One of my faves... and I think, accessible to poets and non-poets alike, no?
Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Two old poems
Note: The last few lines of the second poem are supposed to be indented, but the blog format doesn't preserve the tabs I put in. It is bothering the hell out of me but I'm sure it doesn't actually make a damn bit of difference, so I'm just going to leave it as is on the blog.
(untitled…)
that jumped from the plane
right before it hit the ground
still became
smashed brains and bones—
this, we know.
if he emerged from the wreckage
as unscathed as
little boys leaping from wooden docks into
soft, eutrophic lakes—
not for the his sake,
but for the sake of our own
hopeless attempts?
--------------
This is the story of Her life
I strung a cello
with my hair
still rooted in my head.
(I’d watched
my ma repair the strings
to make the dead ol’ cello sing.
Young and mute
and full of hope,
I thought that I could do the same.)
I pressed the bow into my hair and
clumsily, slowly,
moved my elbow like a hinge.
The sound waves
shivered up my hair
and scalloped past my ears
and jiggled in my brain
but that was it.
meeting tomorrow?
Still on? I have a thing at 6 which probably won't last more than a half hour. How about Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown? Kinda pricier, but Shanghai soup dumplings...hot (I'm also supposed to try and say hi to some people there, heh, so it's also kinda selfish). We could get some dumplings there, and then workshop there or at Columbus Park? It's around the corner. Benches and assorted seating areas available.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Beach
My boyfriend was in the beach mud up to his ankles and he stepped out of it backwards as he cast the fishing line, pitching the yellow rod like the baseball he had just been throwing with Pepper, his friend. Just before he threw the line out he said, “Step back!” I took three large steps—on the last landing on a wooden stake stuck in the sand like a candle in cake. I let myself fall to the sand, higher behind me where it was further from the water. I sat with my elbows on my knees and picked up the aged wooden stake with a torn edge which had cut the bottom of my foot. Noah was already eager to feel rugged and then egged on by the outdoorsy culture of the
Noah had had a brain aneurysm two months and a week before. I helped nurse him back to health after the operation. He needed companionship which I provided easily, driving across the
It was a hard time then because I was out of college, jobless and busy resisting the tenuous hospitality proffered at my parents’ house, pickily choosing how to appropriately spend their money: absolutely not on novels but yes, handcrafted diaries. I slept in the guestroom in the brass bed that was once my eldest sister’s, now married, professional-schooled, children born. I knew I would soon be leaving town so didn’t go out except to conference with old friends. If it had been a different summer I’m sure I would’ve been more sacrificial, throwing all of me into romantic love, but for better or worse I hardly had anything to throw in the pile.
Sometimes we talked seriously about the aneurysm like when I had my first fig and prosciutto pizza for lunch, underneath which was preciously chewy, aromatic crust, more akin to bread.
My patience was tested as he hemmed and hawed over which personal pizza to order: pretending to resist the temptation of ham, trying to get something I would like, telling the server to come back later. He was never certain unless we were ordering burgers at
“Law school will be fine. You’re the same person.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I worry. Maybe I should take a year off.”
“Maybe. We could go do something.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to put off law school. Where would I go?”
Any dozen places, I thought, any city in China, teaching English and saving frogs or learning Swedish massage on a dairy cow farm or at the most simple, pear picking on a Kibbutz. It would forge that adventurous bond between us.
“Well, if you want to do something together, I’m free for the rest of my life,” I said. My leg was shaking in the booth, a twitch a Chinese proverb warns will make coins fall out of one’s pocket and quickly fortuneless.
“At the same time, it’s like, I want to exercise my brain. I’m going to get the Golden Farms all natural, nitrate free pepperoni, roasted
“Good choice. I hope you like peppers.”
“Oh. Yes. Would you like some pepper with those peppers?”
The sun shone outside the restaurant but the breeze was cold. I gripped his thick, comfortable palm under the table.
“Then go. If it’s too hard you can always quit.”
“Yeah I need to email them about this.” He pointed to his head.
His brain had been exposed. I thought of the last minutes of the last episode of “Six Feet Under” sometimes, sometimes when driving, and transferred my love for the show to Noah and want him to stay in my life like family until we both died.
Back to that week on the outer banks of
Soon after, we arrived in
His schedule allowed me, when not temping part time downtown, to pursue my extracurricular interests so it was as though we were singletons. One evening after work I went to an opening for a vegan bicycle co-op with brew, homemade and free for “participants.” Outside the entrance, sculptures and chairs sat on the sidewalk unoccupied and the room inside was a studio/gallery space with a bike repair shop in the rear. Energy efficient light bulbs were chandeliered with rubber string and discarded incandescents. The event was overwhelmingly casual as if all of us guests were window shopping and had left our wallets at home: slowing at the table of pamphlets, the counter with chilled jars of beer and flax seed chips, and the hanging bikes on display like halal butchered goats. The entertainment was a poetry reading and film screening. When the lights went out I settled on a stool and felt less out of place.
The woman on the bench nearest me was in a state of collapse slurping an empty 48 ounce Jamba Juice until the poetesses and poet entered the dim spotlight and the straw idled at her lips. The film projected on the wall behind them and to the right. Horacio embraces charcoal limbs of dust/margarine crush. A claymation mountain shed trees like tears with random text flashing in single frames. The Jamba girl had a large chest, ample sitting parts, and tiny conical ankles that she tucked under herself, undemocratically taking up one and a half spaces. But her hair was straight, brown, and combed, cloven by a clean part and on her tote bag was sewn a little metal tag with a brand name my eyes strained to make out.
Perhaps I would find a place to store the calendar of events; the show was growing on me. I hoped the girl didn’t see me staring at her so I glared down the poet/filmmakers. The crying mountain had erupted with sexual lava and a live oboe started playing. Then a clipboard landed on my legs and the girl’s hand was parting from it. So Janine had signed up for the e-lert. Should I sign up, I wondered?
“You should sign up,” Janine said.
“I am going to,” and I did before passing the board. “For any reason in particular?”
She twisted out of her seat and faced my stool, her eyebrows level with my knees. “Well, when I’m not drunk,” she said lifting the smoothie cup, “I am gainfully employed at a studio of photography.”
“Cool. Did you go to art school?"
“I went to Bard. But so yeah,” she said. She didn't speak like she was drunk but her neck and wrists were loose at the hinges. "I drink dark and stormys since I quit beer. Beer started giving me acute headaches because I had some in
“Oh!” I said. She was either very garrulous or hermetically scholarly, acquiring information like that. She reminded me of my friend, Lulu, who asserted herself in conversation by knowing things no one had ever heard about, and who undercut herself by being frank about her ambitions to be a lead guitarist in a band as well as a documentary film maker. The disappointment was, over time despite my skepticism, Lulu was well on her way to becoming what she dreamed and now dreaming more. "What were you doing in
“My photographer took me as a production assistant.”
The show had ended a couple minutes ago but we stayed in the audience area. I unconsciously kept track of everyone's shoes as I was in need of a new pair and at the same time trying to conjure my clearest impression of
She continued pointing to the chandelier: "Have you been here before?"
I shook my head.
“My photographer is Mary Ellen Clark.” She paused and I shook my head again. “She donated two pieces for fundraising of Mexican circus travelers. The other piece was from twins convention in
“Oh! I think I may have seen that—the ones with twins.” Which was true: a book had passed through my hands once of simple and fascinating black and white portraits of twins young and old, in semi-candid moments and they looked happy as newlyweds. “Those are really interesting.”
“Yeah! Awesome. She's great. So we did the Mexican acrobat idea in
“Very cool,” I said. “I’ll look that up.”
“Yeah definitely. Circuses are the most intense, atavistic communities. Technically, they’re migrant workers but they’re also enmeshed in the local cultures.”
“Sort of like here,” I said, which made no sense.
“Yeah, so if you ever want to meet some acrobats we might be hosting them in a couple months to promote the show.” She gave me a quarter sheet flyer with some information and a xeroxed photograph of a boy in clown clothes whose knees and elbows bent the wrong ways. “He’s not coming but two acrobats are. So you should come.”
I told Noah about Janine when he saw the flexible clown on my nightstand. “She said I should come,” I said. He was fully clothed lying on the long edge of my bed, probably smudging the white duvet with the subway grease on his sneakers. He breathed loudly through his nose. A mirror was behind him that inevitably distracted my gaze from him, but it also made me want to continue explaining. Seeing my talking face elongated my comments because I was thinking what to say next and watching myself think and talking while waiting for my intended words to align with the moving image, further subdividing each moment, and deciding if I was poorly dubbed or well.
Posting from Blog, Critical Mass
What to do in New York This Week
Tonight: Book Reviews: In Print, Online, and in Decline?, at 6:30 p.m. at the Scandinavia House, 58 Park Avenue (between 37th and 38th Streets), New York City. Panelists Sam Tanenhaus, Sara Nelson, and NBCC board members Jane Ciabattari & Lizzie Skurnick will discuss how the business of book reviews has changed and where it's headed. Moderated by Authors Guild President Roy Blount Jr. The event is free and open to the public. No reservations required; doors open at 6:00. For further information, e-mail us at staff@authorsguild.org or call (212) 594-7931.
Tuesday: Norwegian Literature at 192 Books, 7PM. A gathering of contemporary Norwegian writers which will feature IMPAC award-winning novelist Per Petterson (Out Stealing Horses). 192 Tenth Ave at 21st Street. Call 212-255-4022 for reservations.
Wednesday: at 7PM, NBCC winner Adrienne Rich reads from her new collection, Telephone Ringing in the Labyrinth at McNally/Robinson Booksellers at 52 Prince Street, between Lafayette and Mulberry. 212-274-1160.
Thursday: Jonathan Spence comes to the Asia Society at 6:30PM to read from and talk about his new book, Return to Dragon Mountain, which is based upon the writings of Chinese writer Zhang Dai, who chronicled the Ming dynasty. 725 Park Avenue. 212-288-6400
Friday: At 6:15 PM, New York Times writer Ben Ratliff talks about his new book on John Coltrane with former NBCC finalist Stanley Crouch. Rubin Museum of Art. 150 West 17th Street. 212-620-5000
Tuesday: Norwegian Literature at 192 Books, 7PM. A gathering of contemporary Norwegian writers which will feature IMPAC award-winning novelist Per Petterson (Out Stealing Horses). 192 Tenth Ave at 21st Street. Call 212-255-4022 for reservations.
Wednesday: at 7PM, NBCC winner Adrienne Rich reads from her new collection, Telephone Ringing in the Labyrinth at McNally/Robinson Booksellers at 52 Prince Street, between Lafayette and Mulberry. 212-274-1160.
Thursday: Jonathan Spence comes to the Asia Society at 6:30PM to read from and talk about his new book, Return to Dragon Mountain, which is based upon the writings of Chinese writer Zhang Dai, who chronicled the Ming dynasty. 725 Park Avenue. 212-288-6400
Friday: At 6:15 PM, New York Times writer Ben Ratliff talks about his new book on John Coltrane with former NBCC finalist Stanley Crouch. Rubin Museum of Art. 150 West 17th Street. 212-620-5000
Falling
They had been seeing each other for two months now. It was only after the man fell from the sky that they first spoke.
“Oh my God” were the first words that he heard her speak aloud. Scrambling alongside her, taking the faller’s pulse, tearing off the man’s limp shirt, ignoring the dead man’s hard hat still spinning in place on the pavement, he leaned in. And held her hand. (The left one; her right hand was building a makeshift tourniquet for the poor man’s shattered legs.) Boy, did that feel good.
Just thirty seconds ago, they had been surreptitiously eyeing each other (again sighed the lab monitor) from the fourth floor of their respective classrooms. The two were separated by a mere cobblestoned street, a pair of walls, and a set of super-insulated windows. Though divided by only 50 feet of air (maybe even less he estimated while pacing it off during cigarette breaks), it felt like a deep chasm of nothingness sprung between them. No, a cursed dam. Holding back his unrequited passions. A dam which he egged with mental cruise missiles, but to no effect, no damn effect, for the structure was built of impenetrable steel and was coated with a slick petroleum-derived substance upon which no organic life could ever hope to form. And it was from this perch that he daily opined into his Trapper Keeper, cursing Jehova, Family, Society for this most unjust cosmic har-har. Just thirty seconds ago and 50 feet away from her (probably less he pitifully reminded himself every now and again in less happy times), he had been sighing, crumpling his water cooler Dixie cup, ready to trudge back to his non-existence of a lab table. And then he was blessed with the faller.
It is not every day that we see a man fall from the sky. Many go their whole lives without such an event. But for him, this was the second man that he had seen fall, though technically, his father fell out of a tree, not the sky, while failing to rescue Rascals the family hamster. His father’s fall had a documented starting point, an apex so to speak, and that event was anything but a blessing. In fact, he had been to therapy for many years in an attempt to wipe out all traces of the memory, and it was mostly successful, Rascals and dad being dead and all and leaving no evidence of that most unfortunate fall behind. So he didn’t make the connection between his father’s fall (“from Grace” his mother whispered with a chuckle sometimes after a few martinis—because she had discovered years after the fact that he had been sleeping with their neighbor, Charity) and this most opportune of moments.
His mother had remarried, to Stan, the local hockey coach, a decent enough guy who embodied “pal.” He vividly remembered arguing with Stan about whether the Japanese, before they abandoned the island to the invading American forces, should have booby trapped Guadalcanal with miniature fire ants and man-eating alligators. Like starving man-eating alligators. And they should have rigged the island with video cameras, like in Big Brother, and caught the whole thing on tape and mailed it to all the major TV outlets in America as propaganda. Because, God, it would be awful for Sally and Jenny to see our boys over there getting ripped to shreds by alligators and then their scraps being devoured by fire ants. Just plain awful. But this conversation felt miles away and light years ago, because just this moment—not thirty seconds ago, no, thirty seconds ago he was sad, and lonely—but right now, right right now, he was holding her hand while suturing the dead man’s openings, rinsing with a pint of vodka that one of the spectators had handed to him when he called for “DISINFECTANT!”
Fifteen seconds passed, and the faller had not moved. The sound of sirens could be heard and the crowd’s collective muscles unclenched. The ambulance’s call seemed to break the couple’s trance, and they finally looked up from their work.
She had the waviest hair he had ever seen. Her dimples had dimples. There was a need to capture this moment, and he mourned the fact that she would never look as beautiful to him as she did on this day, at this very moment. He pulled a rubber band from his pocket and tenderly tied up her hair. A short moment of indecision entered before he thought, no, today is different, and he spoke, and then she spoke. Soon, they were walking, walking away from the scene of the faller, the sirens having been silenced now that the authorities had unofficially concluded that the man was dead upon impact and had carted him away. As they walked from their blessing, they spoke and exchanged the little intimate details that take couples forged in less blessed relationships years to establish. He spoke fondly of Rascals and Stan and his mother and she of similar equivalents.
It was only when after they had arrived at the bowling alley that he noticed the blood on his hands. He excused himself and he went to the bathroom where he promptly threw up. He looked up into the mirror and washed his face. As he walked back out to her, he smiled, thinking of the goddamn 50 feet that had come between them and how it never would again. He then went out and bowled a 237, the highest he had ever bowled, and the highest he would bowl for years to come.
“Oh my God” were the first words that he heard her speak aloud. Scrambling alongside her, taking the faller’s pulse, tearing off the man’s limp shirt, ignoring the dead man’s hard hat still spinning in place on the pavement, he leaned in. And held her hand. (The left one; her right hand was building a makeshift tourniquet for the poor man’s shattered legs.) Boy, did that feel good.
Just thirty seconds ago, they had been surreptitiously eyeing each other (again sighed the lab monitor) from the fourth floor of their respective classrooms. The two were separated by a mere cobblestoned street, a pair of walls, and a set of super-insulated windows. Though divided by only 50 feet of air (maybe even less he estimated while pacing it off during cigarette breaks), it felt like a deep chasm of nothingness sprung between them. No, a cursed dam. Holding back his unrequited passions. A dam which he egged with mental cruise missiles, but to no effect, no damn effect, for the structure was built of impenetrable steel and was coated with a slick petroleum-derived substance upon which no organic life could ever hope to form. And it was from this perch that he daily opined into his Trapper Keeper, cursing Jehova, Family, Society for this most unjust cosmic har-har. Just thirty seconds ago and 50 feet away from her (probably less he pitifully reminded himself every now and again in less happy times), he had been sighing, crumpling his water cooler Dixie cup, ready to trudge back to his non-existence of a lab table. And then he was blessed with the faller.
It is not every day that we see a man fall from the sky. Many go their whole lives without such an event. But for him, this was the second man that he had seen fall, though technically, his father fell out of a tree, not the sky, while failing to rescue Rascals the family hamster. His father’s fall had a documented starting point, an apex so to speak, and that event was anything but a blessing. In fact, he had been to therapy for many years in an attempt to wipe out all traces of the memory, and it was mostly successful, Rascals and dad being dead and all and leaving no evidence of that most unfortunate fall behind. So he didn’t make the connection between his father’s fall (“from Grace” his mother whispered with a chuckle sometimes after a few martinis—because she had discovered years after the fact that he had been sleeping with their neighbor, Charity) and this most opportune of moments.
His mother had remarried, to Stan, the local hockey coach, a decent enough guy who embodied “pal.” He vividly remembered arguing with Stan about whether the Japanese, before they abandoned the island to the invading American forces, should have booby trapped Guadalcanal with miniature fire ants and man-eating alligators. Like starving man-eating alligators. And they should have rigged the island with video cameras, like in Big Brother, and caught the whole thing on tape and mailed it to all the major TV outlets in America as propaganda. Because, God, it would be awful for Sally and Jenny to see our boys over there getting ripped to shreds by alligators and then their scraps being devoured by fire ants. Just plain awful. But this conversation felt miles away and light years ago, because just this moment—not thirty seconds ago, no, thirty seconds ago he was sad, and lonely—but right now, right right now, he was holding her hand while suturing the dead man’s openings, rinsing with a pint of vodka that one of the spectators had handed to him when he called for “DISINFECTANT!”
Fifteen seconds passed, and the faller had not moved. The sound of sirens could be heard and the crowd’s collective muscles unclenched. The ambulance’s call seemed to break the couple’s trance, and they finally looked up from their work.
She had the waviest hair he had ever seen. Her dimples had dimples. There was a need to capture this moment, and he mourned the fact that she would never look as beautiful to him as she did on this day, at this very moment. He pulled a rubber band from his pocket and tenderly tied up her hair. A short moment of indecision entered before he thought, no, today is different, and he spoke, and then she spoke. Soon, they were walking, walking away from the scene of the faller, the sirens having been silenced now that the authorities had unofficially concluded that the man was dead upon impact and had carted him away. As they walked from their blessing, they spoke and exchanged the little intimate details that take couples forged in less blessed relationships years to establish. He spoke fondly of Rascals and Stan and his mother and she of similar equivalents.
It was only when after they had arrived at the bowling alley that he noticed the blood on his hands. He excused himself and he went to the bathroom where he promptly threw up. He looked up into the mirror and washed his face. As he walked back out to her, he smiled, thinking of the goddamn 50 feet that had come between them and how it never would again. He then went out and bowled a 237, the highest he had ever bowled, and the highest he would bowl for years to come.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Prompt 3
Here's the prompt for this week (to turn in by Friday, to be read for
Monday's meeting), unless there are objections or alternate suggestions.
It's just, we really need one.
The idea is this: rewrite the following story (which I copied from
Mcsweeney's) from another perspective. It doesn't have to conform to any
particular length.
Nathan
"49."
BY SARAH MANGUSO
There's one girl in the nursery I decide I love. I stare at her and try to
think of what I should call her. I decide I will call her Benny, and I
approach her. "Hi, Benny," I say. Another girl pipes up. "Her name's Becky,
not Benny," she informs me. But what she doesn't know is that I got to
within one consonant of the girl's name just by looking at her.
Monday's meeting), unless there are objections or alternate suggestions.
It's just, we really need one.
The idea is this: rewrite the following story (which I copied from
Mcsweeney's) from another perspective. It doesn't have to conform to any
particular length.
Nathan
"49."
BY SARAH MANGUSO
There's one girl in the nursery I decide I love. I stare at her and try to
think of what I should call her. I decide I will call her Benny, and I
approach her. "Hi, Benny," I say. Another girl pipes up. "Her name's Becky,
not Benny," she informs me. But what she doesn't know is that I got to
within one consonant of the girl's name just by looking at her.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Kitchenette
We made a long list of what we imagined she did all day in that kitchen.
And then we numbered the list and found that it wasn’t as long as it had looked before: only six items.
It was difficult to make a substantial list when our information was so limited: all we could see from across the street was that she sat in a kitchen all day, and that she worked at a computer next to a blender or a Mr. Coffee, and that she never looked out of her window.
Her large, arched, flamboyant fourth-floor picture window.
The first thing on our list was “receptionist,” which was too bland, so we added “at an abortion clinic,” which was cheap, so we added, “for women who’ve already had a bunch of kids, at least five.”
It took us a while to get to number two on the list, because we really took to playing out abortion scenarios, like the one where the evangelical Christian mother of seven comes in pregnant with conjoined twins, who the Lord has sent to test the resolve of his faithful servant . . . Jobina . . . and says, in justification of her visit, “How we get where we’re going is much less important than getting there, after all, isn’t it?” She had ropes of scars where her belly had been.
Number two on the list was the result of a pendulum swing in our thinking: “Public Relations Specialist, Vatican City, New York City branch.” Such a position would explain her focus and commitment. She could not afford to look out of her window or dilly dally about her work, which was sacred. And what pressure, to have God always just over your shoulder! Polly asked, “What does she do?” and Allen answered, “She writes epigrams and Catholic jokes.” Like, The Pope Saves, and, Save it for the Pope, and, Does the Pope Shit in a Forest?
Next on the list was “Keen, Hip Dramatist” a la Keri Bradshaw from Sex in the City, except for the keen dramatist part, and though we couldn’t verify her hipness, it was clear enough from the way she chicken-pecked the keyboard that she concerned herself very little with the mundane minutiae of life and/or that she must be protecting an expensive and ostentatious, but artful, manicure. She was intent, and sponsored: she had an NEA grant and a rich, soulful lover, who was a closeted member of the literati, displaced from birth as an oilman in the Midwest. She was, at the moment of list-making, writing the second act, second scene of a stage play, bound to be gripping and achy, called Pinocchio Gets a Nose Job, Beverly Hills Style, in which our protagonist, after his longish nose initiates an unsightly champagne spill at Perez Hilton’s invitation-only New Year’s 2005 Rock-It-Like-A-Super-Rockette party, asks his bff, Jiminy (later to become principal foil in the wake of raucous jealousy, the nose will look THAT good), to lend him the price, out of his goddamn trust fund, of a nose job. While he’s at it, besides making it shorter, seemlier, chic, the doctor coats the new nose in platinum for protection and paints a miniature, but deft, pirate ship floating just off the coast of his left nostril.
The fourth item on the list was “Guinness Book of World Records Record Contender” for “the hitherto uncontested record for kitchen sitting.” “For sitting in one’s kitchen,” said Pritchard, so Benny, who was scribe, wrote, “for being as boring as a metronome,” on another piece of paper, which after a brief struggle he safety-pinned to the front of Pritchard’s t-shirt, just over the little alligator logo. Polly thought, out loud, “To win a record like that, she’d have to have a pretty harsh posterior.” And we moved on.
Fifth—“Online Gambling Genius or Junkie, Depending on the Day’s Luck”—was our creative low-point, but it seemed a good round number to strive for and it led finally to number six, our favorite.
(6)—we didn’t know how to call this one, so we set to describing it—“She works for a telephone company, maybe AT&T, phoning people who’ve not used their phone service for over a year, and if they pick up, she says, ‘This is a public service announcement from your phone company: The cost of local phone service does not increase with use, so please feel free to make as many local phone calls as you’d like. Please do keep in mind that long-distance phone calls are charged per minute, so please feel free to make as many long-distance phone calls as you think you can afford. Thank you.’”
This is what she does all day alone in that kitchen at her computer. Grappling with the disconnected of America.
Once, when someone said something other than, “thank you,” after her spiel, the woman in the kitchen glanced out of her window. For the first time ever.
“What did the person on the other line say to make her look out the window?” asked Polly.
Benny answered: “It was a woman with a breezy voice and a cool manner, which is why the urgency in it sent chills down the kitchen sitter’s spine.”
“But what did she say?” said Polly, in an uncool manner.
“She said, after a pause, ‘And how much would it cost, per minute, for me to shove this receiver up your ass?’”
“She did not!” said Polly, still uncool.
“Okay, fine, what did she say then?” said Benny, losing his cool.
“She said, ‘Cookies will be ready in ten minutes, child.’”
“That’s stupid,” said Pritchard. “No grandmother has a breezy voice. They all have voices that are strained through cheese graters. She said, and I have this on very good authority, ‘I’ve been a selfish being all my life.’”
“Nerd,” I said. “Haven’t you missed your appointment for tea with Darcy and gang? She said none of those things. The woman on the other end actually said nothing. The woman in the kitchenette heard a gunshot, which she thought came from the street below, so she glanced out the window, and the shivers down the spine, they came from the eerie feeling she got from the sound of the other receiver falling to the floor.”
And now, when we stare out of our fourth floor window at the woman in the building across the street—any building, any street—we each, in our own little, passing way, feel bad for her.
And then we numbered the list and found that it wasn’t as long as it had looked before: only six items.
It was difficult to make a substantial list when our information was so limited: all we could see from across the street was that she sat in a kitchen all day, and that she worked at a computer next to a blender or a Mr. Coffee, and that she never looked out of her window.
Her large, arched, flamboyant fourth-floor picture window.
The first thing on our list was “receptionist,” which was too bland, so we added “at an abortion clinic,” which was cheap, so we added, “for women who’ve already had a bunch of kids, at least five.”
It took us a while to get to number two on the list, because we really took to playing out abortion scenarios, like the one where the evangelical Christian mother of seven comes in pregnant with conjoined twins, who the Lord has sent to test the resolve of his faithful servant . . . Jobina . . . and says, in justification of her visit, “How we get where we’re going is much less important than getting there, after all, isn’t it?” She had ropes of scars where her belly had been.
Number two on the list was the result of a pendulum swing in our thinking: “Public Relations Specialist, Vatican City, New York City branch.” Such a position would explain her focus and commitment. She could not afford to look out of her window or dilly dally about her work, which was sacred. And what pressure, to have God always just over your shoulder! Polly asked, “What does she do?” and Allen answered, “She writes epigrams and Catholic jokes.” Like, The Pope Saves, and, Save it for the Pope, and, Does the Pope Shit in a Forest?
Next on the list was “Keen, Hip Dramatist” a la Keri Bradshaw from Sex in the City, except for the keen dramatist part, and though we couldn’t verify her hipness, it was clear enough from the way she chicken-pecked the keyboard that she concerned herself very little with the mundane minutiae of life and/or that she must be protecting an expensive and ostentatious, but artful, manicure. She was intent, and sponsored: she had an NEA grant and a rich, soulful lover, who was a closeted member of the literati, displaced from birth as an oilman in the Midwest. She was, at the moment of list-making, writing the second act, second scene of a stage play, bound to be gripping and achy, called Pinocchio Gets a Nose Job, Beverly Hills Style, in which our protagonist, after his longish nose initiates an unsightly champagne spill at Perez Hilton’s invitation-only New Year’s 2005 Rock-It-Like-A-Super-Rockette party, asks his bff, Jiminy (later to become principal foil in the wake of raucous jealousy, the nose will look THAT good), to lend him the price, out of his goddamn trust fund, of a nose job. While he’s at it, besides making it shorter, seemlier, chic, the doctor coats the new nose in platinum for protection and paints a miniature, but deft, pirate ship floating just off the coast of his left nostril.
The fourth item on the list was “Guinness Book of World Records Record Contender” for “the hitherto uncontested record for kitchen sitting.” “For sitting in one’s kitchen,” said Pritchard, so Benny, who was scribe, wrote, “for being as boring as a metronome,” on another piece of paper, which after a brief struggle he safety-pinned to the front of Pritchard’s t-shirt, just over the little alligator logo. Polly thought, out loud, “To win a record like that, she’d have to have a pretty harsh posterior.” And we moved on.
Fifth—“Online Gambling Genius or Junkie, Depending on the Day’s Luck”—was our creative low-point, but it seemed a good round number to strive for and it led finally to number six, our favorite.
(6)—we didn’t know how to call this one, so we set to describing it—“She works for a telephone company, maybe AT&T, phoning people who’ve not used their phone service for over a year, and if they pick up, she says, ‘This is a public service announcement from your phone company: The cost of local phone service does not increase with use, so please feel free to make as many local phone calls as you’d like. Please do keep in mind that long-distance phone calls are charged per minute, so please feel free to make as many long-distance phone calls as you think you can afford. Thank you.’”
This is what she does all day alone in that kitchen at her computer. Grappling with the disconnected of America.
Once, when someone said something other than, “thank you,” after her spiel, the woman in the kitchen glanced out of her window. For the first time ever.
“What did the person on the other line say to make her look out the window?” asked Polly.
Benny answered: “It was a woman with a breezy voice and a cool manner, which is why the urgency in it sent chills down the kitchen sitter’s spine.”
“But what did she say?” said Polly, in an uncool manner.
“She said, after a pause, ‘And how much would it cost, per minute, for me to shove this receiver up your ass?’”
“She did not!” said Polly, still uncool.
“Okay, fine, what did she say then?” said Benny, losing his cool.
“She said, ‘Cookies will be ready in ten minutes, child.’”
“That’s stupid,” said Pritchard. “No grandmother has a breezy voice. They all have voices that are strained through cheese graters. She said, and I have this on very good authority, ‘I’ve been a selfish being all my life.’”
“Nerd,” I said. “Haven’t you missed your appointment for tea with Darcy and gang? She said none of those things. The woman on the other end actually said nothing. The woman in the kitchenette heard a gunshot, which she thought came from the street below, so she glanced out the window, and the shivers down the spine, they came from the eerie feeling she got from the sound of the other receiver falling to the floor.”
And now, when we stare out of our fourth floor window at the woman in the building across the street—any building, any street—we each, in our own little, passing way, feel bad for her.
rooftop films
WWW.ROOFTOPFILMS.COM
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2007
ROOFTOP SHOTS: A collection of some of the best short films from the 2007 Summer Series
8:30 Live Music by Frances (http://www.myspace.com/francestheband)
9:00 Films
11-1AM After Party: Open Bar at Fontana's (105 Eldridge St @ Grand)
Venue: On the roof of the Open Road Rooftop Project
Address: 350 Grand Street @ Essex (Lower East Side, Manhattan)
In the event of rain the show is indoors at the same location.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2007
King Corn
Closing Night New York Sneak Preview!
The story of the crop reigning over the American countryside--and the American diet.
8:30 PM - Live Music by Ola Podrida (http://www.myspace.com/olapodrida)
9:00 PM - King Corn
11:00 - After Party with Free Wine, Music from DJ Cody Ranaldo
Venue: On the roof of The Old American Can Factory
Address: 232 Third Street @ Third Avenue Gowanus, Brooklyn
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2007
ROOFTOP SHOTS: A collection of some of the best short films from the 2007 Summer Series
8:30 Live Music by Frances (http://www.myspace.com/francestheband)
9:00 Films
11-1AM After Party: Open Bar at Fontana's (105 Eldridge St @ Grand)
Venue: On the roof of the Open Road Rooftop Project
Address: 350 Grand Street @ Essex (Lower East Side, Manhattan)
In the event of rain the show is indoors at the same location.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2007
King Corn
Closing Night New York Sneak Preview!
The story of the crop reigning over the American countryside--and the American diet.
8:30 PM - Live Music by Ola Podrida (http://www.myspace.com/olapodrida)
9:00 PM - King Corn
11:00 - After Party with Free Wine, Music from DJ Cody Ranaldo
Venue: On the roof of The Old American Can Factory
Address: 232 Third Street @ Third Avenue Gowanus, Brooklyn
Thursday, September 20, 2007
prompt 2, girl across the way
...you guys can just glance out of the library window across greene to the loft that faces us. Locate the brunette that sits at the computer and there's your subject, your real-life prompt. Things to consider: what is she doing over there? Is this a workplace or living space? Perhaps I'm not really the promptmaster as I have left a lot of the work up to you but take some time to observe and I'm sure you will each conjure up creative, dramatic and humorous explanations for this mystery woman. It's pretty voyeuristic (and slightly creepy of us) but if you like it, that's great."
-courtesy of SK
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
thoughtful animals
speaking of speaking animals,
The Thin Place by Kathryn Davis is really good. it's rated really high on metacritic too. She is a cool woman and was a guest professor at my school's MFA program.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Writing exercises.
I believe they're geared more toward poetry, but they're still prompt-y and at least one of them is mildly entertaining.
Oh yeah they're Andrei Codrescu's.
I believe they're geared more toward poetry, but they're still prompt-y and at least one of them is mildly entertaining.
Oh yeah they're Andrei Codrescu's.
Talking animals
Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot
Here's the Robert Olen Butler story I was talkin' 'bout.
I, for one, think he pulls it off. It's not at all gimmicky in his use of a talking bird.
And, perhaps, the story works because there is a parrot in all of us--
--oh yes, I went there.
AH and one of my favorite books of all time lets you read a farm dog's mind for a paragraph or two--she doesn't talk, but her thoughts are anthropomorphized. I guess this'll be my recommendation: So Long, See You Tomorrow; by William Maxwell. I'd say it falls under the hypothetical memoir category. It's definitely a book for writers; there's super super deliberate craft going on EVERYWHERE.
Here's the Robert Olen Butler story I was talkin' 'bout.
I, for one, think he pulls it off. It's not at all gimmicky in his use of a talking bird.
And, perhaps, the story works because there is a parrot in all of us--
--oh yes, I went there.
AH and one of my favorite books of all time lets you read a farm dog's mind for a paragraph or two--she doesn't talk, but her thoughts are anthropomorphized. I guess this'll be my recommendation: So Long, See You Tomorrow; by William Maxwell. I'd say it falls under the hypothetical memoir category. It's definitely a book for writers; there's super super deliberate craft going on EVERYWHERE.
george saunders and recommended reading
I was looking up the dead aunt story that Sam mentioned today cuz tho I luvs the George Saunders, I still haven't read Pastoralia (though I've read End of Firpo which is one of my all time fave stories) which is awful since his style is one I (try to) cop alllll the time. Anyway, the story is called "Sea Oak" and I found it (in full text!) at The Barcelona Review website. I don't know how much short fiction yall are into, but yeah, I highly recommend "In Persuasion Nation" (I have a copy if yall wanna borrow some time) and "CivilWarLand in Bad Decline."
So any other book recommendations? Tag it as "recommendation" when you write a post, and it'll be a fun reading list for when I get around to getting a library card here (I know, selfish selfish). Great first meeting today!
further reading: Jon; Adams; Bohemians; Chicago Christmas, 1984
(the last two are a little different than his typical tone, but perhaps more in line with typical New Yorker stuff?)
So any other book recommendations? Tag it as "recommendation" when you write a post, and it'll be a fun reading list for when I get around to getting a library card here (I know, selfish selfish). Great first meeting today!
further reading: Jon; Adams; Bohemians; Chicago Christmas, 1984
(the last two are a little different than his typical tone, but perhaps more in line with typical New Yorker stuff?)
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
http://www.learningtoloveyoumore.com/index.php
miranda july and another artist gave each other random assignments (which have recently been edited and collected into a book)
miranda july and another artist gave each other random assignments (which have recently been edited and collected into a book)
Heya Hel,
Heya Hel,
2bl sorry 4 not msgin back right away. I wuz in church, and you know my fam, they crazy serious about G. I no, my last msg mighta been kinda mean, but ur letter wuz totally buggin. If I hurt ur feelings, 3pl sorry. But my moms, she aint doing so good these days. They be abusin her. Im under all this pressure, we all under this pressure. I luv u, I rly do, but I dunno what I do w/o her. Wouldnt be able to liv.
All that chatter in ur letter bout how we still gotta sacrifice, that dont apply here. I got my moms problems, so I get to pick and choose what other shit to deal with. Yall just gotta deal. I already gave up.
I try and block it out, try and bury myself in my headfones, but it aint helping. I keep hearing her moans in my sleep. Its too late, shes too far gone they say. Coulda done something earlier they say, if only. But nah, it’s too late. All I can do is write in my diary bout it, write down everything Im a gonna forget about her. But whats the use? They say it helps, but I feel like Im inkin wit milk, just writin to write, doin it to make myself feel better.
I try and laugh bout it, try and thinka everythin my moms has raised. Danny from round the way. The orange tree out back. Even lil Rex.
I noticed that wit ur letter, u included a photo of us and moms. Thats one messed up pic; we look so happy, rdy to do anything, rdy to eat steel and shit bricks. Did you mean for it to be a big fuck you? So sad how we messed things up so bad. Ill miss you.
Alright, you take care now, Lenny
2bl sorry 4 not msgin back right away. I wuz in church, and you know my fam, they crazy serious about G. I no, my last msg mighta been kinda mean, but ur letter wuz totally buggin. If I hurt ur feelings, 3pl sorry. But my moms, she aint doing so good these days. They be abusin her. Im under all this pressure, we all under this pressure. I luv u, I rly do, but I dunno what I do w/o her. Wouldnt be able to liv.
All that chatter in ur letter bout how we still gotta sacrifice, that dont apply here. I got my moms problems, so I get to pick and choose what other shit to deal with. Yall just gotta deal. I already gave up.
I try and block it out, try and bury myself in my headfones, but it aint helping. I keep hearing her moans in my sleep. Its too late, shes too far gone they say. Coulda done something earlier they say, if only. But nah, it’s too late. All I can do is write in my diary bout it, write down everything Im a gonna forget about her. But whats the use? They say it helps, but I feel like Im inkin wit milk, just writin to write, doin it to make myself feel better.
I try and laugh bout it, try and thinka everythin my moms has raised. Danny from round the way. The orange tree out back. Even lil Rex.
I noticed that wit ur letter, u included a photo of us and moms. Thats one messed up pic; we look so happy, rdy to do anything, rdy to eat steel and shit bricks. Did you mean for it to be a big fuck you? So sad how we messed things up so bad. Ill miss you.
Alright, you take care now, Lenny
first prompt
1
Dear Dr. XXXXXXXXX,
I wrote to
you several years
ago at your
Christian comm-
unity in N.Y. state
and you wrote
back to me. I
wrote back to
you and I
2
might have
been too
strident,
emphasizing
your weak
points. If
I hurt
your feelings
I am sorry.
Mommy is dying
3
of ovarian cancer.
She is 95 (as
old as Arthur
Rubinstein!)
The energy
program which
you outline,
(no air condition-
ers . . . .) is
perhaps a bit
severe. Perhaps
4
I might argue,
as in ordering
Chinese food
in the past,
Can I have
one item from
column A, and
one item from
column B?
I do music
therapy:
5
I listen to
Arthur Rubinstein
on my portable
CD player.
I do writing
therapy: about
every other
day I write
my thoughts (2hrs)
with my right
hand and my
6
left hand,
and then I
throw them
out. My
therapist
tells me this
gets rid of
mental garbage.
It helps me
cope about
mommy.
I have
6 1/2
started humor
therapy. I
got that from
Amos Oz. I
look at the
pictures of
Weird
and Weird Cal-
ifornia; it
makes me
goofy. I am
7
thinking of a
pilgrimage to
where the
dinosaurs
Rex and Dinny
are. Cabazon
is about 22
miles from
8
I noticed
that on the
picture of your
new book
you hold out
your sinister
hand, with
the middle
finger outstretched.
Bye, Dr. XXXXX XXXXXXXX
Monday, September 10, 2007
What is this?
A friendly space where writers from Helsinki may meet and share their work. Non-Scandanavian folk need not apply without good reason.
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