Saturday, August 30, 2008

Labor Day Weekend


Saturday morning and the Indigo Girls singing "I don't want to talk about it..." Like me of late, avoiding everything including the blog cause I don't want to talk about anything that makes me think (feel). I hear the siren call of my therapist Madeline. Music the first step back to the living.

Kids with BFI who showed up to get them in a wide striped suit jacket that looked like it was stolen off a dead clown.

Lc has moved out of his NYC apt and is on an extended road trip to I'm not sure where. LC, hope you've got a laptop now and can check in. PLEASE do not move out of the tri-state area. Christmas won't be Christmas without you at Jr's for Christmans Eve celebrating under (or next to) the white wire Christmas tree.

Weehawken this PM for a BBQ and early birthday cake. Taking the train this time, I am not up for the hell that is the Lincoln Tunnel back from Jersey on Sunday.

Reading On the Road yesterday at lunch, and got to the part where Sal and Dean are driving through the tunnel into NYC from Paterson and Dean has a shirt wrapped around his head for warmth. He says something to the effect of, "We look like two arabs ready to blow up New York." Psychic Kerouac?

Galileo

Galileo's head was on the block
the crime was looking up for truth
and as the bombshells of my daily fears explode
I try to trace them to my youth

And then you had to bring up reincarnation
over a couple of beers the other night
and now I'm serving time for mistakes
made by another in another lifetime

How long till my soul gets it right
can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of galileo
king of night vision, king of insight

And then I think about my fear of motion
which I never could explain
some other fool across the ocean years ago
must have crashed his little airplane

How long till my soul gets it right
can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of galileo
king of night vision, king of insight

I'm not making a joke, you know me
I take everything so seriously
if we wait for the time till all souls get it right
then at least I know there'll be no nuclear annihilation
in my lifetime I'm still not right

I offer thanks to those before me
that's all I've got to say
'cause maybe you squandered big bucks in your lifetime
now I have to pay
but then again it feels like some sort of inspiration
to let the next life off the hook
but she'll say "look what I had to overcome from my last life
I think I'll write a book"

How long till my soul gets it right
can any human being ever reach the highest light
except for Galileo God rest his soul
(except for the resting soul of Galileo)
king of night vision, king of insight

How long
(till my soul gets it right)
[til we reach the highest light]
how long
(till my soul gets it right)
[til we reach the highest light]
how long

Indigo Girls(Words by Emily Saliers)

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Toot Toot


I have a poem on the Rogue Scholars site. Check it out!

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Nunca Nada Nothing


My brain is dead. I work. I sleep. I watch the gameshow network. Yes, my brain is dead. I have nothing interesting in my head that I can transfer to this blog page. I read about a dog in Argentina that saved an abandoned baby by dragging it across a field and adding to her clump of puppies. See, I know there is a word for a bunch of puppies but I can't remember what it is. brain dead. Soon I will be 48. Oh Christ, there's a subject I don't want to think about. Kids back to school. Another subject that makes my brain shut off in fear (Jack, did you do your homework? Really? Really?) Kate would like me to tell everyone that she has new video on Youtube called My Friends Youtube and Otherwise. That's it, nothing else.

The Munich Mannequins

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb

Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,

The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,

Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles

These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,

Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,

Intolerable, without minds.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,

Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting

Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.

O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,

The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks

Glittering
Glittering and digesting

Voicelessness. The snow has no voice

Sylvia Plath

Saturday, August 09, 2008

Greetings from Long Island!



Weezer Jr. thinks the Montauk Monster is a Koala bear who fell off a steamer coming from Australia. Maybe if it were the biggest koala bear that ever lived. Or maybe someone sewed a koala's head to a dog body...some prankster Aussie sailor! I think it is a poor, decaying dog. What do you think?

Kids with BFI and I am coloring my hair and doing this. And listening to the Hissing of Summer Lawns. I have a new, super short haircut that the little demon girl next door told me looks "like a boy haircut!" I like it, it makes me feel free, kind of like Jo in Little Women!

I have been working like crazy, freelance stuff on top of Blunder and Blunder on top of mommy work. After I finish my hair I think I am going out to the North Fork, just gonna drive drive drive in my newly fixed up (to the tune of 700 dollars when all was said and done) Tracer. Need to recharge, write something, stare at the Peconic bay. I don't know who I am lately.

JOURNEY

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me--I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long
Over my shoulder have I looked at peace;
And now I fain would lie in this long grass
And close my eyes.
Yet onward!
Cat birds call
Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk
Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry,
Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines
Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees
Pause in their dance and break the ring for me;
Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern
And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread
Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant,
Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side
All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot
And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs--
But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach,
And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling,
The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake,
Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road
A gateless garden, and an open path:
My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.

Edna St. Vincent Millay