this in from V, who's becoming quite the loquacious and debonair little dilettante http://www.salon.com/feb97/loveslave970210.html
in fact i'd venture that almost everything on http://redwoolenshirts.blogspot.com/ is worth a read
oh wait, i forgot
reading is dead
non?
Friday, February 17, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
how i was raised
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
From The Velveteen Rabbit
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
From The Velveteen Rabbit
Sunday, February 5, 2006
love
ahhhhhhhhh east coast zinho
i am wondering how i ever passed the time here and
how soon i scrape up the money to peace
chicago's vibe grips me like a tractor beam, but without a car i'm stranded in the land beyond... surrounded by slow people with necks red from fieldwork and old-style breath that leaks coon jokes through sparse teeth. drinking was my dumbo's feather to make the rest of the crap seem worthwhile, but it has lost its charm. all would be more exciting if i had a dog to play with. instead i surrender myself to the moon and follow its beams to points east and west
to you.
i tried to register for a conversational spanish class but they only teach them while i work, so instead i'm fiendishly raiding my bros high-school spanish books for some sort of understanding. 'Sabado Gigante' and 'Cristina' make little sense to me as yet, but i'll let you know. i'm thinking now would be a very good time to thumb a ride to mexico and learn for real, but i have to wait until later when the weather cools and the truckers begin to wear more clothes and behave themselves.
i'm going to go play in the sun now and grow some freckles. all the better to kiss me with.
i am wondering how i ever passed the time here and
how soon i scrape up the money to peace
chicago's vibe grips me like a tractor beam, but without a car i'm stranded in the land beyond... surrounded by slow people with necks red from fieldwork and old-style breath that leaks coon jokes through sparse teeth. drinking was my dumbo's feather to make the rest of the crap seem worthwhile, but it has lost its charm. all would be more exciting if i had a dog to play with. instead i surrender myself to the moon and follow its beams to points east and west
to you.
i tried to register for a conversational spanish class but they only teach them while i work, so instead i'm fiendishly raiding my bros high-school spanish books for some sort of understanding. 'Sabado Gigante' and 'Cristina' make little sense to me as yet, but i'll let you know. i'm thinking now would be a very good time to thumb a ride to mexico and learn for real, but i have to wait until later when the weather cools and the truckers begin to wear more clothes and behave themselves.
i'm going to go play in the sun now and grow some freckles. all the better to kiss me with.
Wednesday, August 3, 2005
voices
this has been a favorite for a long time ... neruda knows
"Walking Around"
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería belloir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejosque debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
"Walking Around"
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería belloir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejosque debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
Monday, July 18, 2005
where i'm coming from
the poem her belly marched through me as
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
-- ee cummings
one army. From her nostrils to her feet
she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat
of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
her hair was like a gas
evil to feel. Unwieldy….
the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has
—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off). It was spring
sun-stirring. sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered. a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
the killed
world wriggled like a twitched string.
-- ee cummings
Saturday, June 18, 2005
corresponding
damn girl i miss you. what are you doing? what could you possibly be filling your time up with now that i am gone? crap in comparison, i'm sure. dude i am trying to figure out whether i should send you this letter that V sent me that is like the most amazing, sweetest thing anyone has ever written to me, but i feel like that may be wrong, BUT we are m.d. styles together and we are only right ... so maybe i will. i keep f you and you are not there and it makes me sad. good news is i am coming down at the end of june to pride march in the village and i totally want to see you maybe you can join us, me and V, we will see i guess. i am just chillin' at my house helping my mom pack and shit, it really sucks. i have no friends and no car here, well really i don't drive but who cares! your plan is high larry us honestly, oh shit were you in nyc when you saw that i keep forgetting, are you in your new place yet? how is it? how are the mens and the womens? good i hope. so are you and love styles through for good? it's weird but i am pretty sure i won't ever see m again, bizzare. anyway my phone is dead but dude i would love to see you some day some how. oh! maybe july4th? you are probably like "riiiiiight", i don't mean to force my presence in your life, but for real b i am not going anywhere, so maybe then we could chill in nyc and run around all love styles and shit. ok so tell mewhere you at youngin', what life is like, and perhaps i will send you the most beautiful love letter ever written. ok mad crazy love styles,
-- a
-- a
Thursday, June 9, 2005
Thursday, May 19, 2005
bashô says
"Midsummer"
Bashô says the body is composed of one hundred bones and nine openings.
Within which flimsy structure the spirit dwells.
Floating by the park at dusk, through the heavy trees,
the white building glides like a ship.
An amber lamp is lit in a top-floor window
and a woman in her robe is leaning on the sill, eyes closed to the sunset.
A violet shadow is pouring down the side of the building from her long hair.
Two pigeons are perched in the next window, against a black room.
Beyond the trees, down a rough slope, the river is winding
around the island, flowing into the sea.
Slowly the mist off the river coils around the building, concealing it.
And just as slowly it lifts.
Only now the woman's lamp is extinguished.
Her window remains open, the curtain flutters,
but there is no sign of her, laid down to sleep in the darkness—
her pale body with its one hundred bones and nine openings
from which the spirit will one day slip, like the mist seeping
back through the trees, along the river, out to sea.
-- Nicholas Christopher
Bashô says the body is composed of one hundred bones and nine openings.
Within which flimsy structure the spirit dwells.
Floating by the park at dusk, through the heavy trees,
the white building glides like a ship.
An amber lamp is lit in a top-floor window
and a woman in her robe is leaning on the sill, eyes closed to the sunset.
A violet shadow is pouring down the side of the building from her long hair.
Two pigeons are perched in the next window, against a black room.
Beyond the trees, down a rough slope, the river is winding
around the island, flowing into the sea.
Slowly the mist off the river coils around the building, concealing it.
And just as slowly it lifts.
Only now the woman's lamp is extinguished.
Her window remains open, the curtain flutters,
but there is no sign of her, laid down to sleep in the darkness—
her pale body with its one hundred bones and nine openings
from which the spirit will one day slip, like the mist seeping
back through the trees, along the river, out to sea.
-- Nicholas Christopher
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