She keeps money in the refrigerator. Not a lot, you understand, just a few twenty dollar bills tucked away in the egg rack.
She says she got the idea from watching The Seven Year Itch.
Sometimes, on summer nights, she'll order herself a pizza, then use the money from the fridge to pay for it. She loves the look on the delivery man's face when she slips a crisp, freshly chilled note into his sweaty, human palm.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Believing is not seeing
The problem with faith is that it makes a lack of self-doubt a virtue. Certainty is cruel because it is blind.
Hesitation makes us vulnerable, yes, but being vulnerable is not the same as being weak.
Hesitation makes us vulnerable, yes, but being vulnerable is not the same as being weak.
Friday, February 27, 2009
A reply
If you really loved me you would not have written this letter, could not have sent it.
There are so many things I could say in reply. I have written each one down and sent it to a different person, none of them you.
To you I send only the silence, so you can read between its lines.
There are so many things I could say in reply. I have written each one down and sent it to a different person, none of them you.
To you I send only the silence, so you can read between its lines.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Undying
So much gratitude. The house suffocating under its weight.
I lie awake at night and hear how thankful the silence is, and there is nothing I can say, no words to deny my responsibility, to say it is nothing, nothing, which is true, but a betrayal.
I keep trying to give it away but no one will help.
I fear it may outlive me. I fear I may have to let it.
I lie awake at night and hear how thankful the silence is, and there is nothing I can say, no words to deny my responsibility, to say it is nothing, nothing, which is true, but a betrayal.
I keep trying to give it away but no one will help.
I fear it may outlive me. I fear I may have to let it.
Weddings & Riots
It's got so I can no longer tell weddings from riots.
To be on the safe side I avoid both, watching from my window as the crowd runs shouting through the street.
Death and the bridegroom both ride a white horse.
To be on the safe side I avoid both, watching from my window as the crowd runs shouting through the street.
Death and the bridegroom both ride a white horse.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Something more comfortable
Now that we are home, there is no need to be formal, no need to pretend.
We can slip into masks, give our faces a rest.
We can slip into masks, give our faces a rest.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
War and Love
War is a machine for converting a single lie into a million truths. Love is a machine for converting a single truth into a million lies. All is fair in both because both make proportion impossible.
We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.
Afterwards, the names of the dead circle the city like vultures, searching for scraps of themselves.
We do not invent pain, we are invented by it. Identity is a kind of resignation. The inability to imagine oneself in another's place.
Purple and silent, the bruises blossom in every house.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Turandot
This is how love dies. Faithful and easily forgotten, a frail creature, slain by its own hand.
Make no mistake - the stranger is Death, and fair Cruelty his bride. Together they are beautiful and terrifying, heartless because sublime.
And what of Justice, blind and in rags? It is no accident that he is not here, in this coldest of dawns; no accident that he walks alone in the darkness, hand in hand with Love, his true child, for whom all is unfair.
***
I am told that at the premier of Turandot at La Scala in 1926 (hard to believe the opera is less than a hundred years old - it certainly feels far more dated) Toscanini stopped the opera at the point where Liu dies, leaving the final scene unperformed. Which just goes to show how brilliant Toscanini really was.
The problem with that last scene isn't that it's no good; on the contrary, it is, in my opinion, some of the greatest music Puccini ever wrote (I should say that I'm not, in general, a big Puccini fan - give me Verdi any day). The problem is that what comes before it - Nessun Dorma, Liu's death scene - is sheer genius, so that the final duet, heard so soon after the pathos of Liu's death, feels like a betrayal. The composer is upstaged by his own music.
***
As you've probably guessed, I just got back from a performance of Turandot by the Opera Company of Philadelphia. A good performance all in all, with fine work by Francesco Hong as Calaf and Ermonela Jaho as Liu, both of whom more than made up for the fact that Francesca Patane as Turandot was decidedly mediocre.
And am I the only one who finds these stereotypical depictions of the Mysterious Orient annoying and borderline offensive?
Make no mistake - the stranger is Death, and fair Cruelty his bride. Together they are beautiful and terrifying, heartless because sublime.
And what of Justice, blind and in rags? It is no accident that he is not here, in this coldest of dawns; no accident that he walks alone in the darkness, hand in hand with Love, his true child, for whom all is unfair.
***
I am told that at the premier of Turandot at La Scala in 1926 (hard to believe the opera is less than a hundred years old - it certainly feels far more dated) Toscanini stopped the opera at the point where Liu dies, leaving the final scene unperformed. Which just goes to show how brilliant Toscanini really was.
The problem with that last scene isn't that it's no good; on the contrary, it is, in my opinion, some of the greatest music Puccini ever wrote (I should say that I'm not, in general, a big Puccini fan - give me Verdi any day). The problem is that what comes before it - Nessun Dorma, Liu's death scene - is sheer genius, so that the final duet, heard so soon after the pathos of Liu's death, feels like a betrayal. The composer is upstaged by his own music.
***
As you've probably guessed, I just got back from a performance of Turandot by the Opera Company of Philadelphia. A good performance all in all, with fine work by Francesco Hong as Calaf and Ermonela Jaho as Liu, both of whom more than made up for the fact that Francesca Patane as Turandot was decidedly mediocre.
And am I the only one who finds these stereotypical depictions of the Mysterious Orient annoying and borderline offensive?
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Best news I've heard all year
It's finally here - Shahid's collected poems. All 512 pages of it.
Now all I have to do is decide whether I want to be all snobbish and stick with the individual volumes (of which I have ALL), or fork out the dough to buy the collected works.
In other news, it turns out that the best book of 2008 was not Marilynne Robinson's Home or Bolano's 2666. I'm only 50 pages through it, but I suspect it's going to turn out to be the collected Jack Spicer.
Now all I have to do is decide whether I want to be all snobbish and stick with the individual volumes (of which I have ALL), or fork out the dough to buy the collected works.
In other news, it turns out that the best book of 2008 was not Marilynne Robinson's Home or Bolano's 2666. I'm only 50 pages through it, but I suspect it's going to turn out to be the collected Jack Spicer.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
59 Library Books
Fifty nine library books
on the floor by my bed;
books I keep planning to read but
end up renewing instead,
thinking I'll get to them next
semester (I never do).
Sometimes I think it's a good thing
we're mortal, don't you?
[based on a true story]
on the floor by my bed;
books I keep planning to read but
end up renewing instead,
thinking I'll get to them next
semester (I never do).
Sometimes I think it's a good thing
we're mortal, don't you?
[based on a true story]
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Matt Kirkham's Lost Museums
In the Tea Museum
Before she slipped her peachblossom sash
through your nosering, you wouldn't be led.
You'd brewed up a storm from dried shit and straw,
clattering down the ramp through the stumbling yells
of the abattoir lads. Wasn't it frosty
beneath your hooves, the lobby's marble floor?
Before she guided you by her right little finger
back through the wreckage, her left hand
clasping her loosened gown over, you'd been the kind
to rush at your two-horned reflection, shattering
display cases, acting out ambiguities,
dragon or charger, lion or unicorn.
But weren't your imaginary matadors
just panicked visitors, dropping
their freetrade Earl Grey for you to stamp on?
Before your all-black and glassy eyes
took in her porcelain face, you'd shown
no discrimination. You'd trampled Wedgwood
and novelty teapots in Hollywood faces.
Chests of Assam and Lapsang Souchong
you'd splintered, and the model clipper,
the racket sending the kimono'd girls
scurrying from their ceremonies, one two three,
your bull years cocked at the stories whispered
in the tiny paired pattering of their size fours.
Didn't security, stirred from his cuppa,
lock you in before they could find the last geisha?
After the debris settled, as you stood four-hooved and still,
the CD of that bamboo-flute still playing somewhere,
before she'd made a left-horned unicorn of you,
the last unbroken teapot gently rocking,
blue-white, on your right horn, you highstepping after,
gingerly, where china had lodged in your hooves,
hadn't she held the steaming cup to your nostrils
with its peachflower scents and its underscents
of soil turned beneath Himalayan foothills,
earth where your hoofprints are holy?
- Matt Kirkham, from The Lost Museums
Been reading Matt Kirkham's delightful 2006 collection, The Lost Museums, which is one of those rare collections that combine a strong overarching concept (each poem is a description of, or set in, an imaginary museum) with individual poems of beauty and stand-alone power.
You can hear a number of other poems from the collection here.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Further Adventures of Hark! DaButt
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, on the sprawling planet of Massomedia, there lived a princess named Hark! DaButt. Hark! DaButt was the heir to the throne of the kingdom of Enditivy, as well as being an accomplished trumpet blower and a follower of the TRPsichorean muse. All the people of the kingdom loved their princess who they thought was beautiful and brave and so very clever.
Well, almost all. One small, indomitable group of galling citizens continued to hold out against Hark! DaButt's considerable charm. This rebel group, who called themselves 'globbers' and feared only the Skype falling on their heads, were always criticizing the princess, claiming she was hysterical, unprofessional and generally insensitive. These accusations hurt the princess deeply. Many a night did she spend shedding inky tears into her crocodile skin pillow. It wasn't that she thought the criticisms were valid (how could they be? She was a Princess, with Chelpark Blue blood in her veins - she could do nothing wrong), nor that she was an insecure, vengeful little minx who couldn't take criticism. It was just that she felt these criticisms were an affront to the dignity of Enditivy, and therefore had to be punished.
One day, when Her Shrillness was out playing in the garden, she spotted a globber lurking in the shrubbery. Quick as a newsflash, she had the globber captured by her guards, and brought him before the High Council. When the High Council told her that no, she couldn't have his head cut off (only her cousin, the Red Queen, could use that head line), she proceeded to whine and pout until the poor globber agreed to issue a public apology for the things he'd said about her and promised never to say anything bad about her again. This made Hark! DaButt very happy because:
a) bringing a months old comment out of total obscurity and making it a source of renewed outrage was obviously the best way to silence criticism
b) going to the trouble of hauling a globber before the High Council for some throwaway comment was a sure way of saying that the globbers were inconsequential people to whom she, Hark! DaButt, paid no attention
c) wording the apology in proper legal terms would make it obvious to every one that the globber's apology was sincerely meant; no one could possibly imagine that she had forced it out of him
d) by striking out against one globber she had effectively silenced their entire community, who would never again dare to criticize her, because the prospect of having to issue an official apology if they were caught would really, really scare them
e) using the resources of her vast kingdom to pick on one poor defenseless globber was a classy act that was sure to make people admire her all the more
(Did I mention that Hark! DaButt was a little delusional?)
In any case, the globber apologised, the princess went back to blowing her own trumpet, and the kingdom of Enditivy moved on, like a slow dinosaur with Hark! DaButt as its pea-sized brain.
Well, almost all. One small, indomitable group of galling citizens continued to hold out against Hark! DaButt's considerable charm. This rebel group, who called themselves 'globbers' and feared only the Skype falling on their heads, were always criticizing the princess, claiming she was hysterical, unprofessional and generally insensitive. These accusations hurt the princess deeply. Many a night did she spend shedding inky tears into her crocodile skin pillow. It wasn't that she thought the criticisms were valid (how could they be? She was a Princess, with Chelpark Blue blood in her veins - she could do nothing wrong), nor that she was an insecure, vengeful little minx who couldn't take criticism. It was just that she felt these criticisms were an affront to the dignity of Enditivy, and therefore had to be punished.
One day, when Her Shrillness was out playing in the garden, she spotted a globber lurking in the shrubbery. Quick as a newsflash, she had the globber captured by her guards, and brought him before the High Council. When the High Council told her that no, she couldn't have his head cut off (only her cousin, the Red Queen, could use that head line), she proceeded to whine and pout until the poor globber agreed to issue a public apology for the things he'd said about her and promised never to say anything bad about her again. This made Hark! DaButt very happy because:
a) bringing a months old comment out of total obscurity and making it a source of renewed outrage was obviously the best way to silence criticism
b) going to the trouble of hauling a globber before the High Council for some throwaway comment was a sure way of saying that the globbers were inconsequential people to whom she, Hark! DaButt, paid no attention
c) wording the apology in proper legal terms would make it obvious to every one that the globber's apology was sincerely meant; no one could possibly imagine that she had forced it out of him
d) by striking out against one globber she had effectively silenced their entire community, who would never again dare to criticize her, because the prospect of having to issue an official apology if they were caught would really, really scare them
e) using the resources of her vast kingdom to pick on one poor defenseless globber was a classy act that was sure to make people admire her all the more
(Did I mention that Hark! DaButt was a little delusional?)
In any case, the globber apologised, the princess went back to blowing her own trumpet, and the kingdom of Enditivy moved on, like a slow dinosaur with Hark! DaButt as its pea-sized brain.
The End.
Entirely Voluntary Notice (No, really!)
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. In particular, this story has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to do with a certain TV channel's treatment of a certain blogger. I, Falstaff, have always admired said TV channel for the diligence with which it manages to stay just within the law and its courageous defiance of anything resembling taste. Further, I have absolutely no criticism to offer of their star reporter, a woman I have always respected for her...for her....errr...a woman I have always respected.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Conversation # 3
"Oh, come on!"
"No."
"You owe me that much."
"I don't owe you a thing."
"All right, you owe it to yourself."
"I can't think about myself just now."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have the time."
"Time for yourself?"
"Time for the past."
"Isn't it the same thing?"
"Perhaps."
"You're wrong, you know. There's always time for the past. It's the future we have to make time for."
"You don't have a future."
"And you do?"
"After today? Yes."
"Oh, that. But that isn't really a future you know. It's just the past all over again."
"It's good enough for me."
"Really? I thought that was what you came here to escape."
"No. I came here to escape the other future. The old one."
"The one in your past?"
"Yes."
"So that's it then. You're really going to do it?"
"Yes."
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"For you."
"Me? What have I got to do with it?"
"You have to agree."
"You don't need me to agree. You can do what you like. I can't stop you."
"I know. But I don't want to do it that way. I want you to agree."
"Why?"
"Because it wouldn't be right otherwise."
"Why?"
"Because it would change things."
"And you're worried if you change things now the past won't come back?"
"Yes."
"I'm never going to agree, you know."
"You must."
"I won't."
"Come on!"
"No."
"You owe me that much."
"No."
"You owe me that much."
"I don't owe you a thing."
"All right, you owe it to yourself."
"I can't think about myself just now."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have the time."
"Time for yourself?"
"Time for the past."
"Isn't it the same thing?"
"Perhaps."
"You're wrong, you know. There's always time for the past. It's the future we have to make time for."
"You don't have a future."
"And you do?"
"After today? Yes."
"Oh, that. But that isn't really a future you know. It's just the past all over again."
"It's good enough for me."
"Really? I thought that was what you came here to escape."
"No. I came here to escape the other future. The old one."
"The one in your past?"
"Yes."
"So that's it then. You're really going to do it?"
"Yes."
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"For you."
"Me? What have I got to do with it?"
"You have to agree."
"You don't need me to agree. You can do what you like. I can't stop you."
"I know. But I don't want to do it that way. I want you to agree."
"Why?"
"Because it wouldn't be right otherwise."
"Why?"
"Because it would change things."
"And you're worried if you change things now the past won't come back?"
"Yes."
"I'm never going to agree, you know."
"You must."
"I won't."
"Come on!"
"No."
"You owe me that much."
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Next you'll be telling me they're turned on by Bono
By now you've probably seen this Sunday's NY Times article about research into female sexual desire. A brief bout of bonobo envy [1] and some low-grade speculation about hooking all the readers of this blog up to plethysmographs (SO much better than Stat Counter numbers), the thing that really caught my attention was this bit:
Two questions immediately suggest themselves. First, is the disconnect between mind and report or between mind and genitals? Are these women aware of being excited by what they're seeing but choosing not to report it, or are they so thoroughly conditioned to see certain forms of arousal as appropriate that they are genuinely unaware of their own physical response?
Second, and more interestingly, if it's the latter (and let's say, for the sake of the argument, that it is) then is it accurate to say that these women are aroused? How do we define sexual excitement? Is it genital or mental? If you do not consciously experience any desire but your plethysmograph shows a positive reading, are you really aroused?
[1] There's a phrase you don't get to use often
"And with the women, especially the straight women, mind and genitals seemed scarcely to belong to the same person. The readings from the plethysmograph and the keypad weren’t in much accord. During shots of lesbian coupling, heterosexual women reported less excitement than their vaginas indicated; watching gay men, they reported a great deal less; and viewing heterosexual intercourse, they reported much more."
Two questions immediately suggest themselves. First, is the disconnect between mind and report or between mind and genitals? Are these women aware of being excited by what they're seeing but choosing not to report it, or are they so thoroughly conditioned to see certain forms of arousal as appropriate that they are genuinely unaware of their own physical response?
Second, and more interestingly, if it's the latter (and let's say, for the sake of the argument, that it is) then is it accurate to say that these women are aroused? How do we define sexual excitement? Is it genital or mental? If you do not consciously experience any desire but your plethysmograph shows a positive reading, are you really aroused?
[1] There's a phrase you don't get to use often
Beebless in Gaza
The DEC Gaza Appeal that the BBC refused to broadcast.
The BBC claims it chose not to broadcast this because “We worry about being seen to endorse something which could give people the impression that we were backing one side".
I don't know about you, but it seems to me that if you restrict the reach of appeals for humanitarian aid to the victims on one side of a conflict, and refuse to broadcast images and facts that may show the other side in a bad light, then it's pretty clear which side you're backing.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A Question of Travel
How many of us would take the high road, I wonder, if it meant ending up on the highway?
Friday, January 23, 2009
Poet of the Month: Sarah Lindsay
In other poetry news, I've been reading a lot of Sarah Lindsay lately - her new collection Twigs and Knucklebones was one of my favorite books of 2008, and her earlier collection Mount Clutter is fascinating as well.
You can find poems by her here, here and here.
You can find poems by her here, here and here.
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