Sunday, February 27, 2005

bad play+good food=touching god

oof. tonight i rediscovered that community theatre can be epic-ly bad. located in a strip mall between a florist and a podiatrist, eastpointe theatre (broadway onstage, they call themselves) ain't exactly even off-off-off-broadway. but they got heart. and they been doin it for 20 years. eesh.

i'll go back again, tho. the blue-gray hairdos in the audience are enough to keep you wanting more.

i also discovered this eavening ;) that one of the oldest restaurants in detroit was the spot where barbara streisand used to sing every weekend somewhere in vicinity of 1961-62. no joke. hank (enrico actually--but coming up from mexico the lazy-tongued gringos start to call him hank. enrico~henry-->hank), our waiter, told us she used to come in wearing rags pretty much. "dressed by a furniture fabric maker," said hank. no dough. "the then-owner tried every week to get her to sign a contract. ha. he never succeeded even though the joint catered to judges and lawyers even back then. after about 9 months she split for stardom." who knew. the place in case you find yourself in d-town: the caucus club. on congress. after getting your fill there (and checking out the barbara billboard a raging fan put up on her 60th birthday, which coincided with the restaurant's 50th anniversary), head up the street a coupla blocks to the post bar. pretty much guaranteed you'll either spill your stuff or get it grabbed when you try to make it through the guantlet.... you're likely too to run into some detroit red wings. they slum it there pretty often.

other than that, kept a low profile this weekend. celebrated in cute and quite style the last 2 years wit da supah cute and not so quiet vin.

it really is something to look in the face of love. it's like touching god ya know? let's say a- meditate a- focus on a- prayerthought for everyone to get em sommadat mmmmmmmmMM good love...

my recommendation: hugginkiss someone you can't live without as soon as possible. speaking a which, i'm gonna call my dad tomorrow...

Friday, February 25, 2005

the sentinel

my local rub-a-dub paper says something very important today. mixed in amongst the high school hockey scores (st. clair shores unified battled warren de la salle feb. 16 at civic ice arena, losing a tough one, 4-1), robbery notes (man claims to be cable employee; snow blower stolen from rectory garage), review of detroit native lou beatty jr. as iconoclastic paul robeson this weekend (by the highly talented and historically black ploughshares theatre company in detroit) and various other necessities (2005 restaurant guide, financial future guide, arts&entertainment guide), there's this gem:

The Joke's On You: comedy 101 is no longer laughing matter

accompanying the piece is a photo of a dude looking conspicuously like bill murray circa 1980s, thinning hair and "wha--" expression. donald livingston. he's enrolled in the area's community college first comedy class.

the very important thing the 48-year-old studying comic says:

"be yourself. everybody else is taken."

leave it to the stupid local paper to unearth an actual useful fact. ...

remnants

i don't sew. i don't. so. so? so! so... sow -- oh wait, that's sow. that's differnt.

i'm feeling at loose ends. a human needs sleep. and other humans. and some food and water, to get cleaned up from time to time, and shelter. oh, and love. preferably lots and lots of it.

so why are we always shootin for soooooo much more? what IS it about gargantuanous? what is it about prosperity? what is it about keeping all your teeth? what is it about a straight back, straight nose, straight looks? and what about the leftover pieces at the end of the day? the kid who doesn't know his grammar? the bum who bums for leftovers and less? the ol' lady critchety-crotchety on her way to the store, bent sooooo far over she's looking at her own shoes all the way there? what about them?

what about scabby babies and dirty mouths and homeless hearts? what about george w. bush. what a mess he must be. what about married people who don't talk to each other? what about unmarried people who don't talk to each other? what about other people's married people who should keep what they got to themselves? what about the freaks who end up in the world's newspapers? and those who don't? what about them?

what about the scraps of food? of life? of reason? where are they all? and those scrungy folk who go diving in after? what about shitty schools and shittier attitudes and not knowing where to begin to discover the self? what about lost keys and lost minds and lost wages and the bureaucracy that designs itself to just keeponna fucking it all up for everybody? what about it? what about it? what about it? at the end of the day you better believe i got something to grab onto. i got...i got...i got lucky. i got what i need. i'll make all my pieces fit somehow, even if they're just remnants.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

true

what next to procrastinate my reading assignment... shall it be a discussion of 81-year-old ousmane sembene's newest politically charged film, moolade -- about female genital mutilation... or perhaps a rough-and-ready retelling of the 3-course-meal (seafood, strangely mashed potato salad and chocolate chip icecream) i just shoveled in without regard for taste or timing in order to sit here and ruminate about the stomach ache about to happen... or maybe something special... something... something... different... something... about you out there...

today when i was waking up (i've not been feeling a hunnert percent lately) chark was flitting in and out of my waking dream. not chark the woman, but chark the sensation. strange, maybe, considering i'm not sure exactly what she looks like. but that's not important. laced among this charkeyness was a long-ago love... we exchanged words i don't remember and he kept busy at something i don't recall... but the feeling was all charkblog, filled with a muted tenderness, a questioning... a little absence-filled presence. beauty and search. it was a dreamscape powerfully full of a loving distance between me and him, not to be overcome but understood. it was near-meloncholy. it was near-smile. and when i woke up we, all three, were close -- and yet more distinct. we each are unique and far apart. i understand this. (somewhere too there was a delicately pink woman, naked, with taut nipples and a palpable joy. i leaned against the door jam next to her, our upper arms touching, wondering. just looking and sensing and wondering.)

what happens when i let the secret out of the bag--that i think (is a dream a thought?) beautiful missing things about a former love, about my new friend chark? are they thinking about me? is that the power of coincidence? is that the power of thought? is that the power of being made of the same human stuff -- dust and whatall blowing all over the god-crazy universe?

i read a quote once of rumi: "lovers don't finally meet each other. they are in each other all along."

some people say there is no truth. i say it's there, in your bones. just break one and you'll feel the ache of it. truth. and your sisters and your brothers over there, down the street, in those crazy clothes, speaking those kookoo unrecognizable languages -- the same ones you've never really reasoned were human exactly like you are human will say at the instant of the break, i understand your pain. i know you. i recognize you. you won't hear them say it, you will see it in their eyes. you will read it in the curve of their bodies. the language that comes before words. the truth before the truth. the deed before the verb.

what next to procrastinate my reading assignment... what next...

Monday, February 21, 2005

stalker talk

i know two people who have or have had a stalker. and last night i met a gent who has a bodyguard because of the "s" word. i saw also the "s" word approach the gent. unlike my old workmate brett, who has a small meandering obsession with ashleywhatsherface...you know...the twin...full house... the dude from last night has pinwheel eyes and a squirrely tight pencil thin permasmile. weird.

the stalkee's usual casual stance stiffened, drained of its ease and replaced by tension, like concrete setting in the joints.

stalkers are scary scary people.

i am happy to say i'm a regular gal who's had infrequent brushes with fans, years between at best. recently i heard, however, there's a local(?) guy who saw me at my favorite local restaurant and has come back numerous times since...

the waiter with the apply cheeks and hyptonizing tiger eye eyes told me so.

"is he something i should worry about?" i asked thinking stalkerstalkerstalkerstalkerstalkerstalkerstalker...

"nah," he said.

i haven't been back since.

did i mention it's my favorite place?

and late last night, when i left the stalker/stalkee sitch, clop-clopping, keys in hand, less than two blocks away from my car, i watched a dude running across my path.

leather jacket to run in...? where's he going...? nice gait...where's he going...? when's the last time i laced up my running shoes...? how many hours of sleep will i get in before the hoopla begins tomorrow...?

somewhere in all the thought, i lost the dude. less than a block-and-a-half to my car.

"scuze me..." the dude.

raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawaar. i jolted alert. where the fuck did he come from?

"i ain' no bum."

coincidence. i ain't in no mood.

"not tonight, sir," i said. walkin walkin.

"i got my boy..." he reaches into his coat, walkin faster than i can, to pull out a medallion or a locket of his boy on a chain like a picket fence...

"no, sir. not tonight."

"i ain't gonna do nothin' with a cop car right there."

"no, sir." firm, no snear. but no smile either.

less than a block way. car car car car. keys.

"hey! HEY!" keep walkin. two goups of guys coming from the other direction. two by two. tall. big coats. less than half a block to my car. keys. phone. my heel stomps echoing on sidewalk versus their heavy silent sneaks. gap closing, i see the whites of their eyes as they spread out to cover the entire width of the sidewalk in front of me. "bay-bee" i hear something. "coo-coo-cootch" something else. boymen. i walk, close close close close car.

"hey."

it rumbles up my esophogus and turns white in the night air.

i look them square in the face. one...by...one...by...one...brown eyes...red hood...high cheeks...goutee, all tall tall. i'm in the street now. "hooooooooo" i hear it, the fourth one, chicken shit style, after they pass. one fluid motion door open. i swing into the seat camera stuff still slung across my chest. audible exhale. freedom.

it's another reason i don't lock the driver side door between getting out and getting back in.

the runner dude had fled. the boymen were bigger and more than he. they boymen were for me, again, this time.

you don't have to be extraordinary to know the tiniest of something about the stalk.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

whispering


this so i won't be found out...
careful and quick
so they won't hear more tap-tap
in the office mess room...
i have to go to bed
b/c i don't get enough rest...
they worry for me
even though i fight it like a 5-year-old...
i do not WANT to sleep...
i do not WANT to miss
the party...
but i must.
i can't go on
my shoestring nerve
wanging and thwanging...
and tomorrow it begins again...
rest rest rest...
a missing mantra
when does it come...

Thursday, February 17, 2005

i just noticed

again

that i'm slouching.

SITTING UP NOW.
(at least for a ... second)

remember hilary? i told you about her some time ago. about how her gettin goin with people seemed fraught with...i don't know...soft stress...

well, i found out tonight she's autistic.

discovery is lovely.

rick that bastard

is leaving his blog.
depressing depressing.
a few months and already i'm attached like mold on cheese.
friendship is wild like that.
impressions are created in a snap.

smoosh

and he's imprinted himself on my life.

he probably meant to leave that one badass audio clip too--
a parting gift.
the bastard.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

vagina

monologues.

have you seen them? the monologues, i mean.... really fucking (ha) great. for everyone. take a bunch of women of all ages, throw em up on stage and hear em tell the stories of their vaginas. it's smelly, brutal, painful, healing, heady, bountiful stuff. they even use the word... that word... cunt. cunt. cunt. cunt. cunt. cunt.

cunt.

and it's a good thing. a powerful thing. a thing of importance. it's THE thing.

and what about today? today i went to a work party, a going away party for the big boss. i really wanted to cry. i was so...off.

then a workmate said, "stace, you ok?"
not sure. i don't bother to lie--it's more work than it's worth.
"it's a weird vibe in here," he says. "i feel it too."
yeah, i sigh.

why do we forget the whole world is on the same plane? why do we feel so alone in the world? all it takes is ONE thought about the center of love to remember we're all the damn same. same stuff. same life. all of us one. (i have been promising for months to design a tee-shirt that says "jesus freak." chark, will you wear it? rick? edge? guys...? WHOOOOOOOO wants one? nameless, what will synagogue say ;j?)

then one of the guys started talking about pussy. indirectly at first, of course. the jokes about how the hunky 40-year-old across from me is dating the much younger girl. then the table slid into a tale-spin of good-ol-day stories and sighs and smirks and somehow, it made me feel better instead of worse. i was feeling too real and therefore missed any opportunity to get on my high horse--thank fucking god. i was just...one of the guys. not less. not more. not anything except there. right there. in the moment. not anything except accepting. and all of a sudden, it made sense.

vagina=power. duh.

not power over anything. not power to anything. just filled with power. just powerful. the cradle of civilization.

there i was, just sitting there with the guys--billbomm on my left, bearded and silvering at the temples; jimmylee, hair growing longer while he contemplates a fumanchoo (spelling??); matt, all shiny head and baby ass smooth-skin; malloy, an unlit bottlerocket with coily hair and a new pinky ring.... not harboring anything except, well, love really. just real life. just us. just smiling and breathing in our few moments of civilization before saying goodbye.

Monday, February 14, 2005

shit. and love.

i've not be here for, what, 2 days? fuck, i missed you. i missed this. i haven't read anybody's thoughts since friday. who knew. you fuckers really grow on a person.

so.

i've been in austin. and since today at 1pm, in an auto wreck. i think my life is catching up with me. too much. maybe i'm feeling superstitious now too. the kind of superstitious that says, "hey, i crawled up the highway embankment at 40? 50? more? miles per hour and i'm alive. too bad vin's jeep is in coma. we're hoping for it to pull through... but it was crazy...lickity split i was looking at the mortar, bam, the sky, smash, the other side of the highway. and not one other car to feel the heat. i like that. my life my own. well, it's lonely that way but when it's dangerous i prefer that no one else be in jeapardy. (be part of the solution not the problem i always say.) i understand the difficulty of that statement--death can occur when you're alone if nobody can aid. then again, it can occur when some IS there to aid. anyway, all i seem to have is soreness and a bill to pay. far far better than the alternative.

this weekend i discovered a bunch of shit:

1. i really really do hate cold weather. i will be happy to move from it so that in a few years i can maybe appreciate it.

2. i kept expecting to see you at one of the many airports i got waylaid (sp?) in friday, yesterday and today. we would have had a great time...

3. mothers do know if their kid is a shithead. i met a mom (a very cool lady) who does understand that her pre-teen son is part of the "cool" clique among his peers. he's kind of an asshole. (i paraphrase.) but the relative good news is: he's ALWAYS been this way, so the clique hasn't changed him as much as found him. very strange. the mom as archeologist. i like that too.

4. i just ate about 4 pounds of confetti, cocoa-covered hazelnuts. italian. if you haven't tried them, spend the best $50 of your life (and i'm cheeeeeeap-ass) and call the new york distributor at 516-783-3314. it'll be like you're visiting sulmona. i SWEAR, you will love it. tell your sweethearts (kids, lovers, whomever you LOVE, it's a late valenine's day gift.) if you like hazelnuts, tell them you want "tartufo con nocciola" (tar-toof-oh con no-cho-la).

if you can't afford it, ask some people who love you to pitch in for it. then, after you eat three pounds of it by yourself, tell me anything in the world measures up....

tomorrow: the vagina monologues.

peace out.
and ps. i love you.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

tonight

you luck out: hadda work tonight instead of go to class. so instead of hearing about theory of blahblahblah you get...tonight babe...why don't yoooou staaaaay...

it was my job tonight to take photos at this party for WDET listeners who spent $500 to attend a really nice little celebration. (public radio is non-profit so listeners pony up when they think the music and news is worth it.)

i'm working on less sleep than i'd like to admit. running on fumes really. and i really didn't think i'd make it. but, as usual a party to be had MUST be had. a sad drunk restaurant mogul (sp?) in the making told me i'm gorgeous. his daughter isn't much younger than me. he's very sweet and he needs some real love in his life, you can see that. otherwise, we mixed and mingled and i shot smiles everywhere. people are really really something. i dig em hard.

if i could figure out how to work the camera system to this thing i'd show you mickey white (ford motor company truck man) and chris brown (did he slip me his number??), willy wilson (sportin a really thorough beard these days), and adam (a now-new friend who went to the regional high arts school. i'd like to have done that. his buddy adam [yes, two adams] instructed me in the ways of recognizing the "gifted student" (how much of that stuff is just bullshit and engagement, i wonder?) they said something about senstitivity and qustions. tons of questions. we laughed a lot--splash of cabernet aid. jackie and vicki of avalon bread (the best bread company in the city - just broke $1M in annual sales). and lots of others, including plenty of workmates who are just too too cool. i'd hang with em even if i did't already know em. but that might not be saying too much... i'll give almost everybody a try.

strangely enough, i did miss going to class. but work - if it MUST be done - oughtta be interesting if not somewhat enjoyale. right? how'd your night go?

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

cats

sumptin funny to take the edge off (not you, edge...)... so i was reading this little vignette today about

(stay with me here...i KNOOOOOOOOOOOOOW all this english seminar talk is getting lame--if it didn't start out that way for you--but i'm barely 1/3 through a class that's gonna last till may and so most of my concentration goes to it. see, the thing is i think i'm a little obsessive and unfortunately, a little perfectionistic as well. very bad combination when there's only 24 hours in a day and so much shit to get done. anyway
i tend to get really excited about what i'm doing so i can stay (con myself to be?) enthused about it. it seems to work out. let me know when you get really sick of it all and i'll try to talk about other, more interesting stuff. i promise.)

so there's this woman who's studying kids to figure out how media (ya know, movies, radio, television, video games) finds its way into their language in school (talking and writing). i think they're in first grade. (okay okay, so it's boooooooooooooooring, but stay with me for just a sec. if yr not a parent, maybe you will be one day...) well, this made me laugh out loud...ready...? wait, a teeny tiny backstory on the kids first:

marcel is obsessed with the nfl. so obsessed he turns a group project about making a poster about "freedom" into a dallas cowboy football player (which he tells the teacher is a guy trying to get to the underground railroad with harriet tubman [vince, are you paying attention?]) then there's wenona who always says she's a cheerleader. (she likes dallas as well.) anyway, marcel is a real firecracker, working his teams into projects, figuring out how to read the map so he can locate his teams, etc. wenona on the other hand seems kinda lazy. the researcher never SAYS so, but you can tell. she says during the kids' writing sessions, while others kids discuss and try to sound out words and wenona always resorts to "cats"... then comes the thing that just made me fuckin crack up:

"Wenona and Marcel are sitting together during writing workshop. It is early December. Wenona quickly writes 'I like'; when no one at her table can provide her with Christmas she finishes the sentence with cats...." (dyson)

can't you just picture that little kid. sittin there for like a second and can't figure it out without expending energy...so she throws her hands up and goes with what she already knows. wonder what she does with all that extra first-grade time....

but isn't it just like all us humans? i mean, when we just can't be bothered to work that little extra, to walk that little extra, to think that little extra. it can all be so simple... just... cats.

i'm gonna try that next time edge hits with one of those crazy rhetoricals or when rick drops a metaphorical bomb or when chark lays a pretty patch of black on white or when transience tosses out a phrase that makes me check to see if i pee'd myself or when jason says something confoundingly guy or when nameless makes me pine for my mom (or the red-haired twin i never knew i had) or garrison leaves a beautiful 3-liner in somebody's comment box or when jen ignores my message on her sassy blog... it could aaaaaaaaall be so easy... just "cats"...

but of course the fuckin trouble is i'm usually (though not ALWAYS) more marcel's style, the little punk-ass trouble maker.

what about you? when're YOU wenona? when're you all about..."cats"?

lost time

a few days ago i caught myself thinking as i struggled to come to...oh how we struggle against our impermanence...and tonight it came crashing down. my uncled died. my dad's little brother. not little actually. 6'7" not little. frank. uncle frank to me. frankie to my dad. apparently dad and barb got the call earlier tonight that he was being rushed to the hospital from the folks home where he was staying. well my dad went tearing off to be with him. more than 30 miles separating them my dad was gonna appear on his doorstep to make everything better or easier or who the hell knows what, crazy love lines that string us up and hold us together.

and this uncle frankie wasn't a real gem or a peach. not really. i don't remember him handing out half-dollars to the kids. i don't remember him patting homeless guys on the shoulder. don't remember him giving good advice or even saying anything all that thoughtful to anyone, frankly. ha. and i'm still sitting her snivvlin and wiping snot off my face.

a few months ago i got a ton of phone calls from him. he was desperate from me to see him. i didn't even remember i gave him all my telephone numbers the last i visited him for his birthday, shit, a few years ago. i brought him a bunch of elmore leonard books b/c he said once before he liked mystery or crime novels...and leonard pretty much writes about uncle frank's neighborhood.

and his voice in my phone lonely and alone. so the next day i went to see him, to sit on the corner of his bed and tease him for a while and make him laugh and talk to him and listen. he didn't look good. i mean, he did look good--he was a naturally attractive man w/o doing a damn thing for it. but he didn't look good. he was sick. and he was losing ability to move around--his great long legs wouldn't hold him up anymore and he either didn't know why or didn't care. he didn't tell me. he just kept saying i'm glad you came. and i'm so surpised to see you. and he smiled so big.

he said, you didn't know your momma did you?
for nine years, yes, i said. i knew her as well as i could. why?

she was harsh on me, he said. i asked if he thought she was too harsh. (i don't know if anybody else in his life had ever loved him enough to be loving and harsh at the same time, which can be a life-saving grace.) he said, maybe. what do you mean maybe? i had asked him. he just pursed up his lips and tried not to cry.

did you ever see a 6'7" guy try not to cry about a 5'2" lady who was "too harsh" to him? it's hard and lovely and impossible to look at.

so why was she so harsh? i asked.
you know she got mad at me at her wedding, he said.
on her wedding day? i asked. to my dad?
yep, he said.

she was yelling at you over all the guests' heads, wasn't she? i asked.
he laughed.

did you deserve it? i asked.
naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw! he shook his head. then he slumped.
and i put my hand on his gigantic paws. his skin was soft.

he fished his wallet out of his little dresser. when he opened the bottom drawer to find it, i saw a pile of adult diapers in the drawer.

i tried to think of a joke so i wouldn't cry.

he opened his wallet and pulled out little picture of a boy where some money should have been.

it's my boy, he said.
the last time i saw him he was four.
the boy looked about four.

he's probably 32 now, he said.
how old are you? he said. are you driving yet?
uncle frank, you're great!
what? you 21?
i'm 32, uncle frank. i'm 32, too.

he fingered the photo.

you're momma's been gone a long time, he said.
yes. she has been.... you miss her, too?
he just shook his big head and his cheeks kindof bobbed up and down.

i almost got married before, he said.
really? why didn't you?
baaaaaaah. it didn't work out.

don't you have any lady friends in here? i asked. can't you go poppin any wheelies and showin em what's under your night shirt?
yeah, i had a lady friend in here. i was going to ask her to marry me, he said.
well?!
she up and died on me.
he was making a habit out of this trying not to cry thing.
you just gotta be quicker next time, uncle frank. catch em off-guard. roll up behind em and bump em on the backs of the knees so they fall into your lap. really sweep em off their feet!

well, after that i missed the holiday celebration this past christmas b/c i forgot my phone at home and i had the wrong day marked in my calendar. i got home to a bunch of messages from my dad and my aunt cynthia and my dad one last time for good measure. all of it too late.

and now, he's gone.

no more harsh words. no more harsh words i wish we all could have had more of. unless, of course they're together somehow and making up for lost time....

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

gettin it?

this? what about this?

send all comments to the "comment" section below.

Monday, February 07, 2005

fiction is...

regarding yesterday's post.... see chris. (ain't he cute.) see minnie bruce. (can't you just hear her drawl?)

as for what i learned today.... a little something from our friend john updike:

"fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that mankind has invented yet."

pretty good eh?

Sunday, February 06, 2005

words words words

the old italian songstress mina (check her out...no, she only LOOKS like a drag queen). anyway, mina's got this old song called "parole parole parole," or "words words words." and in it some dude is handing her line after line of love and she's all blah blah blah. or, in her language, "words words words." i love that. but the truth is, sometimes words aren't full of crap. like today...

some phrases i heard this afternoon at an annual memorial reading for philip j. traci (former professor and shakespeare scholar at wsu, murdered in an unsolved hate crime in 1984 [sadly, long before my time there]):

"our time has come. we've made that time come. it doesn't come by itself." --minnie bruce pratt, anti-racist human, poet and activist

"what does it mean to connect to each other inside the grinding machine of capitalism? it's affirming to know that ... it's been evolutionarily shown, this good will to help each other out.... what does it really mean to be with each other inside this grinding world of work?" --ibid.

"the only danger is not going far enough." --ibid. (quoting muriel rukeyser)

"i sat there chopping peppers / i was what came before words" --ibid.

and some other beauties that could not escape notice...where's that dictionary? ;j ...

"avian allusion" -- christoper leland, wsu prof and writer, most of fiction

"dithery helplessness" -- ibid.

"fresh as an apple. green as an emberald. sure as a prophet. my harry, my own." --ibid.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

purgatory and pretty things

in the purgatory between sleepfulness and wakefulness this morning, i thought:

oh how we struggle against our impermanence

now that i'm awake i think: yeah...it's our lot as humans.

play it again, chark

it's like hot potato. wait, potatoe. potato? okay. i think. (shit, didn't EVERYbody make fun of dan quayle when i was a kid b/c he put the "e" on...or took the "e" off...? shite.

anyway, chark got it from jen then gave it to me. nothin serious 'cept a little music makin. kay now... random 10 (for chark cuz she's so dang curious and ... i'm on a procrastination rampage.
like chark's my list veers wildly by the day...)

THE RANDOM 10+2 (in chronological order just so i know when to stop.)

1i get along without you very well/chet baker
2lilac wine/jeff buckley
3jeepster/t rex
4anything off 'amused to death'/roger waters
5star gazer/mother love bone
6the entirety of 'bold as love'/jimi hendrix
i lost it/lucinda williams (the one tom petty wrote)
8leavin /or/ thought it would be easier/shelby lynn
9three days /or/ classic girl/jane's addiction
10how does it make you feel/air
11strange fruit/billie holiday
12the whole of 'translinear light'/alice coltrane

total amount of music files on computer:
never touch the stuff

last CD bought:
new beastie boys for my 10-yr-old nephew

last song listened to before this message:
i say it with music...goodnight mrs. callabash, wherever you are/jimmy durante

five songs you listen to a lot or mean a lot to you:
see any of those above

who are you gonna pass this stick to? (three persons and why...you don't have to if you don't want to...)

i implore you: if you are reading this and yr the leeeeeeast bit inspired, DO IT and send me the list. please.

Friday, February 04, 2005

the other language for lovers

did you know...that in piglatin, lover translates to overlay
?
isn't that fucking great!?

hilary heat miser and delta change reality

today's quote is from hilary. hair like heatmizer. even though i never saw heatmizer. wait, lemme find a website to corroborate my claim... yes. but she's way cuter--if you can believe it. (and the spelling's actually heat miser. scuze me.)

and the quote is...


is..

.


"I have no facility with the spoken word so my connection with the written word is spiritual."

==
also: i ragged on my ladies for not finding me at the bar last week thursday.... if you look you can find the post [see archives down V there or >>over there>>

anyway, from my perspective last week, they missed me sitting there at the bar. from my perspective this week, i missed them by just as wide a margin. lookit that. only a week and i changed my story.

poof. reality is different now.

what'll it be next...?

Thursday, February 03, 2005

heat (for blair)

a poet friend (we'll call him blair) has something to say about heat, but i...i don't know what to say about heat.

it's winter. i can say that.

i can say that it's been noted that even in new jersey winters landlords only have to keep apartment temperatures at 62. 62. is there heat in 62?

blair is going to a few funerals this weekend because of the reality of heat--or its absence. in this winter. in that new jersey. how hot is that?

heat rises.

and when the people rise up...there's heat in that.

heat expands.

sometimes heat hides in unlikely and unlocatable places. sometimes heat doesn't hide at all. pow. right in the kisser the people, their heat, on the way up...somewhere. or rrrrrrrrrrrrr. when the bodies force heat from squeaky crumbling oppressive pipes they squeeze out the cold. or aaaaaaaah. the small comfort of cold hands cross woven with warm hands.

body heat saves.

i can say that where there is heat there is also fire.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

chi of jake

does every generation, every community, everyone have jake?

does jake always disappear...like the contents of your 3:24am dream...does jake take up residence in the back of your head, holding the yellow yard stick against the spine of every potential...the imprint...is that jake sitting at the bar, languid and smiling, waiting for you--till you talk...then jake >>ppOpp<< sharply, and utterly, is gone...a busted balloon...who's this you're talking to?...who's this you're with?...illusion...does jake make your bed on weekends, whittle effigies to your name after dinner...after you clear the dishes from the dinner table--that dinner table...its air thin as mckinley kongur annapurna everest...

who's your jake?

where's your jake?

or, like the nerd screamed from under the glass table: JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

mastermind

"jackson pollack could paint a damn good bowl of fruit--if he wanted to." --m.l. liebler (1/31/05, detroit)

"jack kerouac could write a real sentence--if he wanted to." m.l. liebler (1/31/05, detroit)

sometimes it's...>>swiiiiiish<<...in your ear--all net.

first, know the rules. then follow the rules until you're a master. then break the rules (better: make them curve toward you, your magnetism, your precision) like the master's master.

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