“As the Olympic Cauldron is lit – the unique magic of the Olympic Games will be released upon us.
Magic so rare that it cannot be controlled by borders –
The kind of magic that invades the human heart touching people of all cultures and beliefs –
Magic that calls for the best that human beings have to offer –
Magic that causes the athletes of the world to soar -- and the rest of us to dream.
Tonight – here - in the glow and wonder of the Flame -- we can all aspire to be Olympian . . .
(From the opening ceremony. Italics mine.)
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
tinnitus
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
in the next room
they’re slowly strangling the mezzo soprano
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Joe
In the first chapter, the author could give a general description of what an average guy would do throughout a complete day.
An average guy wouldn’t walk into a Phoenix coin shop on September 5th, request information about purchasing $154,000 in gold bullion and present his brother’s passport.
An average guy would never dare to contact a successful businessman to present him with an idea he believes in. An average guy would see a tank with a lot of nifty plants and say “why’s it so overgrown and green?”
If you’re standing next to an average guy, you’re not really scared of him. But Jesus would look just like an average guy – wouldn’t be anything special about His appearance. He’d buy light bulbs or a new screw for a hinge just like any average guy would do.
An average guy would not want to date a very bright woman. In short an average guy would be effectively destroyed by this. An average guy would be airlifted straight to the hospital.
An average guy would break you split you up would break you a million times more than a relationship with the troubled guy with the guy who’s troubled. An average guy would bash the thing’s head in with his fist to free himself.
He would make haste to the boss lady, and ask to mercifully cut out the crap that is Char Siew, and make the chicken smaller size, like how an average guy would normally have his chicken.
The best advice for an average guy would be to only wax or pluck the hair that extends way past what seems to be the normal eyebrow range.
I wondered for a long time how an average guy would cope with a world of Lovecraftian horror. An average guy would give you his limbs for submission, and the fight would be over fairly quick.
An average guy wouldn’t walk into a Phoenix coin shop on September 5th, request information about purchasing $154,000 in gold bullion and present his brother’s passport.
An average guy would never dare to contact a successful businessman to present him with an idea he believes in. An average guy would see a tank with a lot of nifty plants and say “why’s it so overgrown and green?”
If you’re standing next to an average guy, you’re not really scared of him. But Jesus would look just like an average guy – wouldn’t be anything special about His appearance. He’d buy light bulbs or a new screw for a hinge just like any average guy would do.
An average guy would not want to date a very bright woman. In short an average guy would be effectively destroyed by this. An average guy would be airlifted straight to the hospital.
An average guy would break you split you up would break you a million times more than a relationship with the troubled guy with the guy who’s troubled. An average guy would bash the thing’s head in with his fist to free himself.
He would make haste to the boss lady, and ask to mercifully cut out the crap that is Char Siew, and make the chicken smaller size, like how an average guy would normally have his chicken.
The best advice for an average guy would be to only wax or pluck the hair that extends way past what seems to be the normal eyebrow range.
I wondered for a long time how an average guy would cope with a world of Lovecraftian horror. An average guy would give you his limbs for submission, and the fight would be over fairly quick.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
room enough, and time
What I like about February is how short it is. In Germany most people receive a monthly rather than a weekly or bi-weekly paycheck, so from the employee point-of-view, February is a bargain. Soon after, though, March seems like a lugubrious slog.
I woke up to new snow but even as I took the dog out for her morning tramp the pocks of treedrip were marking the snow.
I think it’s over now. Snowtime, I mean.
Let all the rain come! I got a thirsty new purse.
a whole sunset on my head
I’ve been lucky so far this year book-wise. I read Herta Müller’s The Land of Green Plums, which I liked much more than I expected. I hadn’t intended to read it, but my mother had it along at Christmas and left it here. I thought, oh yeah, more literary obscurity from the Nobel Prize folks, but her writing is great. The book is peppered with sentences like this: “On my way home I was carrying a nutria fur cap in my hand and a whole sunset on my head.” (p. 184)
I also read Chris Bachelder’s Bear v. Shark. A few pages in I thought I was going to hate it, being largely a poke at an over-the-top media-drenched society. But it was hilarious. And it answered all sorts of important questions, like “do the Dutch have a culture?” and “does a shark have a neck?”
The first book I finished this year was John Banville’s The Sea. I didn’t like it as much as Athena, but still, he’s an incomparable prose stylist. I’d like to say Banville is a marvel at describing characters, but in fact he’s a marvel at describing everything, from a breeze to a dog’s hind leg.
As for poetry, I have yet to have my socks knocked off but I did hugely enjoy Howie Good’s 5-poem ebook Pig/Iron. You can read it here for free! I can be a hard sell on prose poetry, although I write it myself, and though I didn’t like the first poem that much, I was convinced by the second that I was in good hands.
Now I’m reading Today I Wrote Nothing by Daniil Kharms, and can only say I’m more than impressed. May I say I feel less alone in the world? May I say “The miracle worker was very tall?”
I guess it sounds like blue skies&black coffee but I’ve read some so-so stuff, too, including some poetry I couldn’t even begin to understand and The Reluctant Fundamentalist, which annoyed me and weirdly enough is on the (in)famous list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Goes to show that books need a decade to stew before being propelled to “classics" status.
I also read Chris Bachelder’s Bear v. Shark. A few pages in I thought I was going to hate it, being largely a poke at an over-the-top media-drenched society. But it was hilarious. And it answered all sorts of important questions, like “do the Dutch have a culture?” and “does a shark have a neck?”
The first book I finished this year was John Banville’s The Sea. I didn’t like it as much as Athena, but still, he’s an incomparable prose stylist. I’d like to say Banville is a marvel at describing characters, but in fact he’s a marvel at describing everything, from a breeze to a dog’s hind leg.
As for poetry, I have yet to have my socks knocked off but I did hugely enjoy Howie Good’s 5-poem ebook Pig/Iron. You can read it here for free! I can be a hard sell on prose poetry, although I write it myself, and though I didn’t like the first poem that much, I was convinced by the second that I was in good hands.
Now I’m reading Today I Wrote Nothing by Daniil Kharms, and can only say I’m more than impressed. May I say I feel less alone in the world? May I say “The miracle worker was very tall?”
I guess it sounds like blue skies&black coffee but I’ve read some so-so stuff, too, including some poetry I couldn’t even begin to understand and The Reluctant Fundamentalist, which annoyed me and weirdly enough is on the (in)famous list of 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Goes to show that books need a decade to stew before being propelled to “classics" status.
Friday, February 19, 2010
ghost stories
When I try to speak French, Italian spooks me,
less the form than the mood of it, the flighty rise and ebb.
*
People talk about phantom limbs, but rarely of the phantom itch.
The itch occurs, but what’s under it?
*
The song in my head this morning, a song I didn’t know I liked.
*
The parts haunt the sum.
The choir in the ostrich.
The goon in kangaroo.
*
Illness is a kind of haunting, too.
Of behavior, maybe, or a ghost in the genes.
*
The typewriter, too, is not extinct. It lives on
in street work, factories, rivers, in feet descending stairs.
My father’s boxy black one.
My electric Brother.
*
“Haunt” refers to a place a man can frequently be found.
He occupies it, fills, inhabits it, looking for something
he’ll never come home with.
*
In the house without children, the mind fills with children.
less the form than the mood of it, the flighty rise and ebb.
*
People talk about phantom limbs, but rarely of the phantom itch.
The itch occurs, but what’s under it?
*
The song in my head this morning, a song I didn’t know I liked.
*
The parts haunt the sum.
The choir in the ostrich.
The goon in kangaroo.
*
Illness is a kind of haunting, too.
Of behavior, maybe, or a ghost in the genes.
*
The typewriter, too, is not extinct. It lives on
in street work, factories, rivers, in feet descending stairs.
My father’s boxy black one.
My electric Brother.
*
“Haunt” refers to a place a man can frequently be found.
He occupies it, fills, inhabits it, looking for something
he’ll never come home with.
*
In the house without children, the mind fills with children.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
accidentally like a martyr
It’s a sure thing that by noon everyone has thought at least once of death, if not their own directly, then indirectly and subconsciously, since every death draws that line.
N. was confronted with it first thing in the morning, when she switched on the radio.
P. got a glimpse of it when two teenagers rushed across the street to catch the bus. Alongside the tension, he resented it, as if the boys had dragged him out into the traffic, too. (The boys managed not to be hit by a car.)
T., W. and Wm., and everyone else who went through the train station saw it on the front page of the newspaper.
U. read about a character’s suicide in the chapter she finished on the subway to work.
O., the office hypochondriac, thought of it at least three times, always directly and without embellishment.
S. put it out of his mind when he killed a couple fruit flies in the kitchen, which he considered his right to do.
E. had to deal with it when he read about the Georgian luger who crashed, and again when he saw a photo of the mother mourning, and wondered if death would have her, too.
N. was confronted with it first thing in the morning, when she switched on the radio.
P. got a glimpse of it when two teenagers rushed across the street to catch the bus. Alongside the tension, he resented it, as if the boys had dragged him out into the traffic, too. (The boys managed not to be hit by a car.)
T., W. and Wm., and everyone else who went through the train station saw it on the front page of the newspaper.
U. read about a character’s suicide in the chapter she finished on the subway to work.
O., the office hypochondriac, thought of it at least three times, always directly and without embellishment.
S. put it out of his mind when he killed a couple fruit flies in the kitchen, which he considered his right to do.
E. had to deal with it when he read about the Georgian luger who crashed, and again when he saw a photo of the mother mourning, and wondered if death would have her, too.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Ambrosia
Sometimes when I read poetry book blurbs I find the ingredients that go into the book funny.
Take Circle by Victoria Chang, for example:
“Locating human desire within the helixes of politics, society, and war, Chang skillfully draws arcs between T’ang Dynasty suicides and Alfred Hitchcock leading ladies, between the Hong Kong Flower Lounge and an all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch, the Rape of Nanking and civilian casualties in Iraq.”
Wow, huh? It’s like a recipe for some crazy salad.
“In a poignant body of work that releases us from the dungeon of routine while casting an unflinching glance at our inextricable connection to the Greek classics, Ambrosia combines one container of Cool Whip with walnuts, shredded coconut, pineapple chunks, mini marshmallows, maraschino cherries, mandarin slices and a dollop of sour cream.”
Take Circle by Victoria Chang, for example:
“Locating human desire within the helixes of politics, society, and war, Chang skillfully draws arcs between T’ang Dynasty suicides and Alfred Hitchcock leading ladies, between the Hong Kong Flower Lounge and an all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch, the Rape of Nanking and civilian casualties in Iraq.”
Wow, huh? It’s like a recipe for some crazy salad.
“In a poignant body of work that releases us from the dungeon of routine while casting an unflinching glance at our inextricable connection to the Greek classics, Ambrosia combines one container of Cool Whip with walnuts, shredded coconut, pineapple chunks, mini marshmallows, maraschino cherries, mandarin slices and a dollop of sour cream.”
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Walk Through the Memory Palace
This is the current stop on the virtual tour of A Walk Through The Memory Palace by Pamela Johnson Parker, sponsored by Read Write Poem. The chapbook is a steamy one, full of hot weather and heat-slick slugs, sexual desire, family relationships, the body and iced tea. It teems with color and flora, and I almost wished I’d read it in summer rather than a German snowstorm. Parker is a poet obviously entranced by sound, hepped up on nature and attuned to emotion.
I went two ways on the collection. There was a lot that I enjoyed, including many images and the use of sound. I appreciated the subject matter and I admired the craftmanship, its attention to linebreaks and structure. On the other hand, there were a couple things that weren’t my cup of meat. I’ll touch on them later. And, before I go on, you should know there’s a marvelous website devoted to this book, where you can not only read the poems but also listen to the poet read. Do that.
The first striking image in the book occurs in the first poem, 78 RPM. Here, an adolescent couple, sometimes chaperoned by an aunt, are hanging out on the porch listening to music. The poem is slow, in a good way, also because it’s hot out, and there’s an audible undergurgle of teenage longing, and all the senses are engaged. Halfway through, there’s a suggestive image of the needle as it drags along the vinyl record.
“The stylus traces
Its sapphire finger
Down the record’s groove,
As he skates a single
Finger along the sun-
Bleached down of your
Arm”
Not that y’all wouldn’t have gotten it, but these lines clearly evoke the vagina, like a fuzzy groove in a record, like a closed purse about to be plumbed, and BOOM! it is a very sexy poem.
My favorite poem in the book is probably Breasts, the last one. Actually, I’d usually scrunch my nose up at a poem about breasts, the poor things have been so romantized and adored and exploited for literary purposes. Parker doesn’t ignore the symbolic baggage of breasts – nurturers, sirens, cancer factories – but she handles the subject well, and in all those guises. The poem is broken into six parts - Figures A to F –each segment prefaced like a text book illustration, as in “Figure D. Table showing statistical survey of definite tendency toward the development of breast cancer among family members.”
Figure A shows a woman inspecting her breasts in a mirror. It’s an intimate shot, adoring but respectful. Very tactile, very sensual. Figure B is similar, showing a woman examining her breasts laid back in bed with the fingers circling the breast “inward like a nautilus,” an image I liked a lot.
Figure C is the absence of breast after a masectomy. The body in this segment comes across as hide, as material, a bother, a wound. The scars are like zippers and the chest is disturbingly nippleless.
Figure D harks back to childhood where a girl observes her grandmother’s wobbly breasts, and is glad to be yet undeveloped. But the tree from which she observes is “weighted down with a pearly spray of bloom,” and the child shakes the branches knowing some day she’ll “sag like gran.”
Figure E is my favorite part of the poem. The subject is the speaker’s boyfriend, a pathologist working in cancer research. I like this segment for its distance, its clinicicity and it’s humorous last line, where the boyfriend tells the speaker, “You’ve got great lungs.”
Figure F has the speaker up late nursing her daughter when she gets a call from her sister with the news the sister has breast cancer. This is the emotional apex of the poem and the book and, while it packs a punch, I would have liked it served up more subtly. As it’s written, the speaker learns of her sister’s cancer while clutching her baby to her breast... Nevertheless, I liked “Breasts.” It’s an honest poem that works like a 360 degree examination.
Parker pays close attention to sound, and, regarding structure, is an impressive craftswoman. If I have a quibble with the book, it’s that sometimes it reaches too far for me for what is traditionally considered “poetic,” for example with alliteration, such as the “feathering fronds of seafern” in the poem “Engendering.”
In the same way it brings scrolls of beautiful language, which, while pleasurable, don’t seem to serve to convey much beyond themselves. The poem “Unreal Gardens with Toads in Them” begins “Today’s listless, nothing to / enumerate — no light / in its hues of jade, and no white- / green heads of hydrangea, / no dark hearts of redbud leaves, / no celadon of the sun- / lit maples, no sea-green treefrog’s / back with each inclusion / of amber and topaz (though he’s / never seen the sea, why / not sea-green?), no silver-tipped spears of lavender now / poking up in the herbal bed —“
By that point, I wanted a reference point and lacked it. This is all, of course, a matter of personal taste. Parker’s chapbook took first place in Quarrtsiluni’s Chapbook Contest, judged by Dinty Moore. As it says in Moore’s blurb, “this poet sees through the obvious to something radiant on the other side, painting a startling portrait of an intimate world.”
All the info on this tour can be found here, including past reviews and those upcoming.
I went two ways on the collection. There was a lot that I enjoyed, including many images and the use of sound. I appreciated the subject matter and I admired the craftmanship, its attention to linebreaks and structure. On the other hand, there were a couple things that weren’t my cup of meat. I’ll touch on them later. And, before I go on, you should know there’s a marvelous website devoted to this book, where you can not only read the poems but also listen to the poet read. Do that.
The first striking image in the book occurs in the first poem, 78 RPM. Here, an adolescent couple, sometimes chaperoned by an aunt, are hanging out on the porch listening to music. The poem is slow, in a good way, also because it’s hot out, and there’s an audible undergurgle of teenage longing, and all the senses are engaged. Halfway through, there’s a suggestive image of the needle as it drags along the vinyl record.
“The stylus traces
Its sapphire finger
Down the record’s groove,
As he skates a single
Finger along the sun-
Bleached down of your
Arm”
Not that y’all wouldn’t have gotten it, but these lines clearly evoke the vagina, like a fuzzy groove in a record, like a closed purse about to be plumbed, and BOOM! it is a very sexy poem.
My favorite poem in the book is probably Breasts, the last one. Actually, I’d usually scrunch my nose up at a poem about breasts, the poor things have been so romantized and adored and exploited for literary purposes. Parker doesn’t ignore the symbolic baggage of breasts – nurturers, sirens, cancer factories – but she handles the subject well, and in all those guises. The poem is broken into six parts - Figures A to F –each segment prefaced like a text book illustration, as in “Figure D. Table showing statistical survey of definite tendency toward the development of breast cancer among family members.”
Figure A shows a woman inspecting her breasts in a mirror. It’s an intimate shot, adoring but respectful. Very tactile, very sensual. Figure B is similar, showing a woman examining her breasts laid back in bed with the fingers circling the breast “inward like a nautilus,” an image I liked a lot.
Figure C is the absence of breast after a masectomy. The body in this segment comes across as hide, as material, a bother, a wound. The scars are like zippers and the chest is disturbingly nippleless.
Figure D harks back to childhood where a girl observes her grandmother’s wobbly breasts, and is glad to be yet undeveloped. But the tree from which she observes is “weighted down with a pearly spray of bloom,” and the child shakes the branches knowing some day she’ll “sag like gran.”
Figure E is my favorite part of the poem. The subject is the speaker’s boyfriend, a pathologist working in cancer research. I like this segment for its distance, its clinicicity and it’s humorous last line, where the boyfriend tells the speaker, “You’ve got great lungs.”
Figure F has the speaker up late nursing her daughter when she gets a call from her sister with the news the sister has breast cancer. This is the emotional apex of the poem and the book and, while it packs a punch, I would have liked it served up more subtly. As it’s written, the speaker learns of her sister’s cancer while clutching her baby to her breast... Nevertheless, I liked “Breasts.” It’s an honest poem that works like a 360 degree examination.
Parker pays close attention to sound, and, regarding structure, is an impressive craftswoman. If I have a quibble with the book, it’s that sometimes it reaches too far for me for what is traditionally considered “poetic,” for example with alliteration, such as the “feathering fronds of seafern” in the poem “Engendering.”
In the same way it brings scrolls of beautiful language, which, while pleasurable, don’t seem to serve to convey much beyond themselves. The poem “Unreal Gardens with Toads in Them” begins “Today’s listless, nothing to / enumerate — no light / in its hues of jade, and no white- / green heads of hydrangea, / no dark hearts of redbud leaves, / no celadon of the sun- / lit maples, no sea-green treefrog’s / back with each inclusion / of amber and topaz (though he’s / never seen the sea, why / not sea-green?), no silver-tipped spears of lavender now / poking up in the herbal bed —“
By that point, I wanted a reference point and lacked it. This is all, of course, a matter of personal taste. Parker’s chapbook took first place in Quarrtsiluni’s Chapbook Contest, judged by Dinty Moore. As it says in Moore’s blurb, “this poet sees through the obvious to something radiant on the other side, painting a startling portrait of an intimate world.”
All the info on this tour can be found here, including past reviews and those upcoming.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
almost amazing grace
"Chris Allen, the aide who sat alone in the car with Sanford as he spoke to his furious wife on the phone, told CNN in an e-mail Friday that the drive to Columbia was 'awkward, emotional, almost fictitious, and at this point a blur.'" (CNN)
I must admire the invention of “almost fictitious” here. It’s completely screwed up, but delightful. I think he must have meant “almost unreal.” Of course if the drive is now "a blur," I don't know how one could judge it to be fictitious or not fictitious. Still, I’m going to steal the expression, since “almost fictitious” makes a great description.
I have an almost fictitious love of Puccini.
I spent an almost fictitious weekend in Rome.
My grasp of the situation is almost fictitious.
By ten o'clock, the evening was almost fictitious.
I think this is the expression many book reviewers have been searching for to describe that new animal, the embellished memoir.
I must admire the invention of “almost fictitious” here. It’s completely screwed up, but delightful. I think he must have meant “almost unreal.” Of course if the drive is now "a blur," I don't know how one could judge it to be fictitious or not fictitious. Still, I’m going to steal the expression, since “almost fictitious” makes a great description.
I have an almost fictitious love of Puccini.
I spent an almost fictitious weekend in Rome.
My grasp of the situation is almost fictitious.
By ten o'clock, the evening was almost fictitious.
I think this is the expression many book reviewers have been searching for to describe that new animal, the embellished memoir.
Rattle
It’s my dad’s birthday – 75 today. He was born in Scranton, PA, but lived most of his life in NJ before moving to Santa Fe over a decade ago. He loves it there. I love it there, too. My dad and I have a lot in common. Neither of us is a terribly enthusiastic person. We both had kind of unhappy childhoods, his worse than mine. We both like elaborative humor. Neither of us is into horseback riding. He writes. I write. I hope my dad lives forever. Thanks to my brother Thatcher for letting me use this photograph of pops dressed as a skeleton.
Here's a found poem from one of my father's emails.
*****************************
I had a dream Saturday night
you were abducted by gypsies.
You were very young, like in kindergarten,
and we were traveling somewhere. June came
to tell me some people were taking you away.
I saw a group of men and women walking away and one
of them was pulling you in a little red wagon.
By the time I caught up with them they’d gone
into a house but two of the group, two
men, were standing outside. I said I had come
for my daughter, I had to have her
because we were leaving tomorrow –
this wasn’t true, but I thought I needed a reason
to get you back. One of the men asked how
late do you let her stay up?
I figured he was stalling me while the others left
with you by another door or hid you somewhere
and so I started for the door,
and I looked in – the door had windows in it.
It was a frightening dream.
But June said it was about poetry.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
spacemanship
The snowstorm has been irresponsible, and now the snow sits thawing on the lawn, nursing mud. From the window, all I can see is mud, smashed-up grass and the last patches of snow.
Stare long enough and the earth is more like a photograph of the earth from outer space - the water, wispy clouds and continents that we know so intimately from tv.
song of the day: la vie en rose
Stare long enough and the earth is more like a photograph of the earth from outer space - the water, wispy clouds and continents that we know so intimately from tv.
song of the day: la vie en rose
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
not the crown but the tiara
The Literary Bohemian told me this morning that my piece "Attending the Tasting" has been selected for Best of the Web 2010. Thanks to the editors there for nominating my writing, and congratulations to them, too, as they had three pieces selected for the anthology. Not shabby!
I actually shuffled my links yesterday and "Attending the Tasting" is over there at the top if you'd like to read it. It's about wine. In generous quantities.
I actually shuffled my links yesterday and "Attending the Tasting" is over there at the top if you'd like to read it. It's about wine. In generous quantities.
Monday, February 01, 2010
if a body meet a body
I haven’t said anything about the death of JD Salinger, who gave us The Catcher in the Rye. It’s practically uncool to like this book, being so conformist, but alas, I love it. I haven’t said anything about his death because, 1) in effect, for our purposes, it’s as if he passed away a long time ago, and 2) I figure lots of people love The Catcher in the Rye their own selves and it’s presumptuous of me to go expounding about it like an enormous selfish baby.
*
Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will. p. 141.
*
It’s been snowing like mad here. Lovely, and yet almost like being blessed too much. Not to complain. On the way home it was even snowing inside the tram. It was dark out and I thought it might be a trick of the streetlights or a reflection in the window. I closed my eyes tight and opened them. Closed them again and opened. Nope. It was snowing in the tram. All I had to do was look at my black sleeve and see the snowflakes land and turn to water beads. Somewhere a window or vent was open and it was snowing in the tram, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it, and besides there was a toddler in the next car making a racket and that was kind of distracting.
*
People never notice anything. p. 9.
*
Over at Good Reads, one of the groups I’m in has a thread on foreign words. For today, mine was the German word “Brustwarze,” which literally means “breast wart.” Translated into English it’s “nipple.”
*
I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact. p. 63.
*
Song of the day: Lived in Bars
*
I'm not kidding, some of these very stupid girls can really knock you out on the dance floor. You take a really smart girl, and half the time she’s trying to lead you around the dance floor, or else she’s such a lousy dancer, the best thing to do is stay at the table and just get drunk with her. p. 70.
*
I'm taking down the part about my sad review, lest it be misconstrued. I'll leave up the Salinger quote, though.
*
I was still sort of crying. I was so damn mad and nervous and all. ‘You’re a dirty moron,’ I said. ‘You’re a stupid chiseling moron, and in about two years you’ll be one of those scraggy guys that come up to you on the street and ask for a dime for coffee. You’ll have snot all over your dirty overcoat, and you’ll be – ‘ Then he smacked me. I didn’t even try to get out of the way or anything. p. 103.
*
Another funny thing my Purple Haze brother used to do at 13 or thereabouts was buy two copies of books he really liked. Of course we all rolled our eyes at him, but I have to admit it made sense in a way, and maybe I was a little jealous of what a lunatic he was. The Catcher in the Rye was one of those books, the duplicate copies right next to each other on the shelf.
*
“Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to Pencey.”
“Yes, I do. He’s in my class.”
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pency, in the whole crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he’d had a shower, snapping his soggy old towel at people’s asses. That’s exactly the kind of guy he was.
“Oh, how nice!” the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice and all. I must tell Ernest we met,” she said. “May I ask your name, dear?”
“Rudolf Schmidt,” I told her. p. 54
*
Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will. p. 141.
*
It’s been snowing like mad here. Lovely, and yet almost like being blessed too much. Not to complain. On the way home it was even snowing inside the tram. It was dark out and I thought it might be a trick of the streetlights or a reflection in the window. I closed my eyes tight and opened them. Closed them again and opened. Nope. It was snowing in the tram. All I had to do was look at my black sleeve and see the snowflakes land and turn to water beads. Somewhere a window or vent was open and it was snowing in the tram, but nobody wanted to acknowledge it, and besides there was a toddler in the next car making a racket and that was kind of distracting.
*
People never notice anything. p. 9.
*
Over at Good Reads, one of the groups I’m in has a thread on foreign words. For today, mine was the German word “Brustwarze,” which literally means “breast wart.” Translated into English it’s “nipple.”
*
I keep making up these sex rules for myself, and then I break them right away. Last year I made a rule that I was going to quit horsing around with girls that, deep down, gave me a pain in the ass. I broke it, though, the same week I made it - the same night, as a matter of fact. p. 63.
*
Song of the day: Lived in Bars
*
I'm not kidding, some of these very stupid girls can really knock you out on the dance floor. You take a really smart girl, and half the time she’s trying to lead you around the dance floor, or else she’s such a lousy dancer, the best thing to do is stay at the table and just get drunk with her. p. 70.
*
I'm taking down the part about my sad review, lest it be misconstrued. I'll leave up the Salinger quote, though.
*
I was still sort of crying. I was so damn mad and nervous and all. ‘You’re a dirty moron,’ I said. ‘You’re a stupid chiseling moron, and in about two years you’ll be one of those scraggy guys that come up to you on the street and ask for a dime for coffee. You’ll have snot all over your dirty overcoat, and you’ll be – ‘ Then he smacked me. I didn’t even try to get out of the way or anything. p. 103.
*
Another funny thing my Purple Haze brother used to do at 13 or thereabouts was buy two copies of books he really liked. Of course we all rolled our eyes at him, but I have to admit it made sense in a way, and maybe I was a little jealous of what a lunatic he was. The Catcher in the Rye was one of those books, the duplicate copies right next to each other on the shelf.
*
“Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He goes to Pencey.”
“Yes, I do. He’s in my class.”
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to Pency, in the whole crumby history of the school. He was always going down the corridor, after he’d had a shower, snapping his soggy old towel at people’s asses. That’s exactly the kind of guy he was.
“Oh, how nice!” the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice and all. I must tell Ernest we met,” she said. “May I ask your name, dear?”
“Rudolf Schmidt,” I told her. p. 54
Saturday, January 30, 2010
sync in progress
So weird I've been having John Martyn songs pop into my head the past couple days and I just checked and he died a year ago yesterday. Such a talent. Adding a couple of his songs to the iPotty today. This video is nothing special, but "Fine Lines" is a great song.
I think I said this a year ago, but when I was in China in the late 80's, someone left behind a cassette tape of John Martyn, but without any song list or identification. I had no idea who the artist was. But since "May You Never" was on it, I was able years later -through the miracle of google- to find out. Of course, I thought John Martyn was covering Eric Clapton, not the other way around.
(Thanks for reminding me, Bob.)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
beeline
Why would anyone even try to follow "a train of thought?" Trains move fast. You couldn’t chase after it on foot. You’d need a car, although there’s probably no road alongside, so you’d need a horse, and a pretty quick one.
Doesn’t it seem like the expression would be better as “a trail of thought” or “a track of thought?” More doable and probably more interesting, too. If you see animal tracks in the snow, it makes you want to follow them, right? Which animal is it? Where does it live? Even if it’s a bird and doesn’t live on the ground, it’s still a treat to see the scrawl and imagine the hop.
But a train. I do like to see trains go by. If it's a subway train, sometimes I cover my ears.
Still, you shouldn’t follow a train, you should get on it.
Maybe the expression should be “I am on your train of thought.”
“I am comfortably seated on your train of thought.”
“Riding on your train of thought, I can see the mountains!”
Doesn’t it seem like the expression would be better as “a trail of thought” or “a track of thought?” More doable and probably more interesting, too. If you see animal tracks in the snow, it makes you want to follow them, right? Which animal is it? Where does it live? Even if it’s a bird and doesn’t live on the ground, it’s still a treat to see the scrawl and imagine the hop.
But a train. I do like to see trains go by. If it's a subway train, sometimes I cover my ears.
Still, you shouldn’t follow a train, you should get on it.
Maybe the expression should be “I am on your train of thought.”
“I am comfortably seated on your train of thought.”
“Riding on your train of thought, I can see the mountains!”
Monday, January 25, 2010
Are You Experienced
When my step-brother Shane was little, one day he claimed the Jimi Hendrix song Purple Haze was his favorite song. He must have been about seven. The rest of us kids, a couple of years or so older, made sure to remind him that he had never actually heard Purple Haze. Still, Shane was very firm about it. Even so, he said, Purple Haze was his favorite song, and he was sure hearing it would only confirm that.
We had a good snicker about that. Poor Shane, what a dope!
And yet over the years I’ve also suffered from Purple Haze syndrome. Even before I’ve read a book, I’m sure it’s going to be essential. Or I hear of a poet I’ve yet to read, and I’m sure they’re about to become my favorite poet. Or a restaurant I’ve never been to, a dish I’ve never eaten, a song I’ve never heard. A career, a country, a movie, a moisturizer.
I think I’ve only ever been disappointed.
And that’s why the Purple Haze phenomenon is important.
It’s the hope, stupid.
We had a good snicker about that. Poor Shane, what a dope!
And yet over the years I’ve also suffered from Purple Haze syndrome. Even before I’ve read a book, I’m sure it’s going to be essential. Or I hear of a poet I’ve yet to read, and I’m sure they’re about to become my favorite poet. Or a restaurant I’ve never been to, a dish I’ve never eaten, a song I’ve never heard. A career, a country, a movie, a moisturizer.
I think I’ve only ever been disappointed.
And that’s why the Purple Haze phenomenon is important.
It’s the hope, stupid.
Friday, January 22, 2010
red reminds me
Some books I ordered came today, finagling a positive end to what wasn’t a great week. WS Merwin’s The Shadow of Sirius
Robert Shearman’s Tiny Deaths
Maurice Manning’s A Companion for Owls
Maurice Manning’s Lawrence Booth’s Book of Visions
Georges Bernanos’s The Diary of a Country Priest
Chris Bechelder’s Bear v. Shark
Laynie Browne’s The Scented Fox
Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian
A couple of these are true whim purchases. For instance I knew exactly nothing about Tiny Deaths and Bear v. Shark before I saw them lauded somewhere and spontaneously decided they’d save my life. (My mother got me an Amazon gift certificate for my birthday late last year – still $24 to use up...)
On the other hand, I’ve been waiting to get a copy of Lawrence Booth’s Book of Visions, and what do you know but whoever it was that the poet gave this book to as a gift (the Mims? - the handwriting is not clear), it now belongs to me with Manning’s signature in the front cover.
“To Ted and Sandra Mims,
With appreciation,
Maurice Manning
March 5, 2004.”
This is the third time I got lucky with a signed copy in an online used book transaction. The others were an Elaine Equi book, and the novel The Art Lover by Carole Maso. This is another reason to love used books - you never know what you'll find inside. A bookmark. Old opera tickets. A profession of love. Some helpful thing.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
To God
"If you have formed a circle to go into,
Go into it yourself and see how you would do."
William Blake
Go into it yourself and see how you would do."
William Blake
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
winter morning misanthropy
Our snow is gone, which is sad. Our slush is also gone, which is good. Not gone are those tiny pebbles they throw on the sidewalk to keep folks from slipping. These are legion, and mostly stuck in people’s shoes where they scratch across the floor of the subway car when the lazy shuffle in, just to annoy me.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
let's spit on what we loved
The ReadWritePoem tour stops at Jill Crammond Wickham's blog, where there's a very kind review of my chapbook. Thank you! There have been a couple other reviews as part of the tour recently, which you can also read here and here. I appreciate ReadWritePoem's arranging the virtual tour. A lot.
Speaking of ReadWritePoem , this week they're talking about knock-out first lines of poems. I did something similar last year for first lines of novels, but the first line of a poem is even more important. I chimed in with mine, but here's a fuller list, which I may add to.
"My chest wants and does not want its color" Cesar Vallejo - untitled poem
"How much 14 there has been in existence!" Cesar Vallejo's Anniversary
"At last you are weary of this ancient world" Guillaume Apollinaire's Zone
"My love is building a building" ee cummings
"supposing i dreamed this)" ee cummings
"When I went out to kill myself, I caught / a pack of hoodlums beating up a man" James Wright's Saint Judas
"The whole town has come into my room" Philippe Soupault's Horizon
"Brave as a postage stamp" Philippe Soupault's Sporting Goods
"You do not do, you do not do / Anymore black shoe." Sylvia Plath's Daddy
"Let's spit the two of us let's spit / on what we loved" Louis Aragon's Poem to Shout in the Ruins
"Sky of a hanged man, is it going to rain" Benjamin Péret's Song in the Time of Drought
"Since you ask, most days I cannot remember" Anne Sexton's Waiting to Die
"I want the water to go on without its bed" Lorca's Ghazal of the Terrifying Presence
Please chime in if you have a favorite first line(s).
Speaking of ReadWritePoem , this week they're talking about knock-out first lines of poems. I did something similar last year for first lines of novels, but the first line of a poem is even more important. I chimed in with mine, but here's a fuller list, which I may add to.
"My chest wants and does not want its color" Cesar Vallejo - untitled poem
"How much 14 there has been in existence!" Cesar Vallejo's Anniversary
"At last you are weary of this ancient world" Guillaume Apollinaire's Zone
"My love is building a building" ee cummings
"supposing i dreamed this)" ee cummings
"When I went out to kill myself, I caught / a pack of hoodlums beating up a man" James Wright's Saint Judas
"The whole town has come into my room" Philippe Soupault's Horizon
"Brave as a postage stamp" Philippe Soupault's Sporting Goods
"You do not do, you do not do / Anymore black shoe." Sylvia Plath's Daddy
"Let's spit the two of us let's spit / on what we loved" Louis Aragon's Poem to Shout in the Ruins
"Sky of a hanged man, is it going to rain" Benjamin Péret's Song in the Time of Drought
"Since you ask, most days I cannot remember" Anne Sexton's Waiting to Die
"I want the water to go on without its bed" Lorca's Ghazal of the Terrifying Presence
Please chime in if you have a favorite first line(s).
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Aloft and found
I find the department store ladies who want to spritz you with perfume menacing. Sometimes they don’t wait for you to say yes or no, they just start squirting. These ladies are required to be very made-up and lipsticked, and wear high heels. They’re scary. And armed with something potentially awful.
I don’t spritz perfume directly on my skin. I spray it in front of me and dash through the mist. I call this the lion-through-the-hoop method of perfumery. Subtle, no? Sometimes I spray it straight up towards the ceiling, close my eyes and let it fall on me. I haven’t got a name for this. My husband laughs. Apparently there’s a joke about the Italian police doing the same thing. I don’t get this joke.
My perfume is Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. I like pretty much all the Guerlains, in fact, but there’s gluttony to think about. Today at the store I spritzed myself with Mitsouko, a fragrance that reminds me of almonds crushed in warm milk. I think that’s what it is. I could concoct it at home. Ignore all that talk about bergamot and oakmoss.
Another scent I like is garlic being sautéed in oil. And gasoline. Bacon. Cake baking. Campfire. Marijuana, too, though I abstain. Also the smell of those mimeographs that have become obsolete.
I don’t spritz perfume directly on my skin. I spray it in front of me and dash through the mist. I call this the lion-through-the-hoop method of perfumery. Subtle, no? Sometimes I spray it straight up towards the ceiling, close my eyes and let it fall on me. I haven’t got a name for this. My husband laughs. Apparently there’s a joke about the Italian police doing the same thing. I don’t get this joke.
My perfume is Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. I like pretty much all the Guerlains, in fact, but there’s gluttony to think about. Today at the store I spritzed myself with Mitsouko, a fragrance that reminds me of almonds crushed in warm milk. I think that’s what it is. I could concoct it at home. Ignore all that talk about bergamot and oakmoss.
Another scent I like is garlic being sautéed in oil. And gasoline. Bacon. Cake baking. Campfire. Marijuana, too, though I abstain. Also the smell of those mimeographs that have become obsolete.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
now you try
I tried lying on my back, but sleep would not have me.
I tried fetal position, left side, then right, but sleep would not have me.
I tried sleeping on my stomach with my right foot dangling off the bed, but sleep was not buying.
I tried the pharmacopoeia nesting snug under the childproof, but sleep was not fooled.
I tried holding my arms & legs in the air until they were exhausted. No go.
I tried feng shui brain,
yoga brain,
rack and pinion brain,
and brain of the fat shambling Buddha.
I tried breathing through my mouth.
I tried not breathing.
I tried fetal position, left side, then right, but sleep would not have me.
I tried sleeping on my stomach with my right foot dangling off the bed, but sleep was not buying.
I tried the pharmacopoeia nesting snug under the childproof, but sleep was not fooled.
I tried holding my arms & legs in the air until they were exhausted. No go.
I tried feng shui brain,
yoga brain,
rack and pinion brain,
and brain of the fat shambling Buddha.
I tried breathing through my mouth.
I tried not breathing.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Absynthe
Whenever I get a wall calendar or shop for one, among the first things I do is to look at November. Because my birthday is in November. The November page contains an important message. If it’s a calendar with dogs, what breed of dog will be on the November page? If it’s a Paul Klee calendar, which painting will it be? Which flower, which skyscraper, which optical illusion? Which drink recipe, which Gee’s Bend quilt? It’s not that finding out what's on November is going to make or break the calendar deal for me. The essential deal is already made. The page is going to reveal something to me about myself. Something immutable. I have complete trust in the calendar. It is omen, astrologist, and psychoanalyst.
(quilts are here)
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Ground Shadow
I’m going out with the storm cloud.
I’m leaving now, staunched in gauze,
clotted with vapor and rain.
I cruise the chewed edge of the pothole
then drop from the foot of the wren.
There is no stay. What does it matter?
What on earth doesn’t end up in tatters?
I’m going to fall hard and get up again.
I’m leaving now, staunched in gauze,
clotted with vapor and rain.
I cruise the chewed edge of the pothole
then drop from the foot of the wren.
There is no stay. What does it matter?
What on earth doesn’t end up in tatters?
I’m going to fall hard and get up again.
Friday, January 08, 2010
toast
It was my turn to hold the remote. This was more difficult than it sounds, the remote being a cool and elusive thing, often hard to grasp. But there is lay in my palm, jabbering.
“I think your toast is burning,” I said to my husband.
We’d spent so much time quarrelling over the remote. He said I was too rough with it. I hated the way he held it, with his sweaty palms.
Worst was the time he sat down on it, which sent the room spinning.
He quit the room, leaving me in control, if only from the look of things, since what the remote offers isn’t really control, but manipulation. Because it’s what the remote conjures that has the controlling hand, proven simply by how much we want to hold it.
Sometimes I put such a tight grip on the remote that the buttons jam. It’s as if the battery’s dead, and I’m stuck in place.
It happened when my husband went to check his toast, leaving me husbandless, just as I was in the long-ago, and might remain, suspended, into far-off future.
“I think your toast is burning,” I said to my husband.
We’d spent so much time quarrelling over the remote. He said I was too rough with it. I hated the way he held it, with his sweaty palms.
Worst was the time he sat down on it, which sent the room spinning.
He quit the room, leaving me in control, if only from the look of things, since what the remote offers isn’t really control, but manipulation. Because it’s what the remote conjures that has the controlling hand, proven simply by how much we want to hold it.
Sometimes I put such a tight grip on the remote that the buttons jam. It’s as if the battery’s dead, and I’m stuck in place.
It happened when my husband went to check his toast, leaving me husbandless, just as I was in the long-ago, and might remain, suspended, into far-off future.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
in which I am ravished by wolves
I’ve got two poems in the new issue of DMQ Review – This Was My New England and Quite at Home, a cento. I’m pleased with both of these poems and think this is a really good issue of DMQ. The artwork is terrific – bold and a little folky.
Concerning a recent bit of criticism that my poems don’t touch relationships, I can only say that indeed many of my poems spring from solitude and often focus on the ordinary everyday, including a whole series of poems I’m forever at work on about household objects, including the whisk, the toaster, and bad toothbrushes.
If you want tear-jerkers I must beg you to look elsewhere, but that my poems ignore human relationships isn’t true. Take My New England, for example – what is the poem about if not a disappointing love affair? Why would someone flee for Canada, to escape foliage season?
Other poems of mine that deal with emotions and relationships, for easy reference:
The thin line between pain and ecstasy!
Human stupidity!
Sibling rivalry!
Relentless despair!
Grandmother elegy!
Resilience!
Desire and loneliness!
Optimism amidst adversity!
Another failed relationship!
Shit, I could put together a whole book of gush.
Concerning a recent bit of criticism that my poems don’t touch relationships, I can only say that indeed many of my poems spring from solitude and often focus on the ordinary everyday, including a whole series of poems I’m forever at work on about household objects, including the whisk, the toaster, and bad toothbrushes.
If you want tear-jerkers I must beg you to look elsewhere, but that my poems ignore human relationships isn’t true. Take My New England, for example – what is the poem about if not a disappointing love affair? Why would someone flee for Canada, to escape foliage season?
Other poems of mine that deal with emotions and relationships, for easy reference:
The thin line between pain and ecstasy!
Human stupidity!
Sibling rivalry!
Relentless despair!
Grandmother elegy!
Resilience!
Desire and loneliness!
Optimism amidst adversity!
Another failed relationship!
Shit, I could put together a whole book of gush.
Monday, January 04, 2010
museum shop
For spirituality, you can get the Mark Rothko gravelike placemats and magnetic 15th Century Buddha bookmarks. For sensuality, there’s the Egon Schiele masturbatory silk throw pillow and Henry Moore bulging salt-n-peppah shakers. The practical among us go for the William Morris Poverty-Proof Tote Bag, which eternally belches the smell of new plastic. And you can get a Tiffany scarf, the very last word in really good, bad taste. Or luggage tags picturing Hokusai’s "Great Wave," the last word in really bad, good taste. I particularly like the “Flight into Egypt” holiday cards, now 75% off. The Babylonian Carnelian multi-bead necklace that was $148 is now a bargain at $97.87 for members. Maybe you’d like to become a member? What better reasons than the deep discounts and show of deep cultivation? It’s almost embarrassing, how high class you can be. Who would have thought it possible? What a grip the museum shop has on sophisticated visitors! Some people never get past it.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
K'ang Keaw Wayn Gai
Today I read this sentence in a poem and it struck me funny: I can be had.
“Had” used in this way for me implied “purchased,” as in “the gigolo can be had for $60.” But “being had” also means “was able to be fooled,” as in the revelatory buyer’s remorse epitaph “We’ve been had!”
I think the weird part about this usage is the having seems transitory, like you’re “had” and then you’re let go, mostly because the “had” seems so past tense. But in fact it’s the perfect participle, the equivalent of “you’ve been eaten,” “it has snown,” “the oats were chewn.” You know.
I think one of the stupidest set phrases I know is “Fun was had by all,” or as the British say, "Fun has been had by all."
And so 2009 was also had. Fun was had, anger was had, gladness, regret, the gigolo, the flu and item #43 on the menu at the Thai restaurant with dishes I can't otherwise pronounce.
And, while on the subject of stuff had and abandoned, on New Year’s eve we went to a party where folks re-gifted their unwanted Christmas presents. I took along a pair of duplicate pajamas. (I’d gotten the same ones last year.) And I received a super anonymous soccer trophy! Miles got a huge paper-maché purple rabbit. Carlo got a black plastic desktop pencil organizer and Luisa got junk sunglasses.
The year that was. I think my accomplishment of 2009 was I finally had a poem accepted that had been rejected by 33 different publications. Most sane people would give up, and I’ve given up and put poems aside before in the face of lesser humiliations. But I really like this particular poem and had some trouble understanding why it needed counseling. What I finally did was change the title, and believe it or not I think that was the hitch.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
miss scarlet with a candlestick in the dining room
If I had a license, I’d go the other route to the airport, not the way my husband takes.
If I were a tea rather than coffee person, I’d do Darjeeling.
If I were a man, I’d probably be a worse slob than I already am.
If I were a novelist, I’d spend less time describing the landscape, and the pale, pink, amorphous light that falls on the landscape like a malnourished drunk.
If I were a tea rather than coffee person, I’d do Darjeeling.
If I were a man, I’d probably be a worse slob than I already am.
If I were a novelist, I’d spend less time describing the landscape, and the pale, pink, amorphous light that falls on the landscape like a malnourished drunk.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
and there in a wood
I've had some time off, which means walking the dog. On one of my many journeys through the park, I was naming the trees (Octopussy, General Grant, Burgermeister Meisterburger, Frau-Frau, Funeral, Scarface...), and it occured to me that the famous Bong Tree of The Owl and the Pussycat fame must be the Baobab."They sailed away
for a year and a day
to the land where the Bong tree grows.
And there is a wood...."
Don't ask me why I had this revelation on a frosty grey German day. There wasn't a Baobab in sight. But recently I’ve been leafing through a book called Remarkable Trees of the World, which features a number of fabulous Baobabs. It's also called “the bottle tree” (and you need a bottle to make a bong, right?). It's also called “the monkey bread tree,” “the cream of tartar tree,” “the chemist tree,” “the sour gourd” and “the lemonade tree.” And get this - there's a place in Tanzania called Bong'wa where this tree grows. Tanzania is a coastal country, thus reachable by peagreen boat. I know I've sometimes taken the Owl & Pussycat thing too far, but I'm sure Edward Lear couldn't resist slipping Baobabs into his poem, disguised as water pipes.
This photo shows Baobab alley in Madagascar, which, as you probably know from playing Risk, is an island off the eastern coast of Africa that split from the continent 160 million years ago. Since then you've had to sail there, although of course these days you could also fly.
There are different species, but mostly Baobabs are famous for just being weird and difficult to climb. You can see more here & here. And here are a bajillion more.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Daphne
When my kids were little, I told them everyone in the world has their own personal tree somewhere. I don’t remember why I made this up. Maybe I was trying to get them to look more carefully at trees. In any case, the idea of having their own tree intrigued them, then seemed to start gnawing at them. What if they never found their trees?
Eventually I tried figuring out how many trees there are in the world (approximately, of course, since right now the parks department is uprooting a diseased elm, developers outside Saginaw are bulldozing a few acres, the Christmas tree growers are replanting, etc etc). I started at the corner park, which is fairly modest, and got to fifty-three, but then gave up when I came to one of the pathways in, which is crawling with trees and tree-like bushthings that I don’t know if they qualify or what.
I can only conclude that spread out over the face of the earth are five trillion trees, give or take a few. So, the chance any of us would ever find our trees seems remote. Luckily in the seven years or so since I had this brilliant idea, the kids appear to have forgotten it completely, and moved on to finding other important stuff of the teenage variety, like a boyfriend who calls when he says he will.
But I haven’t forgotten the tree idea. It’s romantic and quixotic, and I am in fact always on the lookout. I will let you know when I find my tree. I hope it will be an Laurel or Oak or something flowering, but I’m afraid it may turn out to be a bushthing.
Eventually I tried figuring out how many trees there are in the world (approximately, of course, since right now the parks department is uprooting a diseased elm, developers outside Saginaw are bulldozing a few acres, the Christmas tree growers are replanting, etc etc). I started at the corner park, which is fairly modest, and got to fifty-three, but then gave up when I came to one of the pathways in, which is crawling with trees and tree-like bushthings that I don’t know if they qualify or what.
I can only conclude that spread out over the face of the earth are five trillion trees, give or take a few. So, the chance any of us would ever find our trees seems remote. Luckily in the seven years or so since I had this brilliant idea, the kids appear to have forgotten it completely, and moved on to finding other important stuff of the teenage variety, like a boyfriend who calls when he says he will.
But I haven’t forgotten the tree idea. It’s romantic and quixotic, and I am in fact always on the lookout. I will let you know when I find my tree. I hope it will be an Laurel or Oak or something flowering, but I’m afraid it may turn out to be a bushthing.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
less waystation than common grave
I have two "new" poems in Swink. "New" as in newly published, but in fact nearly two years old. Well, Swink is a good zine that takes its time.
The poems are "Staring Contest" and "Bedside Books," the former about defeat, the latter about . . . bedside books! Surprise!
Welcome you enjoy.
The poems are "Staring Contest" and "Bedside Books," the former about defeat, the latter about . . . bedside books! Surprise!
Welcome you enjoy.
the priest sat in the airport bar, he was wearing his father's tie
The name of the tram stop two stations south of mine has been changed. What used to be Versorgungsamt is now Prieststrasse. Until just recently the Versorgungsamt, a state office that deals with subsidies for maternity and paternity leave, was here, but apparently they’ve packed up shop. Versorgungsamt translates literally to something like the “care-taking office.” The nearest intersecting street is Prieststr., so the stop has been renamed, even though the priest surely left ages before the care-taking office did. There is neither a state office nor a Christian authority at this stop to care for you. What is there, and very prominently, is the new Jewish cemetery. It’s easy to identify because of the bright Hebraic script above the entrance, but otherwise it’s fairly nondescript. The best name for the stop would have been "New Jewish Cemetery," but as you might imagine, those who take care consider it better not to draw attention to this.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
gladsome tidings
The Snow is an Intelligence Officer
It’s one subtle secret agent, the snow,
dropping like a soft abductor.
I didn’t know it had this many fingers,
this many keyholes and doors.
There’s never been a mission
so openly covert, such
a pouring on of camouflage.
Flush with this cache, I assume
a new identity. I’m going to wear
a sherpa’s cap and let my hair grow long.
The world’s a mess, but not this morning.
The snow has kidnapped my opinions,
absconded with the list of wars.
The world and I pass by
the bakery window:
we never looked so pretty –
the snow is that smart.
It’s one subtle secret agent, the snow,
dropping like a soft abductor.
I didn’t know it had this many fingers,
this many keyholes and doors.
There’s never been a mission
so openly covert, such
a pouring on of camouflage.
Flush with this cache, I assume
a new identity. I’m going to wear
a sherpa’s cap and let my hair grow long.
The world’s a mess, but not this morning.
The snow has kidnapped my opinions,
absconded with the list of wars.
The world and I pass by
the bakery window:
we never looked so pretty –
the snow is that smart.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
ash, timberwolf, plum
I’ve been meaning to mention that Read Write Poem is hosting a virtual tour of my chapbook In the Voice of a Minor Saint. Yesterday Dave Bonta reviewed the chap at Via Negativa, and a week back it was reviewed by Joseph Harker at Naming Constellations. I’m of course happy and grateful to have people read my poems.
The upcoming tour stops are here.
Otherwise not much poetry news. I got a Pushcart nomination from Apparatus Magazine for Tinder Box, a prose poem using the colors from the Crayola box of crayons. I’ve had a few acceptances recently but also a disappointing rejection of my little ms of home totem poems. Otherwise, I’m futzing around with a ghazal and some revisions.
UPDATE! DMQ Review wrote to say they've also nominated a poem of mine for a Pushcart. The poem, Monarchs, was in the spring issue. This is the second time DMQ has nominated one of my poems for a Pushcart. I'll have two poems in the next issue as well.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
nice work if you can get it
I’m not a fan of Silvio Berlusconi, but still found it terrible that he’d had his face smashed by a replica of Milan’s Duomo, leaving his teeth and nose broken. I didn’t laugh at the jokes about how he’d need more cosmetic surgery now, etc., but I did find this report on the BBC a bit funny:
'An attack on Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi on Sunday was premeditated, Italy's interior minister, Roberto Maroni, has said. Mr Maroni said the suspect had been "developing a rage" against the PM "for some time."'
The funny part about is the invisible question mark after “for some time.” What does it mean? Months? Years? Since the previous Tuesday? Did the assailant sit down that morning and start developing his rage? Where did he start? What tools did he use?
“Developing a rage” is a close relative of “working yourself into a frenzy.” Some people have a great talent for this; for others it takes practice and intense concentration. I find the task of frenzy fairly easy myself. If there are any job openings in that department, I'd appreciate a heads-up.
'An attack on Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi on Sunday was premeditated, Italy's interior minister, Roberto Maroni, has said. Mr Maroni said the suspect had been "developing a rage" against the PM "for some time."'
The funny part about is the invisible question mark after “for some time.” What does it mean? Months? Years? Since the previous Tuesday? Did the assailant sit down that morning and start developing his rage? Where did he start? What tools did he use?
“Developing a rage” is a close relative of “working yourself into a frenzy.” Some people have a great talent for this; for others it takes practice and intense concentration. I find the task of frenzy fairly easy myself. If there are any job openings in that department, I'd appreciate a heads-up.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
spiff & clunker
Everyone’s starting with year-end booklists, so I’m jumping in. Below are the books I’ve read in 2009. It may seem like a lot, but many are short e-books, or poetry collections I read in a couple days. I’ve starred my favorites in different categories.
The book I’m reading now – The Kindly Ones – may end up nudging The Book of Evidence out of the top spot in fiction, if I finish this year (hope!). But maybe not. Otherwise I struck out on novels this year overall. Too few really good ones, at least compared to last year. I did better with non-fiction. Although I picked Evocative Objects as the best non-fiction for this year, the Helen Vendler book on Wallace Stevens may have been better, and the hilarious memoir Running with Scissors is also worth the time, although I was reluctant to read it.
In poetry I picked New European Poets mostly for the spicy variety. There were terrific poems in there, but also some eye-rollers, as it must be in an anthology. There were some typos in the book, which bugs the crap out of me. So much care is put into it and then, boom, typos. I also liked Heather McHugh’s Hinge and Sign a lot, and Maurice Manning’s unexpectedly wonderful Bucolics.
Clunker of the year was definitely The Jewel of Medina, which was a gift from a well-meaning person (husband). I am lucky he tried the book, too, and had the same opinion I did, i.e. what is this shit? Apparently he thought the book would enrich our understanding of Islam! Instead it read like housewifey marshmallow-soft porn written by a sixth grader.
I’ll add books at the bottom if I manage any more before January.
1. Regarding the Pain of Others – Susan Sontag (Jan/Non-fiction)
2. The Jewel of Medina – Sherry Jones (Jan/Novel)
3. Hikikomori – Tao Lin and Ellen Kennedy (January/poetry ebook)
4. Observations from a Children's Bookstore – Ryan Bradley (Jan/poetry ebook)
5. The Ice Storm – Rick Moody (Jan/Novel)
6. Escapes – Joy Williams (Jan/Stories)
7. The Life and Times of Michael K. – JM Coetzee (Jan/Novel)
8. Wideawake Field – Eliza Griswold (Feb/Poetry)
9. Dirt Music – Tim Winton (Jan/Novel)
10. Caves - Matthew Simmons (Feb/poetry ebook)
11. Souvenirs – Bronwen Tate (poetry ebook)
12. Permanent Record – Ted Greenwald (Feb/poetry ebook)
13. The Voice at 3 am – Charles Simic (Poetry)
14. Poems for the Year – Chantel Guidry (Chapbook)
15. Yesterday I Was Talking to Myself – Ellen Kennedy (May/poetry ebook)
16. Meine Bilder – Francis Bacon (Art)
17. Going Fast – Frederick Seidel (Mar/Poetry)
18. Hinge & Sign – Heather McHugh (Mar/Poetry)
19. Crazed by the Sun - Lynn Strongin, ed. (Poetry)
20. a// long / division – Hanna Andrews (poetry chapbook)
21. The Unconsoled – Kazuo Ishiguro (May/Novel)
22. Water for Elephants – Sara Gruen (May/Novel)
**23. The Book of Evidence – John Banville (May/Novel)**
24. The Crimson Petal and the White – Michael Faber (May/Novel)
25. Mandolintires – Philip Nikolayev (June/poetry ebook)
26. Prairies – Natalie Knight (June/poetry ebook)
27. Down and Out in Paris and London – George Orwell (June/Reportage)
28. Wolf Totem – Jiang Rong (June/Novel)
29. Imitation Animals – Julie Platt (June/Poetry ebook)
30. Wallace Stevens: Words Chosen Out of Desire – Helen Vendler (June/Lit Crit)
31. Rogue Male – Geoffrey Household (June/Novel)
32. Winter’s Bone – Daniel Woodrell (June/Novel)
33. Manhunt – James Swanson (June/Non-fiction)
**34. New European Poets – Kevin Prufer, ed (July/Poetry)**
35. On the Beach – Nevil Shute (July/Novel)
36. Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant –Jenni Ferrari-Adler, ed. (July/Essays)
37. Rising – Farrah Field (July/Poetry)
38. Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow – Rachel Mallino (July/Poetry chapbook)
39. Case Histories – Kate Atkinson (Novel)
40. Running with Scissors – Augusten Burroughs (Aug/Memoir)
41. All Shall Be Well, And All Shall Be Well – Tod Wodicka (Aug/Novel)
**42. Evocative Objects – Sherry Turkle, ed. (Aug/Essays)**
**43. Like You’d Understand, Anyway – Jim Shephard (Aug/Stories)**
44. Working in the Birdhouse- Justin Evans (Aug/Chapbook)
45. Olive Kitteridge – Elizabeth Strout (Sept/Novel)
46. The Private Life of Chairman Mao – Li Zhisui (Oct/Biography)
47. Butcher’s Crossing – John Williams (Oct/Novel)
48. Night Shift – Stephen King (Oct/Stories)
49. The Stray Dog Cabaret – Paul Schmidt, ed. (Oct/Poetry)
50. Mister Skylight – Ed Skoog (Nov/Poetry)
51. Cabinet – Claire Hero (Nov/Poetry chapbook)
52. Affliction – Russell Banks (Nov/Novel)
53. How to be Perfect – Ron Padgett (Nov/Poetry)
54. The Place You Love is Gone – Melissa Holbrook Pierson (Nov/Non-fiction)
55. Fabulae – Joy Katz (Nov/Poetry)
56. Moth Moon – Matt Jasper (Dec/Poetry)
57. Bucolics – Maurice Manning (Dec/Poetry)
58. Lark Apprentice – Louise Mathias (Dec/Poetry)
59. The Sad Epistles - Emma Bolden (Dec/Poetry chapbook)
60. The Kindly Ones - Jonathan Littell (Dec/Novel)
61. 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die - Peter Boxall (Dec/List?)
62. No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy
The book I’m reading now – The Kindly Ones – may end up nudging The Book of Evidence out of the top spot in fiction, if I finish this year (hope!). But maybe not. Otherwise I struck out on novels this year overall. Too few really good ones, at least compared to last year. I did better with non-fiction. Although I picked Evocative Objects as the best non-fiction for this year, the Helen Vendler book on Wallace Stevens may have been better, and the hilarious memoir Running with Scissors is also worth the time, although I was reluctant to read it.
In poetry I picked New European Poets mostly for the spicy variety. There were terrific poems in there, but also some eye-rollers, as it must be in an anthology. There were some typos in the book, which bugs the crap out of me. So much care is put into it and then, boom, typos. I also liked Heather McHugh’s Hinge and Sign a lot, and Maurice Manning’s unexpectedly wonderful Bucolics.
Clunker of the year was definitely The Jewel of Medina, which was a gift from a well-meaning person (husband). I am lucky he tried the book, too, and had the same opinion I did, i.e. what is this shit? Apparently he thought the book would enrich our understanding of Islam! Instead it read like housewifey marshmallow-soft porn written by a sixth grader.
I’ll add books at the bottom if I manage any more before January.
1. Regarding the Pain of Others – Susan Sontag (Jan/Non-fiction)
2. The Jewel of Medina – Sherry Jones (Jan/Novel)
3. Hikikomori – Tao Lin and Ellen Kennedy (January/poetry ebook)
4. Observations from a Children's Bookstore – Ryan Bradley (Jan/poetry ebook)
5. The Ice Storm – Rick Moody (Jan/Novel)
6. Escapes – Joy Williams (Jan/Stories)
7. The Life and Times of Michael K. – JM Coetzee (Jan/Novel)
8. Wideawake Field – Eliza Griswold (Feb/Poetry)
9. Dirt Music – Tim Winton (Jan/Novel)
10. Caves - Matthew Simmons (Feb/poetry ebook)
11. Souvenirs – Bronwen Tate (poetry ebook)
12. Permanent Record – Ted Greenwald (Feb/poetry ebook)
13. The Voice at 3 am – Charles Simic (Poetry)
14. Poems for the Year – Chantel Guidry (Chapbook)
15. Yesterday I Was Talking to Myself – Ellen Kennedy (May/poetry ebook)
16. Meine Bilder – Francis Bacon (Art)
17. Going Fast – Frederick Seidel (Mar/Poetry)
18. Hinge & Sign – Heather McHugh (Mar/Poetry)
19. Crazed by the Sun - Lynn Strongin, ed. (Poetry)
20. a// long / division – Hanna Andrews (poetry chapbook)
21. The Unconsoled – Kazuo Ishiguro (May/Novel)
22. Water for Elephants – Sara Gruen (May/Novel)
**23. The Book of Evidence – John Banville (May/Novel)**
24. The Crimson Petal and the White – Michael Faber (May/Novel)
25. Mandolintires – Philip Nikolayev (June/poetry ebook)
26. Prairies – Natalie Knight (June/poetry ebook)
27. Down and Out in Paris and London – George Orwell (June/Reportage)
28. Wolf Totem – Jiang Rong (June/Novel)
29. Imitation Animals – Julie Platt (June/Poetry ebook)
30. Wallace Stevens: Words Chosen Out of Desire – Helen Vendler (June/Lit Crit)
31. Rogue Male – Geoffrey Household (June/Novel)
32. Winter’s Bone – Daniel Woodrell (June/Novel)
33. Manhunt – James Swanson (June/Non-fiction)
**34. New European Poets – Kevin Prufer, ed (July/Poetry)**
35. On the Beach – Nevil Shute (July/Novel)
36. Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant –Jenni Ferrari-Adler, ed. (July/Essays)
37. Rising – Farrah Field (July/Poetry)
38. Inside Bone There’s Always Marrow – Rachel Mallino (July/Poetry chapbook)
39. Case Histories – Kate Atkinson (Novel)
40. Running with Scissors – Augusten Burroughs (Aug/Memoir)
41. All Shall Be Well, And All Shall Be Well – Tod Wodicka (Aug/Novel)
**42. Evocative Objects – Sherry Turkle, ed. (Aug/Essays)**
**43. Like You’d Understand, Anyway – Jim Shephard (Aug/Stories)**
44. Working in the Birdhouse- Justin Evans (Aug/Chapbook)
45. Olive Kitteridge – Elizabeth Strout (Sept/Novel)
46. The Private Life of Chairman Mao – Li Zhisui (Oct/Biography)
47. Butcher’s Crossing – John Williams (Oct/Novel)
48. Night Shift – Stephen King (Oct/Stories)
49. The Stray Dog Cabaret – Paul Schmidt, ed. (Oct/Poetry)
50. Mister Skylight – Ed Skoog (Nov/Poetry)
51. Cabinet – Claire Hero (Nov/Poetry chapbook)
52. Affliction – Russell Banks (Nov/Novel)
53. How to be Perfect – Ron Padgett (Nov/Poetry)
54. The Place You Love is Gone – Melissa Holbrook Pierson (Nov/Non-fiction)
55. Fabulae – Joy Katz (Nov/Poetry)
56. Moth Moon – Matt Jasper (Dec/Poetry)
57. Bucolics – Maurice Manning (Dec/Poetry)
58. Lark Apprentice – Louise Mathias (Dec/Poetry)
59. The Sad Epistles - Emma Bolden (Dec/Poetry chapbook)
60. The Kindly Ones - Jonathan Littell (Dec/Novel)
61. 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die - Peter Boxall (Dec/List?)
62. No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy
Thursday, December 10, 2009
slumming becomes me
Another long day at work, but overall good.
The office party. I planned to go, but never made it.
Due to jugglers in the lobby. True story.
College was one of the best times of my life.
My grades improved. I read a lot.
Babies were better. Especially when they were asleep!
I am trying to write a ghazal.
I am trying to write anything.
So many things never work out.
I think things like “The Happiness Project” are total bullshit.
If I have to engineer happiness with months of planning, then screw it.
If I set up a program for achieving happiness, screw that.
If I have to establish a “moderator/abstainer” blueprint for enjoyment, nope.
Lists of resolutions and tics on the chart, points, etc., screw it.
Joy never came with a plan. Control freaks did that.
The office party. I planned to go, but never made it.
Due to jugglers in the lobby. True story.
College was one of the best times of my life.
My grades improved. I read a lot.
Babies were better. Especially when they were asleep!
I am trying to write a ghazal.
I am trying to write anything.
So many things never work out.
I think things like “The Happiness Project” are total bullshit.
If I have to engineer happiness with months of planning, then screw it.
If I set up a program for achieving happiness, screw that.
If I have to establish a “moderator/abstainer” blueprint for enjoyment, nope.
Lists of resolutions and tics on the chart, points, etc., screw it.
Joy never came with a plan. Control freaks did that.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
le monocle de mon oncle
Sometimes I wonder who comes up with the “Word of the Day” at Merriam Webster. I get this in my email and today the word was . . . fiery! Is there someone who doesn’t know this word? Or does it have some fascinating etymology? No. But every dog has its day, I suppose, and the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that fiery is far superior to fire, because finally that itch to pronounce fire as two syllables - /faI/ - /ur/ - can be realized! Throw that /i/ on the end and you’re smokin’. Why did the spelling change to fier(y), though? What would have been wrong with firey? It’s kind of cute, like a little fire.
The birthday present I bought myself finally came today. It’s a monocle! When I saw it I thought of the Wallace Stevens poem and was seized by desire. I’m going to wear it with blouses and, on sunny days, use it to start little fires in the yard.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
the hour between sardines
Sometimes things just go wrong. Your poems are rejected. Your children don’t want breakfast. Employee morale is low. You die from buttocks surgery. Your eye hurts.
You’ll be advised to lay off the Bach Cantatas, turn off the news and read some uplifting poetry. But really it would be better to put all that baloney aside and go with the truth. Misery loves company, especially when the company’s misery is way worse than one’s own.
What better time to wallow in a book about life at its most deplorable, like The Kindly Ones. Here I am on p. 420, where, after apparently being shot in the head in Stalingrad, Hauptsturmführer Aue is hallucinating about riding around in a dirigible with the mysterious Doktor Sardine.
“Suddenly, Sardine put his glasses on his eyes and leaned forward to examine me: ‘And are you looking for the end of the world too?’—‘Sorry?’ – ‘The end of the world! The end of the world! Don’t act innocent. What else could have brought you out here?’ – ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about Doktor.’ He grimaced, bounded out of his chair, ran around the table, seized an object, and hurled it at my head. I caught it in the nick of time. It was a cone mounted on a base, painted like a globe with the continents spread out around it; the flat base was gray and bore the caption TERRA INCOGNITA. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never seen that?’ Sardine went back to his seat and was rolling another cigarette. ‘Never, Doktor,’ I replied. – ‘What is it?’ – ‘It’s the earth! Idiot! Hypocrite! Two-faced bastard!’”
I’m lucky, too, that there are a lot of lice in this book. I love stories with lice. I haven’t seen so many lice in a book since the magnificent/significant Kolyma Tales! Go Russia!
I’d like to thank Jonathan Littell for this book. Whenever I open it, I feel like I'm entering a dilapidated and rotting mansion, at once fascinating and disgusting. That ear infection scene - wow! My son asked what I was grimacing about. And when I told him, he had further questions.
You’ll be advised to lay off the Bach Cantatas, turn off the news and read some uplifting poetry. But really it would be better to put all that baloney aside and go with the truth. Misery loves company, especially when the company’s misery is way worse than one’s own.
What better time to wallow in a book about life at its most deplorable, like The Kindly Ones. Here I am on p. 420, where, after apparently being shot in the head in Stalingrad, Hauptsturmführer Aue is hallucinating about riding around in a dirigible with the mysterious Doktor Sardine.
“Suddenly, Sardine put his glasses on his eyes and leaned forward to examine me: ‘And are you looking for the end of the world too?’—‘Sorry?’ – ‘The end of the world! The end of the world! Don’t act innocent. What else could have brought you out here?’ – ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about Doktor.’ He grimaced, bounded out of his chair, ran around the table, seized an object, and hurled it at my head. I caught it in the nick of time. It was a cone mounted on a base, painted like a globe with the continents spread out around it; the flat base was gray and bore the caption TERRA INCOGNITA. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never seen that?’ Sardine went back to his seat and was rolling another cigarette. ‘Never, Doktor,’ I replied. – ‘What is it?’ – ‘It’s the earth! Idiot! Hypocrite! Two-faced bastard!’”
I’m lucky, too, that there are a lot of lice in this book. I love stories with lice. I haven’t seen so many lice in a book since the magnificent/significant Kolyma Tales! Go Russia!
I’d like to thank Jonathan Littell for this book. Whenever I open it, I feel like I'm entering a dilapidated and rotting mansion, at once fascinating and disgusting. That ear infection scene - wow! My son asked what I was grimacing about. And when I told him, he had further questions.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
studies show magnificent differences
I recently misread the word "tampon" as "lampoon," and soon stumbled to "poontang," and then all the orthographic resemblances got crazy mixed-up in a funny and inappropriate position.
This morning I decided that in all the news and research I had to read today I'd replace the word "significant" with "magnificent." Too much of the former and not enough of the latter out there, in my opinion.
Also in my opinion, writers and poets should know how to conjugate "to lay" and "to lie" correctly. And if they don't know, at least their editors at respected university presses should know. Is this so much to ask, language people?
This morning I decided that in all the news and research I had to read today I'd replace the word "significant" with "magnificent." Too much of the former and not enough of the latter out there, in my opinion.
Also in my opinion, writers and poets should know how to conjugate "to lay" and "to lie" correctly. And if they don't know, at least their editors at respected university presses should know. Is this so much to ask, language people?
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