Wednesday, July 30, 2008

"words are so erotic"

"Every new poem is like finding a new bride. Words are so erotic, they never tire of their coupling. How do they renew themselves? In their inexhaustible desire for combinations and recombinations."
--- Stanley Kunitz **

Seven a.m. Tuesday: Self-Dedication. He knew it was going to be a pretty wonderful day. A fabulous day. A fantastic day. The trees hummed gently to themselves, and the birds flew in patterns which were more graceful, more elegant than he remembered ever observing before. The streets were clean and the clouds were fluffy and he could feel the joy of newly awakened love percolating through his veins.

Today he would meet her. All previous loves, all previous adorations, were but a shadow of the light which was to emerge into his life today. Love, he knew, would arrive, would sweep him off his feet, throw him for a loop: his life would have new meaning, depth, purpose. His ideal awaited, and then she appeared.

** Here are some notes from grad school:

Mallarmé referred to the folded and uncut signatures of a fine binding as “virginal”, awaiting penetration of the “paper knife.”
Caws, Mary Ann, ed. (1982) Stéphane Mallarmé: Selected Poetry and Prose. New York. p. 83. in Spector, Buzz (1993). “The Book Alone: Object and Fetishism” in Eaton, Timothy A., Books as Art. Boca Raton, LA: Museum of Art. p. 38.

The explicitly erotic topography of the book described:
"Sumptuous twin curves that meet in a recessed seam. Page turning is a series of gentle, sweeping gestures, like the brush of fingers on a naked back … the behavior of readers has more in common with the play of intimacy than with the public decorum of art viewing or music listening. …[We] read lying down or seated and most of us read at least partially unclothed. We dress up to go out and look at art; undressed, in bed, we read. We seek greater comfort while reading than the furnishings of museums or concert halls will ever grant us. When we read -- the conventional distance between eye and page is around 14 inches -- we often become the lectern that receives the book: chest, arm, lap, or thighs. This proximity is the territory of embrace, of possession; not to be entered without permission."
Spector, Buzz (1993). “The Book Alone: Object and Fetishism” in Eaton, Timothy A., Books as Art. Boca Raton, LA: Museum of Art. p. 38.

Image: Duchamp Le Surrealisme en 1947 | Prieure de Toucher
courtesy National Gallery of Scotland, Dean Gallery Library and Archive

Tart Noir [the self-described work Lauren Henderson]
how can temperatures still be in the nineties, but the grocery have autumn mums on display?

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

[stolen title] : [Downstairs at Fitzgerald's]

The phone rang. Beyond the hubbub of the lunchtime crowd, the bartender could just make out the voice on the other end. He recognized the accent, the tone, the inflection more than the actual words, but from identifying the voice he knew what message to pass on. And so he did, preparing the tray, and sending up the least busy waitress to supervise the laying of a private table upstairs, away from the din of the diners.

Mountain Park / Jay Ducharme.
No peace for the wicked / Pip Granger.

wind, rain, thunder, lightening, summer

[title stolen from a short story, unread, by William Trevor]

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

a time for every purpose

The marbles spilled into the floorboards of a four door sedan, a white automobile with burgundy upholstery, the car the pride and joy of the parent or grandparent or aunt of either the owner of the marbles or a friend or the new kid two years ago. These marbles are not so much lost, since their physical whereabout is tightly constrained in a new container, several times larger than the glass jar, but every bit as definite in physical boundaries. The presence of each and every marble is felt, heard, experienced at every shift in elevation, velocity, angle, and balance in the car. The marbles are gone, but just beyond the first fringe of physical experience, since they offer conclusive proof of the continuity of their existence at regular intervals. They are there, just not quite within grasp.

If only I could lose track of time.
wisdom of Pete Seeger
article on string theory in physics [Annals of Science | current New Yorker]
and the calendar

weather full moon over the mountain

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

whether weather whither

The marriage was like that, these days; in those hedonistic early days, it was all about the glory of dawn and fresh croissants from the local bakery and delicately steamed espresso served in Art Deco mugs. Then, one winter, oatmeal took over: it was cold outside, and drafty in that garret apartment, and oatmeal was good and right and proper: heart healthy and nourishing. Then weekend omelets filled with goat cheese and fresh veggies became scrambled eggs, slightly rubbery, slopped onto a plate. Previously homemade bread, toasted, with strawberry jam, was now bought at the store, and burnt in the hurry of the morning scramble to escape each other's company.
But, oh!, the loss of affection was most starkly noticeable in the coffee. Perfectly timed espresso, piping hot; warmed, foamy milk became efficient French press, and then Mr Coffee on a preset timer. Even with decent beans, automatic drip lacked passion, romance, and fire. The mug was slightly stained, and the handle chipped.

reading Not all tarts are apple / Pip Granger
weather July heat and humidity in one convenient package

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

considering crows

Morning traffic passes under, primarily drivers eager for the rush to arrive to end so that the threat of the day can be laid to rest and the annihilation of a televised evening provide respite from the false reality they were packaged and sold and now consume in forty hour doses each week. The canine brigade passes under the lines, noses so attuned to squirrels and cats and scraps and competition that they fail to notice the line of birds in the parallel plane above, the reality of the bird and the reality of the dog intersecting only in the tangible taste of an abandoned pizza crust. The humans on the other end of the leash absorbing the morning through the bitter sharpness of coffee, the chirp of the crosswalk, the roughness of the leash, the early glare of the sun, the promise of a day of tasks, all clamoring for attention more specifically than the row of crows, waiting above, on a line across the road. The crows watching the recurring pattern of the street, echoing it in their own daily habits and providing counterpoint to the rhythms below.

reading airline schedules
weather July bliss