Wednesday, June 24, 2009

reconsiderations and recollections

Regardless, she stayed. She scythed a path through the overgrown shrubs and grasses, found the old hand water pump that had never actually been removed, set up camp in what had once been the living room, now lacking a roof, a campfire in the fireplace. Somehow she created a vegetable garden or knew how to forage for edibles; somehow she found a stray chicken or two to incorporate into the yard.
People suspected her arrival, not through actual visits but through supposition and local intuition; the house had already developed a reputation, and she could only be at least slightly mad, at best. So they left her alone, except during full moons or at Halloween, took alternate paths rather than the shortcut to the river; and there she lived.



reading more the the amazing Atwood
and On the Way to the River / Laurence

weather the final ending of a too-melodramatic June

Sunday, June 21, 2009

a missed deadline

Obviously, deadlines as conceptual constructs are nothing new; I'm now a week past one deadline and 5 weeks past another, and hereby enlist the assistance of the general readership for the former.

Please let me know your 2-3 favorite pieces from the past year. There's no need to actually try to reprocess or reread the available text, just a note mentioning whatever happens to remain in the brain, such as "ooo, I liked the Lego one", or "Dear Ms Aubergine, your methods of declining proposals are truly revolutionary for the consideration of the end times of future relationships."

Opinions may be sent to the author by whatever form of communication you prefer. If you aren't sure how to contact the author, perhaps you shouldn't (although the bio page has an email link). She prefers telegrams (although not singing telegrams); Morse Code; skywriting with aeroplanes; and messages in code presented using a surveying map, compass, and dodgy characters in back alleyways.

Please send correspondence by Thursday a fortnight ago.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

poets in cars

In any or all of these situations, the same hillside, the same late afternoon early September sunlight, the same ocean, the same breeze, the same clouds. The same sense of an insufficient conclusion, too many loopholes, too many loose ends, too many unanswered questions, not-credible witnesses, unknown motivations, shadowy figures in dark alleyways unaccounted for, an unexplained extra thousand miles on the odometer, a partially recalled memory, an inexact déjà vu, a telling ache in the left elbow, a portentous dream, an overheard snippet of conversation, a missing proof of identity, an unfinished dialogue, a mistranslated passage, an unconfirmed bullet, a found wallet, a dog-eared page in a paperback novel, a crumpled brown paper bag, a man's single brown loafer, a missing argyle sock, a broken glass, an empty wine bottle.




reading
Arrest Docket [Poems] by Christine McNair:






weather
gin and tonics and strawberries and chocolate cake and lingering evenings and all that June was designed for

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

grandfather paradox

Can you tell me how to get there?

I followed the directions of the gas station attendant,

turned left at the road just past the third house after the second stoplight,

turned right at the tree struck by lightening in the freak July hailstorm of ’83,

right again at what must have been the old Cooperston family farm, or I assumed it was once a farm due to the presence of chicken wire and I presumed it was the old farm because the roof had collapsed over part of the barn and the house was boarded up and a not-quite-vintage tractor was quietly rusting behind what may have once been a woodshed,

then I took the left turn by the water tower and followed the road past the railroad tracks towards the old swimming hole in what used to be an abandoned mine shaft,

took a sharp right when a branch of the road passed the 1953 Buick parked in front of the old school teacher’s residence,

followed the road past the Grange and the Congregational Church which is now the deconsecrated home of a town selectman and his family of incontrollable boys, one of whom is rumored to have left a cow on top of the general store,

kept to the left of the road around the hillside hugging the meadowland that is said to be for sale to a soda bottling facility, threatening to drain the local wells and pollute the rivers,

turned at the second right after the post office but before reaching the home of the brother of the wife of the cousin of the gas station attendant,

continued straight for a few ups and downs of hills,

crossed the river,




reading
Margaret Atwood, the exquisite Good Bones
weather
this is June?

Thursday, June 4, 2009

fatigue is a mysterious thing


With the wad of cash, calm the enemies, secure alliances, watch the sun set from a riverboat, free a hostage, clear the land of mines, clean a river, make a film, hire a roofer, replaces fishing nets with dolphin friendly models, send a man to the moon, invent petrochemical variations for modern applications, plant lettuce, mitigate drought, pay off politicians, build a safer factory, redesign the internal combustion engine, sponsor dark matter research, publish an underground newspaper, produce a radio program, establish a trust, protect a turtle, rebuild a fire station, commission a statue, restore a mural, protect local microclimates, provide vocational training for criminals, enforce local regulations, clean up an oil spill, plant a tree, hire a babysitter.

All of this, from a wad of cash.




reading
that entire printed-word-on-paper-bound-into-a-book concept hasn't really been happening recently

weather
glorious, mostly