), just because I love you girls (order of priority goes from oldest to youngest). I know you girls know how to pack, I'm just doing this so you can be at ease that you have everything you need, which allows you to stay loose and have a great time.
MOST IMPORTANTLY: bring ID, Money, and fit everything into One Bag. If someone can find us a ride to West Falls Church late Friday night, that would be awesome. If someone could bring a good map of NYC, too, that would be helpful. And if you have anyplace you want to go particularly, bring the address and directions for that too.
The WEATHER: the high will be 90 and low will be 70 both Saturday and Sunday in both DC and NYC. Thus, obviously, dress for hot weather. 30% chance of rain on Sunday, but it's scattered, so we can avoid it if it comes.
PACKING:
The most imporatant thing to realize is that YOU WILL BE CARRYING EVERYTHING YOU BRING FOR MOST OF THE TRIP. This is a garuntee until we check into the hostile and after we check out on Sunday morning. So think about what you are packing. Bring everything you have in ONE bag, preferably something you can bear comfortably on your back for walking, such as a backpack. Don't even take a purse, if you can avoid it. (they don't call in backpacking for nothing) The lighter the better.
Other Tips:
--wear the same pants/shorts both days, but bring extra undergarments/shirt.
--Don't bring any extra footwear. Wear the most comfortable closed-toe walking shoes you own.
--Sunglasses are advisable. Waterbottle optional, probably better option is to buy a bottle and throw it away when done.
--Shirts and shorts are FINE and advisable, the city is full of very casually dressed people.
--Dana, I would advise a light, compact sweater for the play Saturday night, because you can get cold at slight breeze.
--Bring ONE book (okay, maybe 2). Someone with a tiny Bible should volunteer to bring theirs and everyone can share. Bring a camera, of course, and cell phone/charger.
--Bring a truncated toiletry kit. I think the hostile provides towels and shampoo/soap. If not we'll handle it then. Pack assuming they are. If need be, I'll make a run to the CVS. I'll bring toothpaste and shaving cream and sunblock for all to share--seriously.
--Scenario: From my past experience I would suggest one extra (total of 2) shirt and one extra (total of 2) set of undergarments (including socks) because it is nice to have this if your clothes get soaked from perspiration or precipitation. Most likely, we'll break a sweat and it would be nice to change into dry things before the bus ride back.
--Don't bring raingear, we'll have to use the gothic architecture as a shield if it rains.
The less you bring, the more shopping you can do!
ITINERARY:
1. The only kink yet to be worked out is getting someone to drive us to the Falls Church Metro station Friday night, preferably after 10pm. They can use my car if trustworthy, so if you know anyone . . . pass it on.
2. We can take metro station to ChinaTown, but we don't HAVE to be in ChinaTown until 1:30. Before then we are free to roam, and depending on how early we get dropped off, we could maybe get something to eat, chill out at a bar, booze up . . . you know.
3. At 1:30 we will need to be at 513 H ST NW Washington, DC 20001, which I'll get directions for. We'll load the bus. It's a nice bus, air conditioned and fairly comfortable chairs. Whether or not you'll be able to sleep in them is a toss up, but it can be done--especially if you have a significant other with shoulder to lean on. Don't bring pillows unless they are inflatable or you want to throw them away or carry them the entire weekend. THere is also a very small restroom which consists of a toilet with no sink and usually no paper-you get the idea.
4. We should be pulling to ChinaTown around 6am, we'll go to Central Park using the subway (which will cost you a total of $14 for both days), and we'll wait . . . and you girls can go off by yourselves if you ask nicely.
5. One we get the tickets we are free. The only other idea I had was to see either the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Modern Museum of Art. The rest is up to you three to figure out, whether you want to plan ahead or act intuitively is up to you (both work fine in this city).
6. Our hostile should be very easy to get to and we could probably drop off our bags there after noon, IF they are giving us a key and the door locks.
7. We are free all day Sunday, just have to be at 88 E. Broadway by 5:30pm to get on the bus and head back.
8. Once we get back we'll get back on the Metro and go to Falls Church. Steve Rybicki will pick us up and take us home.
-Brooks
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Leaking 'em out
Dear Folks,
Here are a few prose poems from my practicum project. I've included the first piece, a the final draft of a piece that Brooks posted on his blog, and a piece about Eldorado, where I spent many of my childhood years. I did twelve of these. Each tried to explore a specific scene or an association of scenes. I wouldn't mind expanding these in number and tone (to included more irony and more secnes about myself for instance). I notice I tend to observe and explore from the perspective of myself as a passive eye. It's just the way they came out, I swear I don't have any complexes!
I.
Mum sits, hunched over a light table. She wears goggles. The box’s top glows yellow. Mum moves slender tools in her hands. She is slicing glass. I hear sizzling and a submerged guttural hum. A sautering iron smokes. These are mum’s glass tools. Peering through a doorknob hole, I watch mum with concern. I shuffle to the left. My knees meet carpet. They burn. My little sister screams from the crib. Her rhythmic protest rocks the wooden cage. A glowing halo of reddish fuzz crowns her head. Her hands are white lumps around the bars. A cloth diaper clings to her loins. Her mouth is a black hole surrounded by red flush and her eyes are wrinkled around the clenched slits. The room is cold grey. The bridges of my feet ache. I peer again and hear sizzling and humming between sister’s screams. Sister wants out of the crib. I put my hands on the cool white surface of the door for balance. This is the memory speaking in my head. It is framed in inky, embryonic blackness. I see myself crouched in front of the white door, peering through the doorknob hole. Dad has not put the doorknob back in. Sister screams, mum cuts. Soon I realize I am allowed to watch myself. The detachment of self-consciousness blooms. I experience dualism. I watch the world; I watch myself. Other, self, consciousness. My first memory. A vocation of observance.
V.
When the thunder spoke it precluded a downpour. Run inside. Run inside now. Between cloud and mountain a black swath rushes toward us. The earth becomes dimpled, then dappled. The chickenpox of the monsoon covers the sickly terrestrial skin every afternoon for a few months. I was born in the summer, the time of desert monsoons. My birthday partakes in the rhythm and ebb of sloshing rain drops. You know in Pecos two men died in the lightning, on a softball field. Before the thunder speaks, the sky must be vast, so vast you could swear space shuttles passed discretely just beyond the places where the blue faded and your eyes gave out in the profusion above. The vampire has been at work sucking desert life. The air sizzles. The servant said, there is a cloud, as small as a man’s hand. We saw a hand over the desert, over the Jemez, over us every bone-revealing, flesh-sucking afternoon. The sky became black with clouds and wind, and there was a heavy rain. The hand becomes plural, became a congregation, soon becoming an apparition. The vampire slouches back to the cholla cacti. The dust quivers. A bilious warhead emerges, erect and strong from the cumulus apparition. It clarifies, defines, columnifies itself. They have said that it is an irony the first nuclear warhead was sparked in the deserts of New Mexico. A massive natural warhead with a sloped anvil top loomed over the desert floor every monsoon afternoon. The ovoid grey drops plash in the junipers, becoming muffled in the fine dust. We ran outside thrusting ours hands toward a cloud, aching for comparison. The earth is quenched. It settles down. The vampire creeps back out. I sleep. Next morning my feet tamp the earth. The desert dew swirls in minute clouds around my ankle. The sky slumbers.
IX.
Eldorado in three scenes. Coyotes spill like a fluid current, split like knifed foam, pass around in desert ripples, and spread out in a wake. Coyotes scramble over folds of buffalo grass and around the junipers, break off into kinetic couples, slink smoothly around the house, and lope out into open dirt fusing with the road. Oreo howls. We breathe gossamer clouds on the window pane. The coyotes stammer. It is some rabid and profane litany, cursing the dead adobe walls. Oreo barks. Oreo whines. This is the spirit of the place. Biking every summer night with my sisters. An amusement park of high desert hills and carpets of yellow, rattling buffalo grasses. Golden air swirling with dust, dust, dust. My loin flutters, my bike dips down, my bike dips around. The path snakes. I do not brake. Sister swears she will beat me tonight. A chilly pocket of air. I remember to breathe in deeply. Our heads trail each other, poking out in the gold dust air. This is the name of the place. The azure sky swallows us from the Sangre de Christos to the Jemez, those ancient and silent volcanoes. Next to a dirt road my sisters and I peer at the depths of a mud puddle shaped like Manhattan. Grotesque amphibious heads peer back at us. Frilly tails flash in and out of the coffee water. We stare harder with more solemnity. I clutch a pea-green aquarium net. Sister pinches a mason jar by its neck. The tadpoles elude our net. A breeze rattles the chamisas crowding around the road edge. I dip the net, I am the quick one. It reemerges, quivering. A bit of flesh gyrates within the mesh. We cannot breathe. Eldorado, this is the life of the place.
Here are a few prose poems from my practicum project. I've included the first piece, a the final draft of a piece that Brooks posted on his blog, and a piece about Eldorado, where I spent many of my childhood years. I did twelve of these. Each tried to explore a specific scene or an association of scenes. I wouldn't mind expanding these in number and tone (to included more irony and more secnes about myself for instance). I notice I tend to observe and explore from the perspective of myself as a passive eye. It's just the way they came out, I swear I don't have any complexes!
I.
Mum sits, hunched over a light table. She wears goggles. The box’s top glows yellow. Mum moves slender tools in her hands. She is slicing glass. I hear sizzling and a submerged guttural hum. A sautering iron smokes. These are mum’s glass tools. Peering through a doorknob hole, I watch mum with concern. I shuffle to the left. My knees meet carpet. They burn. My little sister screams from the crib. Her rhythmic protest rocks the wooden cage. A glowing halo of reddish fuzz crowns her head. Her hands are white lumps around the bars. A cloth diaper clings to her loins. Her mouth is a black hole surrounded by red flush and her eyes are wrinkled around the clenched slits. The room is cold grey. The bridges of my feet ache. I peer again and hear sizzling and humming between sister’s screams. Sister wants out of the crib. I put my hands on the cool white surface of the door for balance. This is the memory speaking in my head. It is framed in inky, embryonic blackness. I see myself crouched in front of the white door, peering through the doorknob hole. Dad has not put the doorknob back in. Sister screams, mum cuts. Soon I realize I am allowed to watch myself. The detachment of self-consciousness blooms. I experience dualism. I watch the world; I watch myself. Other, self, consciousness. My first memory. A vocation of observance.
V.
When the thunder spoke it precluded a downpour. Run inside. Run inside now. Between cloud and mountain a black swath rushes toward us. The earth becomes dimpled, then dappled. The chickenpox of the monsoon covers the sickly terrestrial skin every afternoon for a few months. I was born in the summer, the time of desert monsoons. My birthday partakes in the rhythm and ebb of sloshing rain drops. You know in Pecos two men died in the lightning, on a softball field. Before the thunder speaks, the sky must be vast, so vast you could swear space shuttles passed discretely just beyond the places where the blue faded and your eyes gave out in the profusion above. The vampire has been at work sucking desert life. The air sizzles. The servant said, there is a cloud, as small as a man’s hand. We saw a hand over the desert, over the Jemez, over us every bone-revealing, flesh-sucking afternoon. The sky became black with clouds and wind, and there was a heavy rain. The hand becomes plural, became a congregation, soon becoming an apparition. The vampire slouches back to the cholla cacti. The dust quivers. A bilious warhead emerges, erect and strong from the cumulus apparition. It clarifies, defines, columnifies itself. They have said that it is an irony the first nuclear warhead was sparked in the deserts of New Mexico. A massive natural warhead with a sloped anvil top loomed over the desert floor every monsoon afternoon. The ovoid grey drops plash in the junipers, becoming muffled in the fine dust. We ran outside thrusting ours hands toward a cloud, aching for comparison. The earth is quenched. It settles down. The vampire creeps back out. I sleep. Next morning my feet tamp the earth. The desert dew swirls in minute clouds around my ankle. The sky slumbers.
IX.
Eldorado in three scenes. Coyotes spill like a fluid current, split like knifed foam, pass around in desert ripples, and spread out in a wake. Coyotes scramble over folds of buffalo grass and around the junipers, break off into kinetic couples, slink smoothly around the house, and lope out into open dirt fusing with the road. Oreo howls. We breathe gossamer clouds on the window pane. The coyotes stammer. It is some rabid and profane litany, cursing the dead adobe walls. Oreo barks. Oreo whines. This is the spirit of the place. Biking every summer night with my sisters. An amusement park of high desert hills and carpets of yellow, rattling buffalo grasses. Golden air swirling with dust, dust, dust. My loin flutters, my bike dips down, my bike dips around. The path snakes. I do not brake. Sister swears she will beat me tonight. A chilly pocket of air. I remember to breathe in deeply. Our heads trail each other, poking out in the gold dust air. This is the name of the place. The azure sky swallows us from the Sangre de Christos to the Jemez, those ancient and silent volcanoes. Next to a dirt road my sisters and I peer at the depths of a mud puddle shaped like Manhattan. Grotesque amphibious heads peer back at us. Frilly tails flash in and out of the coffee water. We stare harder with more solemnity. I clutch a pea-green aquarium net. Sister pinches a mason jar by its neck. The tadpoles elude our net. A breeze rattles the chamisas crowding around the road edge. I dip the net, I am the quick one. It reemerges, quivering. A bit of flesh gyrates within the mesh. We cannot breathe. Eldorado, this is the life of the place.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Darcy's Top Ten
Alexander Pope's Eloisa to Abelard for its humanity.
Percy Byshshe Shelley's Prometheus Unbound--the fact that it was rebellion and not reform, as he said, "Didactic poetry is my abhorrence."
The Nonsense Poets--they where the only happy poets in the 20th century.
Langston Hughes.
William Butler Yeats--because he managed to be passionate about faeries and political causes.
D.H.Lawrence--for his leaping conclusions about life that left you breathless and smug about despair; not because they were necessarily valid, but because they were beautiful.
e. e. cummings--trite, I know.
Katherine Anne Porter's Flowering Judas.
Eudora Welty--local color as universal as it gets.
Edna St. Vincent Millay--her lyricism.
Percy Byshshe Shelley's Prometheus Unbound--the fact that it was rebellion and not reform, as he said, "Didactic poetry is my abhorrence."
The Nonsense Poets--they where the only happy poets in the 20th century.
Langston Hughes.
William Butler Yeats--because he managed to be passionate about faeries and political causes.
D.H.Lawrence--for his leaping conclusions about life that left you breathless and smug about despair; not because they were necessarily valid, but because they were beautiful.
e. e. cummings--trite, I know.
Katherine Anne Porter's Flowering Judas.
Eudora Welty--local color as universal as it gets.
Edna St. Vincent Millay--her lyricism.
Friday, June 10, 2005
My First Postgraduation Poem
It's a silly and lighthearted attempt. I wanted to tryout half and slant rhyme, like Pinsky and Dylan Thomas (who I'm finding out uses it a lot).
Prescription for a Depressed Poet:
Instructions to the Wife
If your poet is stewing in spells of misery
and his mind rebels in bouts and spasms,
an empty stomach and a bellyful of coffee
should give pizzazz to imagination’s whims.
It has worked too well if you spot your spouse
hang-gliding in a jeopardizing pose.
If this is the case, he believes he is a genius:
ask him gently, between his bursts of bliss,
to spend a few days a week in the cold halls
of cooperate America, earning some money
and so forth. Tell him, between his thrills,
that one can’t assume God sendeth manna
to the offspring of artists. If that doesn’t work,
reduce coffee intake or don’t brew it so dark.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Tom Wolfe
and disappointment...
I started reading A Man in Full hoping to find that the somewhat mediocre I Am Charlotte Simmons (which was also very long) was a sort of fluke--a well-written miss by a too old man trying to describe college now.
Well, A Man in Full reads almost like the exact same book. (Semi-saving face for Mr. Wolfe: I've only read three chapters so far.) The charming dialogue sections that I enjoyed most in Charlotte Simmons are reproduced here (or first produced). They are alike not only in spirit, but almost in substance as well.
Sigh. There goes my attempt to be relevent to contemporary literary culture. Any other suggestions?
I started reading A Man in Full hoping to find that the somewhat mediocre I Am Charlotte Simmons (which was also very long) was a sort of fluke--a well-written miss by a too old man trying to describe college now.
Well, A Man in Full reads almost like the exact same book. (Semi-saving face for Mr. Wolfe: I've only read three chapters so far.) The charming dialogue sections that I enjoyed most in Charlotte Simmons are reproduced here (or first produced). They are alike not only in spirit, but almost in substance as well.
Sigh. There goes my attempt to be relevent to contemporary literary culture. Any other suggestions?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Literary Headlines
Read this article on the poet W.S. Graham: we might have the next great British poet on our hands.
A HUGE 6-Month Long Shakespeare Festival is going to be hosted in D.C. in 2007. If all goes well at Catholic University for me, I'll be here for that. :-)
National Poetry Month (which is in April--far over now), is bad for poetry?
Invaluable Fact of the Day: A baby in Florida was named Truewilllaughinglifebuckyboomermanifestdestiny. His middle name is George James.
Michael Cunningham has published his first novel since The Hours called Specimen Days. He will be at Chapters bookstore in D.C. on June 8 to read selections.
Moby isn't a literary figure, but it's interesting to note (thanks to Dana for bringing this to my attention) that my favorite vegan, electronic artist has started a vegetarian teahouse in New York City. Why? All tearooms are English or Japanese--Moby wanted something for the rest of us. And no, he does not play his music in the bistro because electronic music does not go well with drinking tea.
A HUGE 6-Month Long Shakespeare Festival is going to be hosted in D.C. in 2007. If all goes well at Catholic University for me, I'll be here for that. :-)
National Poetry Month (which is in April--far over now), is bad for poetry?
Invaluable Fact of the Day: A baby in Florida was named Truewilllaughinglifebuckyboomermanifestdestiny. His middle name is George James.
Michael Cunningham has published his first novel since The Hours called Specimen Days. He will be at Chapters bookstore in D.C. on June 8 to read selections.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Emily's Top Ten
These are not in order of preference and I can't find my Norton's since the majority of my life is packed away in boxes. And I don't remember what I put in which ones, so finding any one item is hopeless.
Christopher Marlowe (plays)
"Hero and Leander" was enough to make me want to know more of his writing other than that he wasn't as good as Shakespeare which is all I knew previously.
Robert Browning
I think I like everything about him: philosophy, style, subject matter, his life.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
My second favorite drunk 20th century American. But I have only read two of his novels and would like to read the rest of him.
Ted Hughes
Somehow I find him more accessible than Sylvia. (The "Daffodils" poem was amazing.) Which doesn't fit with my whole American/British idea, but that's ok. I like contradicting myself.
Dorthy Wordsworth (journals)
Interesting view of the Romantic movement, and I only got to read a few paragraphs for class.
Christiana Rossetti
A strong woman who wasn't shrill and hyper-feminist angry. Very intriguing. (BTW, I'm on an anti-feminist kick. Does that get me out of the level of hell I got put into on the white board diagram? Or do I get stay down there with Travis for being anti-feminist?)
Yeats
Even though it was already said. How could one not?
Henry James
I've yet to read a novel, only short stories. I like his theory, now to see if I like his practice.
Robert Penn Warren
I missed the mass reading of All the King's Men, but the poem I recited for class ("After the Dinner Party") is my current favorite for the 20th century.
Robert Hayden
I know I did a paper on him, but I liked "Those Winter Sundays" from Poetry class. Interesting use of form.
---------APPENDIX 1-----------
My Cheating Appendix
or
The people I really like and have already talked about enough that I didn't want to use up my top ten on them but still intend to read more of.
John Donne (thank you, Lord Peter)
Christopher Smart (thank you to Hirsch)
Shakespeare (as in the remaining plays... actually I'd like to make it a goal to see them all)
Robert Frost
Hemingway (I'm still as devoted, and I don't think I agree with anything substantial that he ever says, and I think he's lying the whole time, and really he has an awful view of women, and I wish I could write like that. ...sigh...)
Hopkins
----------APPENDIX 2----------
Currently reading: James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time. And last night I read the whole of Ella Enchanted in one sitting. I guess I can never be entirely intellectual, but it was fun and I have nowhere to be today. And there is nothing very wrong with children's books at 21.
(Funny note: I don't have to decide whether a proper name ending in an S gets another S when it's possessive. Apparently the male members of the blue room are in conflict on this point.)
Christopher Marlowe (plays)
"Hero and Leander" was enough to make me want to know more of his writing other than that he wasn't as good as Shakespeare which is all I knew previously.
Robert Browning
I think I like everything about him: philosophy, style, subject matter, his life.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
My second favorite drunk 20th century American. But I have only read two of his novels and would like to read the rest of him.
Ted Hughes
Somehow I find him more accessible than Sylvia. (The "Daffodils" poem was amazing.) Which doesn't fit with my whole American/British idea, but that's ok. I like contradicting myself.
Dorthy Wordsworth (journals)
Interesting view of the Romantic movement, and I only got to read a few paragraphs for class.
Christiana Rossetti
A strong woman who wasn't shrill and hyper-feminist angry. Very intriguing. (BTW, I'm on an anti-feminist kick. Does that get me out of the level of hell I got put into on the white board diagram? Or do I get stay down there with Travis for being anti-feminist?)
Yeats
Even though it was already said. How could one not?
Henry James
I've yet to read a novel, only short stories. I like his theory, now to see if I like his practice.
Robert Penn Warren
I missed the mass reading of All the King's Men, but the poem I recited for class ("After the Dinner Party") is my current favorite for the 20th century.
Robert Hayden
I know I did a paper on him, but I liked "Those Winter Sundays" from Poetry class. Interesting use of form.
---------APPENDIX 1-----------
My Cheating Appendix
or
The people I really like and have already talked about enough that I didn't want to use up my top ten on them but still intend to read more of.
John Donne (thank you, Lord Peter)
Christopher Smart (thank you to Hirsch)
Shakespeare (as in the remaining plays... actually I'd like to make it a goal to see them all)
Robert Frost
Hemingway (I'm still as devoted, and I don't think I agree with anything substantial that he ever says, and I think he's lying the whole time, and really he has an awful view of women, and I wish I could write like that. ...sigh...)
Hopkins
----------APPENDIX 2----------
Currently reading: James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time. And last night I read the whole of Ella Enchanted in one sitting. I guess I can never be entirely intellectual, but it was fun and I have nowhere to be today. And there is nothing very wrong with children's books at 21.
(Funny note: I don't have to decide whether a proper name ending in an S gets another S when it's possessive. Apparently the male members of the blue room are in conflict on this point.)
New blue room found...
Well, folks, it finally happened. After much searching and running up of cell phone minutes, we have a HOUSE!!!!! Not an apartment, not a condo, not a plastic townhouse in the midst of other plastic townhouses, but a brick, old, real, fire-place containing house. It's only a short walk away from the Coffee Bean, too. And I am not packing away any of my books... so even if we don't have any furniture we have something to fill up the space.
BTW, Brooks you should post the Bel Espirit picture on here.
BTW, Brooks you should post the Bel Espirit picture on here.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Brooks's Top Ten
I really tried not to be like Ben Adams and go verbosely over my count, but I couldn't pick just ten! But I did. I forced myself. I just three the other nine candidates in as an "appendix." (There are always ways around things.)
- William Cowper, The Task: five-thousand-line mini-epic about the transformation of a stool to a sofa.
- William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell: to quote from Norton: “This, the most immediately accessible of Blake’s longer works, is a vigorous, deliberatively outrageous, and at times comic onslaught against timidly conventional and self-righteous members of society. . . .” All very attractive adjectives. :-)
- Thomas Carlyle, Sartor Resartus: the high-philosophical tone and unique style makes my mouth water.
- Thomas Hardy, poetry: his complete poems runs almost a thousand pages, and his rising stature as a poet makes his verse good feeding ground.
- James Joyce, Ulysses: I've been baptized in two exerpts and am thirsty for more.
- D.H. Lawrence, poetry: I like his poetry, and (like Hardy) there is a lot of it to explore.
- Robert Frost, poetry: after reading “Birches” and “Mending Wall,” I want to be a Frost expert.
- Eugene O’Neill, plays: after watching Long Day’s Journey Into Night, I’ll pay good money to see anything O'Neill's written.
- Richard Wilbur, New and Collected Poems: “Love Calls us to the Things of this World”—I wish more Christians would write like this! Bought this volume at the Strand, NYC.
- A. R. Ammons, Garbage: this man has his mind in the right starting place, at least, in addressing Modernism.
- Elizabeth Browning: Sonnets from the Portuguese: for a romantic picnic with Dana, perhaps?
- John Henry Newman: Apologia Pro Vita Sua, I want to read this in the near future, not for its literary value, but for theological reasons. I am trying to decide whether or not I am Roman Catholic, or just catholic. :-)
- Herman Melville, Mardi: “almost unreadable . . . Melvillians find it inexhaustibly fascinating.” I’m in.
- Emily Dickenson, poetry.
- Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim and Nostromo: interest stimulated by Heart of Darkness.
- William Faulkner, Absalom Absalom!
- William Carlos Williams, poetry.
- Ted Hughes, Collected Poems: another Strand purchase. Viva la Crow!
- Craig Raine, poetry: founder of the Martian School.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Travis' Top Ten
The much awaited top tens lists must be produced. Here's mine. At first I was going to wing it (and tried a few hours ago) but Dad came home with my graduation gift - a new laptop - and in the meantime I flipped through the Nortons. Here it is. Note well: there is no hierarchy!
1) Edwin Spencer's The Faerie Queene (a blast from the anachronistic past)
2) William Carlos Williams (his collections entilted Paterson and Spring and All)
3) Willa Cather's New Mexico novels (Song of the Lark and Death Comes for the Archbishop, I want to do something similar, that is, write about my home state and am thus compelled to read everything about it)
4) John Berryman (Homage to Miss Bradstreet. Em, I remember you liking this too. Darcy? Brooks, shame on you)
5) Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man (every high schooler recalls this one, except for us pasty ex-homeschoolers)
6) Thomas Pynchon's Crying of Lot 49 (I must fulfill my destiny of being a somebody-maybe-a-good-American-author if Dr. Hake and Brooks' predictions are in harmony with matters)
7) Yeats. All things Yeats! Become intimate with Yeats.
8) William Wordworth's The Preludes
9) T.S. Eliot's The Four Quartets (My apetite was whetted in Lit. class via "Little Gidding especially)
10) Philip Larkin's poetry (I like his laconic and Hardyesque style)
Okay. At the moment I am about to start Joyce's Dubliners, a book by David Sedaris, and Plath's Ariel. I am currently reading Proust's The Swann's Way (book one of Time Lost) and Ted Hughes' The Iron Wolf, which I picked up at the Strand in NYC with Brooks my fellow "book faggot." I want to dabble in some Heidegger too. I eagerly anticipate the other book lists. Love to everybody.
1) Edwin Spencer's The Faerie Queene (a blast from the anachronistic past)
2) William Carlos Williams (his collections entilted Paterson and Spring and All)
3) Willa Cather's New Mexico novels (Song of the Lark and Death Comes for the Archbishop, I want to do something similar, that is, write about my home state and am thus compelled to read everything about it)
4) John Berryman (Homage to Miss Bradstreet. Em, I remember you liking this too. Darcy? Brooks, shame on you)
5) Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man (every high schooler recalls this one, except for us pasty ex-homeschoolers)
6) Thomas Pynchon's Crying of Lot 49 (I must fulfill my destiny of being a somebody-maybe-a-good-American-author if Dr. Hake and Brooks' predictions are in harmony with matters)
7) Yeats. All things Yeats! Become intimate with Yeats.
8) William Wordworth's The Preludes
9) T.S. Eliot's The Four Quartets (My apetite was whetted in Lit. class via "Little Gidding especially)
10) Philip Larkin's poetry (I like his laconic and Hardyesque style)
Okay. At the moment I am about to start Joyce's Dubliners, a book by David Sedaris, and Plath's Ariel. I am currently reading Proust's The Swann's Way (book one of Time Lost) and Ted Hughes' The Iron Wolf, which I picked up at the Strand in NYC with Brooks my fellow "book faggot." I want to dabble in some Heidegger too. I eagerly anticipate the other book lists. Love to everybody.
Carolyn's Farewell
I just discovered this poem Carolyn left as a comment under Travis's "What the Thunder Said" post on Diapsalmata:
Between the mountain
And the river
Between the plaza
And the highway
There was a house,
And the house was full of Timmonses.
Between the city
And the village
Beyond Lake Bob
And the cornfield
There is a dorm
And the dorm housed Brooks and Travis.
Beyond the summer
And the ceremony
The mountain, river,
Plaza, highway,
City, village,
Lake, and cornfield
Will remain, but
Brooks and Travis will be gone.
And we will miss them.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Summer Work 1
One of those Norwestern blankets of pure-freshening dampness overlays the sky, making the shrubs sag with weariness. Little pellet raindrops bounce downward, bouncing like popcorn in a popper, trying to escape the catalyst of its own being. In Founder's Hall a pretty girl decorates the balcony with fake roses for tomorrow's wedding reception. The weather will probably be like this. I can imagine a happy, shy Vanesa with hair falling apart and make-up smeared and runny from the wet air. Chris's hair will be perfect and their smiles will be perfect. Otherwise, all will by runny and in need of ironing or otherwise sag in quiet drowning.
Randy vacuums the lobby, just like he did yesterday, just like he will everyday for the next three months--steadily, not impatiently. That is inner solice and patience on his face. I misinterpretted it at first for complacency. Now I see the reflection of a saint's face in his eyes. He has taken something to heart. Work, work, work. And that is what summer is good for: the sky burdened with growth, saturated with gatheredness, finally is made ready for pouring. Tonight, libation and marriage is at one with the weather here in our earthly residence. Not only does the cup run over, it tastes good as well. It is enough to make one stop questioning certain natural laws and realize how wine was invented and why it tastes sweet and makes the head spin.
Randy vacuums the lobby, just like he did yesterday, just like he will everyday for the next three months--steadily, not impatiently. That is inner solice and patience on his face. I misinterpretted it at first for complacency. Now I see the reflection of a saint's face in his eyes. He has taken something to heart. Work, work, work. And that is what summer is good for: the sky burdened with growth, saturated with gatheredness, finally is made ready for pouring. Tonight, libation and marriage is at one with the weather here in our earthly residence. Not only does the cup run over, it tastes good as well. It is enough to make one stop questioning certain natural laws and realize how wine was invented and why it tastes sweet and makes the head spin.
Friday, May 06, 2005
My Poetry Practicum Finished
I divided my nine credits of Directed Research and Writing into eight critical and one creative. The one creative credit is a series of ten poems written in what I call a "quadracube" or a 4-cube. Each poem consists of four stanzas of four lines each (quatrains), each line containing four feet (tetrameter). It takes a long time to revise and tinker and tinker and tinker with poetry. Mary Oliver says her poems go through fifty drafts. These came close. I finished the last one today and have shipped it off to Dr. Tobin for review and grading.
The Mushrooms
Under the tree with black branches
and a white lily drooping earthward,
like the last drop of dew in the desert,
sits a punk clump of pious mushrooms.
This year they wait in prayer in the shade
like a prophet spreading out his legs
from the trunk to the continents. Next
year, they will reappear in the drawer
of some widowed mother's cupboard,
and she will let them over-ferment
and mince them a day before they rot
and stir in broth like a witchdoctor.
Children and grandchildren who eat them
shall grow pale with delirious visions
and thirst for water to speed the season
to hide the shadow of the shriveled bloom.
The Skunk
He lives beside a garden of moss
under the spongy redwood logs
and circles around a ritual path
in shadowy thickness of scented herbs.
The patch above his shaggy brow
has balded like a friar’s tonsure.
Observing a monkish vow of silence,
he shuffles under the swaying ferns.
Then, his tail lifts. It sounds a fiery
silent prayer that sails above meadows,
a slow and steady acidic bomb,
a mystic force—fronds bow their heads.
His tactless divination floats down
into the valley to burn the nostrils
and throats of men who pause and think:
The skunk is omen-making again.
The Patch
When a suit has rubbed and thinned
by daily ferine abrasion and stretch
down to the threaded lining and beyond
into vacancy and nothingness,
her needle fastens on the fringe
with a freshly-tanned leather scrap,
and seals the hole stitch by stitch
hemming the penultimate of death.
So a patch can save a coat.
A little bargain: the mark of age
that buys another year. It leaves,
not Yeats’ tattered rag of a man,
but a skid-guard on the elbow,
a gargantuan scab tacked on a ledge,
rough and ready for foreign friction:
Bridge-bracing. Adoption. Mend.
The Pipe
Sometimes I hold Grandpa’s pipe
in the crook of my thumb and, rocking
in his chair, recall the old myth—how
Prometheus stole fire from heaven
by sneaking embers into a cupped shell
and scuttling back down to terra firma,
keeping the ash hot by drawing the flame
through a reed cut from the hedge.
Using his god-given breath of life,
he squinted like a caveman in sunlight
and spit out sparks and smoke and fauna
into fields of brush, and thus spread
the stolen secret. Silly folklore.
But how can I scrutinize the yarn
of all the wrinkled, smiling patriarchs
puffing away on their planked porches?
The Seaweed
Like the curly beard-locks shaved
and wiped from Poseidon’s dripping chin
with sea-foam settled at a bowl’s rim,
the floating weeds cluster and congeal,
forging a scraggly nest for mites
and rank surface scum of the deep.
Wiry fullness, salty jungle
baking in the sunlight and wave-breath,
a refuge, a sponge that holds on through
Olympus’ livid tempests, sifting
and soaking in fixity and flux,
as stalwart as a weathered captain.
And as a lifeboat of shipwrecked sailors
paddles aimless on the marginless
sea, a ragged weed-clump floats by,
a marker of highways, an astrolabe.
The Handkerchief
The callow suitor emerges feebly
among the circus-ring of chat
and appearance, but the handkerchief
reassures the timorous player.
The providence of having it there,
pocket-dweller, ready to be whipped
forth to staunch the flow of earth—
dignifier, old debonaire.
The countess slips her silky kerchief
under the table to the suitor,
who clasps it in between his feelers,
and as he fondles the winking token,
he blushes, swallows, sighs and shoots
a skyward glance, a prayer of thanks
and ecstasy. For snot-stoppers
can lift our souls to celestial trance.
The Puddle
Puddle, you are blacker than the black
asphalt girding you and laid out
like a ruthless adulterous bed-sheet
for steering wheelers packing off goods
and bads in heels and boots. (Let’s just
define natural beauty out of
existence.) But for all that: life
flitting, bathing, coming, going,
birds in the font. How did Progress
with its merciless homogeny
miss or crack you into residence?
Was there some blunder that spared you,
making rainwater drain to your womb?
Or are you a primal spring bursting
in the under-bowels of fetal earth,
and trickling up as a forfeiting breast?
The Navel
A sunken circle, shy scar on a plain
of virgin flesh, it stands in, a tough-
twisted center for tribal warriors.
It is the rubber knot of a balloon
that children blow to fill its bowels
with air. One can nearly imagine
a thorny finger untying it
and letting the life filibrate out.
The navel is the knob and window
that keeps the demons peaking in
and all of earth's wares peaking out.
It holds together all things—it is
the nail in the mast—the spike driven
into the bottom of the sea, insuring
that all the fish will go on swimming
in their set migration patterns.
The Ink
Potent extract, poison-flow,
the stain of Indian night flooding
blanched, open space. The ruckus caused
when one stray stroke or blotchy patch
gets brushed onto a field of signs:
curse and crumple, reset and reprint—
by hand or machine, the ink must fall
precise or mankind throws a fit,
goes berserk, stands on its head.
That is why the calligrapher’s nub
tapers to the finest, finest point;
the gate of life and death cannot afford
misfire. This power, this delicate
constraint of sin is scored by a scribe
jabbing his tongue into his lip,
wide-eyed and squeezing out each line.
The Chisel
To take the hammer and chisel up
with warm hands, and with warm eyes
to scan the stone where salvation
must be etched. To cut through, both
like a termite gnawing on wood and
an old painter brushing lush water-
colors. To feel out grains and patterns
within the rock's dense mass, yet hold
to a spirit of airiness and angel’s breath.
To etch heaven and hell on earth
with chisel and hammer. To carve the poem
letter by letter, chip by crumb,
while the pebbles gather at your feet.
To work the tools like a dying poet,
eeking and straining for a gaze
so cold and fiery it kisses and burns you.
the mushrooms
The Mushrooms
and a white lily drooping earthward,
like the last drop of dew in the desert,
sits a punk clump of pious mushrooms.
This year they wait in prayer in the shade
like a prophet spreading out his legs
from the trunk to the continents. Next
year, they will reappear in the drawer
of some widowed mother's cupboard,
and she will let them over-ferment
and mince them a day before they rot
and stir in broth like a witchdoctor.
Children and grandchildren who eat them
shall grow pale with delirious visions
and thirst for water to speed the season
to hide the shadow of the shriveled bloom.
The Skunk
under the spongy redwood logs
and circles around a ritual path
in shadowy thickness of scented herbs.
The patch above his shaggy brow
has balded like a friar’s tonsure.
Observing a monkish vow of silence,
he shuffles under the swaying ferns.
Then, his tail lifts. It sounds a fiery
silent prayer that sails above meadows,
a slow and steady acidic bomb,
a mystic force—fronds bow their heads.
His tactless divination floats down
into the valley to burn the nostrils
and throats of men who pause and think:
The skunk is omen-making again.
The Patch
by daily ferine abrasion and stretch
down to the threaded lining and beyond
into vacancy and nothingness,
her needle fastens on the fringe
with a freshly-tanned leather scrap,
and seals the hole stitch by stitch
hemming the penultimate of death.
So a patch can save a coat.
A little bargain: the mark of age
that buys another year. It leaves,
not Yeats’ tattered rag of a man,
but a skid-guard on the elbow,
a gargantuan scab tacked on a ledge,
rough and ready for foreign friction:
Bridge-bracing. Adoption. Mend.
The Pipe
in the crook of my thumb and, rocking
in his chair, recall the old myth—how
Prometheus stole fire from heaven
by sneaking embers into a cupped shell
and scuttling back down to terra firma,
keeping the ash hot by drawing the flame
through a reed cut from the hedge.
Using his god-given breath of life,
he squinted like a caveman in sunlight
and spit out sparks and smoke and fauna
into fields of brush, and thus spread
the stolen secret. Silly folklore.
But how can I scrutinize the yarn
of all the wrinkled, smiling patriarchs
puffing away on their planked porches?
The Seaweed
and wiped from Poseidon’s dripping chin
with sea-foam settled at a bowl’s rim,
the floating weeds cluster and congeal,
forging a scraggly nest for mites
and rank surface scum of the deep.
Wiry fullness, salty jungle
baking in the sunlight and wave-breath,
a refuge, a sponge that holds on through
Olympus’ livid tempests, sifting
and soaking in fixity and flux,
as stalwart as a weathered captain.
And as a lifeboat of shipwrecked sailors
paddles aimless on the marginless
sea, a ragged weed-clump floats by,
a marker of highways, an astrolabe.
The Handkerchief
among the circus-ring of chat
and appearance, but the handkerchief
reassures the timorous player.
The providence of having it there,
pocket-dweller, ready to be whipped
forth to staunch the flow of earth—
dignifier, old debonaire.
The countess slips her silky kerchief
under the table to the suitor,
who clasps it in between his feelers,
and as he fondles the winking token,
he blushes, swallows, sighs and shoots
a skyward glance, a prayer of thanks
and ecstasy. For snot-stoppers
can lift our souls to celestial trance.
The Puddle
asphalt girding you and laid out
like a ruthless adulterous bed-sheet
for steering wheelers packing off goods
and bads in heels and boots. (Let’s just
define natural beauty out of
existence.) But for all that: life
flitting, bathing, coming, going,
birds in the font. How did Progress
with its merciless homogeny
miss or crack you into residence?
Was there some blunder that spared you,
making rainwater drain to your womb?
Or are you a primal spring bursting
in the under-bowels of fetal earth,
and trickling up as a forfeiting breast?
The Navel
of virgin flesh, it stands in, a tough-
twisted center for tribal warriors.
It is the rubber knot of a balloon
that children blow to fill its bowels
with air. One can nearly imagine
a thorny finger untying it
and letting the life filibrate out.
The navel is the knob and window
that keeps the demons peaking in
and all of earth's wares peaking out.
It holds together all things—it is
the nail in the mast—the spike driven
into the bottom of the sea, insuring
that all the fish will go on swimming
in their set migration patterns.
The Ink
the stain of Indian night flooding
blanched, open space. The ruckus caused
when one stray stroke or blotchy patch
gets brushed onto a field of signs:
curse and crumple, reset and reprint—
by hand or machine, the ink must fall
precise or mankind throws a fit,
goes berserk, stands on its head.
That is why the calligrapher’s nub
tapers to the finest, finest point;
the gate of life and death cannot afford
misfire. This power, this delicate
constraint of sin is scored by a scribe
jabbing his tongue into his lip,
wide-eyed and squeezing out each line.
The Chisel
with warm hands, and with warm eyes
to scan the stone where salvation
must be etched. To cut through, both
like a termite gnawing on wood and
an old painter brushing lush water-
colors. To feel out grains and patterns
within the rock's dense mass, yet hold
to a spirit of airiness and angel’s breath.
To etch heaven and hell on earth
with chisel and hammer. To carve the poem
letter by letter, chip by crumb,
while the pebbles gather at your feet.
To work the tools like a dying poet,
eeking and straining for a gaze
so cold and fiery it kisses and burns you.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Emile Complete Noe Finale!
Finally Emily is done with her Noe papers! She channeled her frantic scrammbling into a directed, controlled funnel of ravenous energy. Her progress puts poly-sci majors to shame:
With my seventh Noe paper having been finished, I give you a taste of my afternoon. (deadline was 11pm)Congradulations Emily. It is finished.
Word count Noe Paper 3/3/05:
3:34 0 words
3:48 148 words.
4:09 294 words
6:05 432 words
6:37 657 words
6:50 756 words
7:20 791 words
7:41 897 words
8:20 1,170 words
8:35 1,203 words
9:00 1,348 words
9:13 1,491 words
9:24 1,605 words
9:37 1,683 words
9:49 1,869 words
10:53 1,902 words
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Name Games
Let's just say Dana and I get married, and let's just suppose we have kids--at least one of both sexes: How about calling the boy Dana and the girl Brooks. :-)
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Waiting for Sunday
Yesterday yeilds to this Saturday
wounded for our transgressions
Friday was gray, though I wanted both the day and my thoughts
to be black with the fullness of the grief
stricken, smitten of God
and then I beg to be allowed to
surge early to the joy.
And now there is today.
How strange
Strange that there is life
and I am writing,
wishing to leap early to the joy.
The sun came up today, how callous and indifferent:
and my throat stops, small emotion this.
Why was the rain yesterday
only gentle?
despised and rejected
Cold indifferent apathy to
the drama that must claim every eye.
Do you not know that you cannot cannot finish this breath until
tomorrow?
by his stripes
Why did my guilt not stop me still:
a stone like my heart?
One more night and then
I will tell you why--
the whisper I cannot form until
the morning.
silent
The shouting and the bleeding stopped last night.
Now there is only silence
and we are waiting.
[because I am too self-conscious to post this on a public blog]
wounded for our transgressions
Friday was gray, though I wanted both the day and my thoughts
to be black with the fullness of the grief
stricken, smitten of God
and then I beg to be allowed to
surge early to the joy.
And now there is today.
How strange
Strange that there is life
and I am writing,
wishing to leap early to the joy.
The sun came up today, how callous and indifferent:
and my throat stops, small emotion this.
Why was the rain yesterday
only gentle?
despised and rejected
Cold indifferent apathy to
the drama that must claim every eye.
Do you not know that you cannot cannot finish this breath until
tomorrow?
by his stripes
Why did my guilt not stop me still:
a stone like my heart?
One more night and then
I will tell you why--
the whisper I cannot form until
the morning.
silent
The shouting and the bleeding stopped last night.
Now there is only silence
and we are waiting.
[because I am too self-conscious to post this on a public blog]
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Just About Perfect
Yes, that's right. Brooks has been offered an Assistantship at the esteemed Catholic University of America. Back off, freshmen ladies! This hunk/superhero is already taken. The D.C. scene had better prepare itself for some high energy poetry and an intellectual-association-making-machine; right, Dana? (I wink prosaically)
Congratulations, Brooks!!
Congratulations, Brooks!!
Friday, March 18, 2005
My Poetry Practicum
For my one poetry credit (150 lines), I have decided to write ten 16 line poems about . . . the noxious, the anomalous . . . the odd things of life, and discreetly sublimate them as part of the marvelous. So far I have three poems (below). In addition to these, I want to do one on seaweed, a piggybank, and a hankerchief. I would like to end the cycle with a poem about an inkbottle. While this final one would be more explicitly about the power of writing, I view all these poems as analogies to writing. Right now, I was thinking of calling the entire cycle "The Mushrooms."
The metric scheme is what I call 4x4x4: four feet per line, four lines per stanza, four stanzas per poem. I like to use spondees.
SO, what do you think (a) in general, (b) about the specific poems, and (c) what other "objects" should a use for my other poems? Thanks. These are only rough drafts, so please make suggestions! :0)
The Mushrooms
Under a tree with black branches
and a red lily drooping earthward,
like the last drop of dew in the desert,
sits a punk clump of auburn mushrooms.
This year they wait in prayer in the shade
like a prophet spreading his legs outward
from the trunk to the continents. Next
year, they will reappear in the drawer
of some widowed mother's cupboard,
and she will let them over-ferment
and mince them a day before they rot
and stir in broth like a witchdoctor.
The children and grandchildren that eat them
shall grow pale with delirious visions
and thirst for water to speed the season
to hide the shadow of the shriveled bloom.
The Skunk
He lives beside a patch of moss-bawn
under the spongy redwood log
and circles around a ritual path
in shadowy thickets of scented herbs.
The patch above his shaggy brow
has balded like a friar's tonsure;
he observes a monkish silence
as he shuffles his way beneath the ferns.
Then, his tail lifts and sounds a fiery
silent prayer that sails o'er the moss field,
a slow and steady corrosive bomb,
a spiritual force: fronds bow their heads.
His honest divination floats down
into the valley to burns the throats
and eyes of men who pause and think:
The skunk is omen-making again.
The Patch
When a suit has rubbed and thinned
by daily ferine abrasion and stretch
down to threaded lining and beyond
into vacancy and nothingness,
her needle fastens on the fringe
with a freshly-tanned leathern scrap,
and seals the hole stitch by stitch
hemming a penultimate of death.
So, a patch can save a coat.
A little bargain: a mark of age
that buys another year. It leaves,
not a tattered rag-of-a-man,
just a skid-guard on the elbow,
a great big scab tacked on a ledge,
rough and ready for foreign friction--
bridge-bracing, adoption, mend.
The metric scheme is what I call 4x4x4: four feet per line, four lines per stanza, four stanzas per poem. I like to use spondees.
SO, what do you think (a) in general, (b) about the specific poems, and (c) what other "objects" should a use for my other poems? Thanks. These are only rough drafts, so please make suggestions! :0)
The Mushrooms
Under a tree with black branches
and a red lily drooping earthward,
like the last drop of dew in the desert,
sits a punk clump of auburn mushrooms.
This year they wait in prayer in the shade
like a prophet spreading his legs outward
from the trunk to the continents. Next
year, they will reappear in the drawer
of some widowed mother's cupboard,
and she will let them over-ferment
and mince them a day before they rot
and stir in broth like a witchdoctor.
The children and grandchildren that eat them
shall grow pale with delirious visions
and thirst for water to speed the season
to hide the shadow of the shriveled bloom.
The Skunk
He lives beside a patch of moss-bawn
under the spongy redwood log
and circles around a ritual path
in shadowy thickets of scented herbs.
The patch above his shaggy brow
has balded like a friar's tonsure;
he observes a monkish silence
as he shuffles his way beneath the ferns.
Then, his tail lifts and sounds a fiery
silent prayer that sails o'er the moss field,
a slow and steady corrosive bomb,
a spiritual force: fronds bow their heads.
His honest divination floats down
into the valley to burns the throats
and eyes of men who pause and think:
The skunk is omen-making again.
The Patch
When a suit has rubbed and thinned
by daily ferine abrasion and stretch
down to threaded lining and beyond
into vacancy and nothingness,
her needle fastens on the fringe
with a freshly-tanned leathern scrap,
and seals the hole stitch by stitch
hemming a penultimate of death.
So, a patch can save a coat.
A little bargain: a mark of age
that buys another year. It leaves,
not a tattered rag-of-a-man,
just a skid-guard on the elbow,
a great big scab tacked on a ledge,
rough and ready for foreign friction--
bridge-bracing, adoption, mend.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Congratulations Travis!
Travis has been accepted to Florida State University with a full-ride scholarship and a $10,000 annual stipend!!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Self Choruses
.
I.
I want to write a poem, so
I choose an ironic form, as
I talk about writing a poem, it
Happens - my mind the paper reifies;
The paper cradles my print, positing me
To be - became - pale fire again.
II.
St. Vladimir, you bless me with self-
Consciousness; a microscope I need
Today in a neighborhood of Artists.
I peer indiscrimately at pin points,
Like ants dotting a sinewy foot path.
Missing the point, I pray for further ants.
III.
St. Camus - not Albert, too Bourgeois for you -
You bless me with vitals, breath, red dirt and
Bouncing pupils of concern. In the neighborhood of
Dualism, you pointed out the grass and white
Glare of the sun on the garage door. The
Sun goes West, it belongs there for a night.
IV.
St. Iph, living in my house squatting at my desk,
Your sainthood I despise and think it a trick.
Your main trick is memory, an occasional scrouge
On the heart. I associate your conjuring glare
With flickering pictures and my tongue caught;
Mid the racket and traffic of thought, you pinch.
(Hey my lovelies, I composed this during Linguistic class last week. What do you all think? Here are cheats: St. Vladimir = Nabokov, St. Iph = "If.")
Friday, March 11, 2005
Our First Meeting
I'll see you all tonight at Cosi for our first meeting (as an official club).
Love you all.
(Although, if I had to carry you all across a pool of water, there's one I'd carry with extra affection.)
(No, Travis, it's not you.)
Love you all.
(Although, if I had to carry you all across a pool of water, there's one I'd carry with extra affection.)
(No, Travis, it's not you.)
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
between proper notes, taken in linguistics
Hide your eyes and the
words. stop.
Hide your eyes with your heavy hand
Next behind my hair, falling,
meeting over my face—
and the voices (how tired) stop coming from those mouths—
if you look up you can still s e e.
look at the paper
and the ink and the marks, this line that curves: then i (I) am
saying something.
How is it that this—making words—happens?
What would it be like
Not to know?
Not to hear?
in my head, in front of all their voices
when the letters make words(?)(.)
words. stop.
Hide your eyes with your heavy hand
Next behind my hair, falling,
meeting over my face—
and the voices (how tired) stop coming from those mouths—
if you look up you can still s e e.
look at the paper
and the ink and the marks, this line that curves: then i (I) am
saying something.
How is it that this—making words—happens?
What would it be like
Not to know?
Not to hear?
in my head, in front of all their voices
when the letters make words(?)(.)
Monday, March 07, 2005
Darcy's Eco Ego
Darcy deserves a round of applause for her excellent presentation reviewing Umberto Eco's Search for a Perfect Language today in Linguistics class today.
Eco's point that there was already a plurality of languages before Babel (see Gen. 10), really through a wrench in the spokes for those in the class that tend to be overly interested in finding a biblically-based linguistic theory. The tenants of such a theory, in my opinion, have made little more than speculative assertions.
At any rate, Darcy did a fine job with the project. I'll be following it up in a few weeks with a report on Eco's The Open Work.
Eco's point that there was already a plurality of languages before Babel (see Gen. 10), really through a wrench in the spokes for those in the class that tend to be overly interested in finding a biblically-based linguistic theory. The tenants of such a theory, in my opinion, have made little more than speculative assertions.
At any rate, Darcy did a fine job with the project. I'll be following it up in a few weeks with a report on Eco's The Open Work.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Mutability
Mutability spoke to me
In terms of knowledge, conferrence -
Like a curse coming acutely
Upon the polars of Yes, No -
I will, will not. The median
Of greyness vaporizes in
The new absence of possibility.
Choice brings rotation of Being.
In terms of knowledge, conferrence -
Like a curse coming acutely
Upon the polars of Yes, No -
I will, will not. The median
Of greyness vaporizes in
The new absence of possibility.
Choice brings rotation of Being.
We
We studied tonight up in the blue room.
(That’s what it’s called.) Blue walls and open windows:
A small rectangle in an old house. We
Sat together and read. The air breathed
Between indoors and the soon coming night
And took time back to spring that year.
Things were different then—our freshman year.
We had giddily stepped out of the room
Of childhood. And we’d wavered for a night
Then found each other through the windows
Of art’s communication. And we breathed
Dreams. A group of voices became a we.
So we were cocky, naïve, thought that we
Had gained what we only glimpsed that year.
And we scorned them. Remember when we breathed
Laughter from our front row in that classroom?
If we clung too tightly, recall windows—
Windows with candles—first seen in the night.
And if we our conversations at night
Held too dear, consider (all as we) we
were discovering there could be windows,
not walls. Beautiful glass in a young year.
We talked, scattered all over the plain room,
And out of fear found a place where we breathed.
And over summer ambitious pens breathed
Friendship in idealism. But the next night
It was lost for awhile. We left the room.
Now our talking was almost silent; we
Shook apart a little. Did you mind that year?
Back when we drew curtains in our windows?
Today a fall rain ran down the windows.
It’s nearly over. Three years. Life breathed.
Now, like a circle, save only half a year.
I, you, you, you, we remembered tonight.
The reasons for keeping company, being we.
Us is a quiet possession of this room.
Let’s stop the hours and talk ‘til the next night
And we have to go. But don’t you see? We
Are more than older being in this room.
(That’s what it’s called.) Blue walls and open windows:
A small rectangle in an old house. We
Sat together and read. The air breathed
Between indoors and the soon coming night
And took time back to spring that year.
Things were different then—our freshman year.
We had giddily stepped out of the room
Of childhood. And we’d wavered for a night
Then found each other through the windows
Of art’s communication. And we breathed
Dreams. A group of voices became a we.
So we were cocky, naïve, thought that we
Had gained what we only glimpsed that year.
And we scorned them. Remember when we breathed
Laughter from our front row in that classroom?
If we clung too tightly, recall windows—
Windows with candles—first seen in the night.
And if we our conversations at night
Held too dear, consider (all as we) we
were discovering there could be windows,
not walls. Beautiful glass in a young year.
We talked, scattered all over the plain room,
And out of fear found a place where we breathed.
And over summer ambitious pens breathed
Friendship in idealism. But the next night
It was lost for awhile. We left the room.
Now our talking was almost silent; we
Shook apart a little. Did you mind that year?
Back when we drew curtains in our windows?
Today a fall rain ran down the windows.
It’s nearly over. Three years. Life breathed.
Now, like a circle, save only half a year.
I, you, you, you, we remembered tonight.
The reasons for keeping company, being we.
Us is a quiet possession of this room.
Let’s stop the hours and talk ‘til the next night
And we have to go. But don’t you see? We
Are more than older being in this room.
Reserving Space
Welcome to the Blue Room! This is just a reservation. I'm reserving a URL--carving out space--creating invisible borders where my friends I can share our writing and dialogue about the world. Coming in May.
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