I recently returned from a 3-week trip through Europe. Figured, I might as well put up a couple of the madly jotted notes from my notebook. In no particular order. This comes from the last (or nearly) couple entries.
It had been more than a dozen years since I had last seen Stonehenge, and the impression it made on me then - 15 years old, shivering in the bitterly cold winter wind that ripped across the high plain - had stayed.
It is still magnificent. The stones are jammed into the earth as firmly as if they'd sprouted roots, as though they are the lynchpins of the world, holding it all together atop that fresh green hill. The silently eloquent rough-hewn monoliths stand staggered in their uneven circle like grey-robed, grey-faced giant warlocks gathering to summon forth a beast that will take millennia to come - but surely will, when the time comes.
Crows fly over the stones with an easy familiarity that seems to mock the dutiful orderliness of the tourists who make their way around the English Heritage Site in an unsteady but obedient circle, very like the sheep who graze lazily only a couple dozen yards away, casting bored and smirklike glances at the crowd. Cameras snap, visitors pose with their photo-ready grins incongruous against the stark backdrop - these are, after all, just a bunch of rocks, and who cares how long they have stood here, who cares who willed their presence and why, and how - they are, in the end, just a ring of porous grey rocks, cordoned off from the crowd of nylon-jacketed sight-seekers.
But not even the throngs could detract from the immensity of this spectacle. Not even the clicking of shutters nor the multi-lingual chatter could muddle the powerful aura here.
And, in truth, the crowd was not as noisy as it could have been. For moments, here and there, a hush seemed to come over us, driving us to lower our voices or silence them altogether. For a few moments, we tourists became something like pilgrims, humbled and awed by the indefinable, undeniable greatness of that which we beheld. Our lives, all our experiences, all that we were, all that we had managed to become, to attain - all dwindled into utter insignificance in the face of what these stones had witnessed from their improbable perch. But it never made us feel small, not at all - perhaps that is what we came up there for - to lay the tiny offering of the sum total of ourselves as the foot of History's rocky avatars, to take our place in the flow, as water joins to water, as a tear might fall into an ocean, disappearing but never vanishing - at least, not to the eye that matters.
In the wind that hummed and roared in my ears, I thought I could hear human and animal voices. Whispers, cries, howls, footfalls. There were bones beneath our feet - metaphorically and very literally, for the too-subtle rounded earth mounds here and there around the site are ancient graves.
Who knows what sort of men and women had once moved between these stones? My arms had prickled, hairs standing up as though I were a spooked cat; I suppose this is part of being a "base creature" - retaining that which is animal about us humans.
I wish very much that I could return, someday, on my own, to find time to spend more than a quick half-hour there. It has the strong feeling of being a sacred place. Magic rises off the earth like a heavy fragrance.
From where I sit now, I can see the sun setting, white-gold behind the trees, silhouetting the children against the pale sky. And I wonder, I imagine how the light would stream between the stones, painting them a soft sandy gold before turning them to black, glorifying and sheltering them in this nightly consecration of light, this godliest ritual of repetition.
Perhaps I really am meant to be a pagan of some sort. Is there a ritual that follows the varied, different-paced rhythms of the earth? In the end, it is the only one that would make sense - the only one than would never depend on middle men - the only one that would yield its miracles both generously and reliably.
5.01.2009
4.03.2009
nummy nummers
I like my chocolate like I like my sex - dark, decadent and excessive, with a heavy tinge of bitterness, and a deep feeling of shame/remorse that comes immediately after swallowing.
Inspired by my friend Tina's giggle-inducing blog entry, An Ordinary Day: Sex and/or Chocolate?
Inspired by my friend Tina's giggle-inducing blog entry, An Ordinary Day: Sex and/or Chocolate?
overwriting (from the archives . . . and not)
I've always been conscious of the way things look, but even more so of the way they could be written.
I want to live as a poem. And maybe that is also why I so enjoyed the structure and ceremony of [my friend's] Catholic marriage rites, with their ancient beauty, their time-crafted rituals, their unabashed deference to tradition and comme-il-fautisme.
I feel like a madwoman at times - I chase after literary images and fetishize the mundane, if I have to.
And maybe that is why I like to be a tourist in life - that sort of behavior is forgivable in tourists. Encouraged, in fact.
I want to see life as a work of art - is is, sometimes. After all, art comes from life, coaxed from the grey quarry of the quotidian by the impractical, cloud-eyed miners of beauty. They swirl dirt around until they see a glistening speck, and then, by the strange alchemy of desire and imagination, they blow it into the pure gold of poetry. Silly they are, sometimes, but how else to endure it all? [. . .]
They/we are an odd lot, we self-described, self-appointed poets. We try to chronicle life, but maybe we only chronicle the shadows on the walls of our personal Platonic caves. And if we do wander outside to the fire, we warm our hands by it dumbly, almost callously, only to unfreeze our fingers long enough to stumble back into the cave and write about what we see flickering on the wall inside.
Are we fools or are we wise to isolate ourselves like this? Inspiration happens outside, but art can only be created in isolation. I suppose it's all about what one considers important - creativity or activity. Which loss would we shed more tears for? There never is a clear answer.
September, 2007 (on the way back from a friend's wedding).
My best moments, the best memories I've made have come when I was so busy being alive, there wasn't even time to touch pen to paper.
Once, I saw a quote by Colette; paraphrased from memory, it was something like "No great love story has ever been written while making love." Ah, there it is - the quandary of the writer. Does one write one's life or live it? The best manage both, in equal and complementary measure.
April 2, 2009.
I want to live as a poem. And maybe that is also why I so enjoyed the structure and ceremony of [my friend's] Catholic marriage rites, with their ancient beauty, their time-crafted rituals, their unabashed deference to tradition and comme-il-fautisme.
I feel like a madwoman at times - I chase after literary images and fetishize the mundane, if I have to.
And maybe that is why I like to be a tourist in life - that sort of behavior is forgivable in tourists. Encouraged, in fact.
I want to see life as a work of art - is is, sometimes. After all, art comes from life, coaxed from the grey quarry of the quotidian by the impractical, cloud-eyed miners of beauty. They swirl dirt around until they see a glistening speck, and then, by the strange alchemy of desire and imagination, they blow it into the pure gold of poetry. Silly they are, sometimes, but how else to endure it all? [. . .]
They/we are an odd lot, we self-described, self-appointed poets. We try to chronicle life, but maybe we only chronicle the shadows on the walls of our personal Platonic caves. And if we do wander outside to the fire, we warm our hands by it dumbly, almost callously, only to unfreeze our fingers long enough to stumble back into the cave and write about what we see flickering on the wall inside.
Are we fools or are we wise to isolate ourselves like this? Inspiration happens outside, but art can only be created in isolation. I suppose it's all about what one considers important - creativity or activity. Which loss would we shed more tears for? There never is a clear answer.
September, 2007 (on the way back from a friend's wedding).
My best moments, the best memories I've made have come when I was so busy being alive, there wasn't even time to touch pen to paper.
Once, I saw a quote by Colette; paraphrased from memory, it was something like "No great love story has ever been written while making love." Ah, there it is - the quandary of the writer. Does one write one's life or live it? The best manage both, in equal and complementary measure.
April 2, 2009.
springtime epiphany
I've had my adventures. No, I am not hanging up my travelling pack. Not now, not ever. But I've had my adventures. I've traveled, I've seen more than my share. I've written poems on beaches and barstools, I've felt the unfamiliar roll of foreign words in my mouth, I've met compelling strangers. I've lived songs. And if I haven't Found Myself, who is to say I was supposed to? Who is to say there is any one particular Self to find? I've found selves all over - abroad and at home.
Maybe the thing to do isn't to find yourself at all, but to leave pieces of yourself everywhere behind you. Like tiny graffiti scratched into wooden benches - leave bits of you in the people you encounter, in the places you visit. In the shadows of monuments, in the soil of meadows, in the fissures of rocks, in the cracks between floorboards. Stuck like gum under tables, like an earring behind a hotel nightstand, like a coin on the murky floor of a fountain, a pond, a lake, a river, an ocean.
Maybe the ultimate goal is to get to your deathbed light as possible, light as a breeze, divested of all but memory and heartbeat. And then, leave the latter in that bed, tangled in the last linens you will ever imprint with your warmth. The former, you can take with you.
It's time to stop mourning the "waste" of years. In the most meaningful terms, years are never wasted. I am what I am because of all I've slogged through. The caked mud on my boots contains a million tiny fossils.
And there are still miles and miles of mud to go.
Maybe the thing to do isn't to find yourself at all, but to leave pieces of yourself everywhere behind you. Like tiny graffiti scratched into wooden benches - leave bits of you in the people you encounter, in the places you visit. In the shadows of monuments, in the soil of meadows, in the fissures of rocks, in the cracks between floorboards. Stuck like gum under tables, like an earring behind a hotel nightstand, like a coin on the murky floor of a fountain, a pond, a lake, a river, an ocean.
Maybe the ultimate goal is to get to your deathbed light as possible, light as a breeze, divested of all but memory and heartbeat. And then, leave the latter in that bed, tangled in the last linens you will ever imprint with your warmth. The former, you can take with you.
It's time to stop mourning the "waste" of years. In the most meaningful terms, years are never wasted. I am what I am because of all I've slogged through. The caked mud on my boots contains a million tiny fossils.
And there are still miles and miles of mud to go.
4.01.2009
subterranean nocturne (from the archives)
The rats have all gone to sleep, but the trains, they say, are still running, past the nearly empty platforms with their scuffed wooden benches, each of which serves as this night's refuge to a human being, almost unrecognizable, buried as they are beneath their piles of earthly possessions.
But are the contents of their shopping carts and garbage bags so different, really, from the jumble in my purse or the inventory of my house? Probably not - they are all collections of accidentally acquired items that we have charged with a portion of our humanity, intending them to give us a measure of power - a sense of belonging or owning - ending up, instead, by giving them a kind of mute, imaginary power over us.
A surplus of baggage betrays a kind of fragility, buries our humanity. We have learned - the lucky ones - to leave enough of it at home to trick the world into believing in our independence, our security and stability. But we are all buried beneath our earthly baggage, aren't we, whether it's material or mental. We cart our histories around with us. We burrow into them for warmth or comfort, or simply to ward off irrelevant or unwanted sensory stimuli - like the woman wrapped in her old overcoat, ignoring the rattle of the trains and the shouts of the clean-up crew.
The trains come and go according to their practical schedule - take whichever one you wish, or none at all.
The small, silent group of passengers is a breathing reliquary of stories. Hard to imagine anyone taking a Brooklyn-bound train casually at 2:30 a.m. on a Wednesday. We are all coming from somewhere.
Always are, I guess.
Tired, still faces; some dozing, some reading or listening to music. A few - the well-dressed group sitting near me - chatting so animatedly, they clearly just had a pleasant evening. Two girls in high heels and a man in a pin-striped sports coat, a Canon SLR slung around his neck. Wonder what he's got on his memory card.
I suppose everyone has within them a pearly kernel of a story. Sometimes, I am indifferent to that. Other times, I wish I could plumb the depths of these forgettable faces, to see what lives they lead outside our shared bit of time.
I guess that's why I sometimes don't mind talking to odd strangers. Like that guy I met near Coney Island, who claimed to be the son of God. Was he crazy? Possibly. But he just believes in his personal convictions, his intuition. Who am I to judge or slight that?
How different, really, is the belief that one is meant to be the Messiah from the belief that one is meant to be a lawyer, a painter, an accountant? How different is a heaping old shopping cart from a Vuitton purse bulging with year-old receipts? Similar enough, I think, not to judge or look too much askance. It's all a series of choice and chances, anyway, that bring us to where we end up.
October 8, 2008
But are the contents of their shopping carts and garbage bags so different, really, from the jumble in my purse or the inventory of my house? Probably not - they are all collections of accidentally acquired items that we have charged with a portion of our humanity, intending them to give us a measure of power - a sense of belonging or owning - ending up, instead, by giving them a kind of mute, imaginary power over us.
A surplus of baggage betrays a kind of fragility, buries our humanity. We have learned - the lucky ones - to leave enough of it at home to trick the world into believing in our independence, our security and stability. But we are all buried beneath our earthly baggage, aren't we, whether it's material or mental. We cart our histories around with us. We burrow into them for warmth or comfort, or simply to ward off irrelevant or unwanted sensory stimuli - like the woman wrapped in her old overcoat, ignoring the rattle of the trains and the shouts of the clean-up crew.
The trains come and go according to their practical schedule - take whichever one you wish, or none at all.
The small, silent group of passengers is a breathing reliquary of stories. Hard to imagine anyone taking a Brooklyn-bound train casually at 2:30 a.m. on a Wednesday. We are all coming from somewhere.
Always are, I guess.
Tired, still faces; some dozing, some reading or listening to music. A few - the well-dressed group sitting near me - chatting so animatedly, they clearly just had a pleasant evening. Two girls in high heels and a man in a pin-striped sports coat, a Canon SLR slung around his neck. Wonder what he's got on his memory card.
I suppose everyone has within them a pearly kernel of a story. Sometimes, I am indifferent to that. Other times, I wish I could plumb the depths of these forgettable faces, to see what lives they lead outside our shared bit of time.
I guess that's why I sometimes don't mind talking to odd strangers. Like that guy I met near Coney Island, who claimed to be the son of God. Was he crazy? Possibly. But he just believes in his personal convictions, his intuition. Who am I to judge or slight that?
How different, really, is the belief that one is meant to be the Messiah from the belief that one is meant to be a lawyer, a painter, an accountant? How different is a heaping old shopping cart from a Vuitton purse bulging with year-old receipts? Similar enough, I think, not to judge or look too much askance. It's all a series of choice and chances, anyway, that bring us to where we end up.
October 8, 2008
3.31.2009
penlust
First of all . . . we are not alone.
Secondly . . . today, I ordered this and this.
And if you know me, you know exactly why the act of placing that order put me into a 20-minute giggle git*.
*That last word should have been "fit." But I happen to love that typo.
Secondly . . . today, I ordered this and this.
And if you know me, you know exactly why the act of placing that order put me into a 20-minute giggle git*.
*That last word should have been "fit." But I happen to love that typo.
on response (from the archives)
The best songs are ones that make us want to sing back - in whatever voice we can muster.
Perhaps that is the task of artists - not to create something brand new, necessarily, not even to self-express, but to inspire and encourage others to sing. To find their voice, their story; to unlock doors they might not have been aware of.
I can appreciate a work of art, even enjoy it, but I know it's hit a target only when it sends me reaching for a pen, searching for a word. In that moment, the painting, the story, the song ceases to dangle outside me; it slips into my immediacy and begins a conversation.
In part, these notebooks are the keepers of such conversations. Whether I admit it or not.
August 17, 2007.
[As an exercise in courage, I am going to attempt to force myself to put out some of the entries from my private journals. This was pretty much the first installment.]
Perhaps that is the task of artists - not to create something brand new, necessarily, not even to self-express, but to inspire and encourage others to sing. To find their voice, their story; to unlock doors they might not have been aware of.
I can appreciate a work of art, even enjoy it, but I know it's hit a target only when it sends me reaching for a pen, searching for a word. In that moment, the painting, the story, the song ceases to dangle outside me; it slips into my immediacy and begins a conversation.
In part, these notebooks are the keepers of such conversations. Whether I admit it or not.
August 17, 2007.
[As an exercise in courage, I am going to attempt to force myself to put out some of the entries from my private journals. This was pretty much the first installment.]
3.30.2009
Moleskines
My earthly riches
Just decoupaged Moleskine #6 yesterday - that's the one on the bottom, with the yellow design. #5 is the one with all the little mini photo stickers; #4 has the diagonal stripes and gold leaves. #s 1-3 are stacked beneath.
I always say - these notebooks contain my earthly riches. Doesn't look like much, but hey, at least it isn't market-dependent.
happyending
About two years ago, I wrote a story. I should say, I began a story, and I wrote many parts of it out of sequence, and then, I found any number of reasons not to finish it.
I thought it was a story about a love affair. An illicit love affair between a female writer and her friend's husband. I thought it was a story about the complicated nature of friendship; about the tension between personal happiness and a sense of responsibility; about missed chances and completed choices. And about love, of course.
I wrote the final scene of the story on a warm day in Bryant Park. The night before, I had begun something powerful, but I hadn't realized it yet. I sat in the park, took out my notebook and scribbled out 15 pages or so without stopping.
Only then did I realize what the story was about. Not love. Not friendship. Not desire. It was about a writer's search for a happy ending. Even if it wasn't her own.
Maybe that's really all everything is about.
I thought it was a story about a love affair. An illicit love affair between a female writer and her friend's husband. I thought it was a story about the complicated nature of friendship; about the tension between personal happiness and a sense of responsibility; about missed chances and completed choices. And about love, of course.
I wrote the final scene of the story on a warm day in Bryant Park. The night before, I had begun something powerful, but I hadn't realized it yet. I sat in the park, took out my notebook and scribbled out 15 pages or so without stopping.
Only then did I realize what the story was about. Not love. Not friendship. Not desire. It was about a writer's search for a happy ending. Even if it wasn't her own.
Maybe that's really all everything is about.
3.28.2009
dusty haven
Today, on one of the first truly beautiful days of the spring season, I decided to take a little field trip down to one of my favorite neighborhoods - Brooklyn Heights. It is home to some quiet, pretty streets, the generously lovely Brooklyn Promenade, and a whole bunch of good-to-excellent restaurants/eateries. (Including Jacques Torres, but why tempt the devil.) It's also right near the end of the famous Brooklyn Bridge, so you can either begin or end a walk across there.
One of my favorite routes - uncreative though it is - is a walk on Montague Street. I get off at Court Street and walk up to the water. On the way, I would pass by Monty's pizzeria (and when I say "pass by," I pretty much mean, stop in for a slice of delicious eggplant pizza and carry on), a MAC store (danger), and a Starbucks placed conveniently across the street from one of my favorite little used bookstores in the city.
Heights Books was a bookstore's bookstore. It was made for bibliophiles and no one else. The layout was too confusing to run in and grab what you were looking for. There were practically no nods to decorative sensibilities - just piles and piles of books everywhere, narrow wooden and metal shelves crammed so close together that certain sections might have been difficult for a claustrophobic (or a larger person) to access. Everywhere, dust, yellowing paper and well-used spines. Heaven.
My favorite was the poetry section. It was set off in the kind of odd corner that one would easily miss if one didn't know it was there. Once you were in there, you were basically in a tiny, triangular alcove of books, with only a person-wide gap through which to re-enter the world - whenever you decided to do so. They even had an old and rickety swivel chair there.
The selection was totally random. Books in a used bookstore generally are; and more so when it comes to sections like poetry. You had the usual Norton anthologies, the Penguin editions, the Dover Thrift editions (these always multiply at the end of a college semester), you had the usual classics and Big Names, but you also had dozens of poetry books by people you'd never heard of before - or had heard of maybe ONCE, and meant to look up, but forgot about.
I've long had a thing for poetry books. It's more than just reading the actual books, it's being surrounded by all that concentrated energy. One of my very favorite poets, Erica Jong, once said that a poem was "a little container of energy, released by the reader when they read the poem." So, sitting in that tiny space, filled so densely by hundreds of books containing thousands of little unopened energy containers always filled me with a sense of secret excitement and deliciously precarious serenity. I would sit in the chair, then crouch on the floor, looking at every single book on the shelves, savoring the titles and authors' names, fingering the spines, pulling out ones that looked promising and flipping through just enough pages to figure out whether this poet's energy could unlock my own.
Once you've done that for a little while, you enter a state that I call bookstore-nirvana. The right books suddenly stick to your thumbs as you pass your hands over them. They fly into your hands like friendly, dusty sparrows. Sometimes, they make you sneeze. Occasionally, they make you cry. Usually, they just make you grin with total, disbelieving delight at your dumb luck, as though a blind date has just gone really well.
I found one of my favorite books there that way. Hawksley Workman's hawksley burns for isadora, which I actually found on an absolutely horrible, profoundly painful day. (To give an idea of the day's unpleasantness, I started it off normally enough, intending to just push through it. When I burst into uncontrollable tears on the rush-hour train, I decided it might be a good time to take the morning off work and go somewhere peaceful till I calmed down.) I went to Heights Books, bought the jewel-like little thing and read it on a bench on the Promenade. It didn't exactly make me feel better, but the urgently burning brilliance of the words at least shook me out of my sorry state.
That's probably the most extreme example, but it isn't the only one. I've never left the store without two or three marvelous little finds. And I loved the slightly eccentric older man at the register, who answered any and all questions about books with the alacrity of someone who had inhaled several reams worth of paper dust over the course of his lifetime. He would eye your books, tally their prices, and then give you a final quote that, I could swear, knocked off a few extra bucks if he liked your taste.
I liked everything about that place. I liked the opera music that played softly whenever that particular eccentric man was working the register. (Not when there were young, self-important hipsters on duty, though.) I even liked the prices - fair and well below retail, but clearly set by someone who knew the sentimonetary value of a first edition, even when it was a 1971 by a virtual unknown. (And, yes, they had a great selection of rare/old books; but I only allowed myself brief looks at those. Similarly to how I tend to mostly avert my eyes from Harry Winston windows.)
I loved that place. And I hadn't been there in a few months - not since the weather had last been nice enough to take a walk through Brooklyn Heights. Imagine how I felt today when I arrived to find it boarded up, all signage removed, with a "For Rent" sign in the window. I'd planned to take a walk, buy a couple of books and then begin reading one of them in the Starbucks. Like a proper white person. Instead, I ended up empty-handed, nearly weeping into my green tea latte.
This may sound totally ridiculous, but it really did put a damper on my day. I went home with the intention to write a heartfelt eulogy to this beautiful little Brooklyn gem, railing against the recession, the corporations and the illiterates. And then, I had the bright idea to Google it, just to see if anyone else was as upset as I was about this.
A couple blog entries later, my day was looking brighter again. (At 3 a.m., yes.) Turns out, it only closed at that particular location. It's just reopened elsewhere. So, it looks like I'll have to change up my walking route a bit.
But my sweet little dusty haven is still out there, somewhere. And perhaps a friendly sparrow hides inside, tucked between a required English Lit text and a 1998 issue of a high school literary magazine . . . just waiting for me to find it.
One of my favorite routes - uncreative though it is - is a walk on Montague Street. I get off at Court Street and walk up to the water. On the way, I would pass by Monty's pizzeria (and when I say "pass by," I pretty much mean, stop in for a slice of delicious eggplant pizza and carry on), a MAC store (danger), and a Starbucks placed conveniently across the street from one of my favorite little used bookstores in the city.
Heights Books was a bookstore's bookstore. It was made for bibliophiles and no one else. The layout was too confusing to run in and grab what you were looking for. There were practically no nods to decorative sensibilities - just piles and piles of books everywhere, narrow wooden and metal shelves crammed so close together that certain sections might have been difficult for a claustrophobic (or a larger person) to access. Everywhere, dust, yellowing paper and well-used spines. Heaven.
My favorite was the poetry section. It was set off in the kind of odd corner that one would easily miss if one didn't know it was there. Once you were in there, you were basically in a tiny, triangular alcove of books, with only a person-wide gap through which to re-enter the world - whenever you decided to do so. They even had an old and rickety swivel chair there.
The selection was totally random. Books in a used bookstore generally are; and more so when it comes to sections like poetry. You had the usual Norton anthologies, the Penguin editions, the Dover Thrift editions (these always multiply at the end of a college semester), you had the usual classics and Big Names, but you also had dozens of poetry books by people you'd never heard of before - or had heard of maybe ONCE, and meant to look up, but forgot about.
I've long had a thing for poetry books. It's more than just reading the actual books, it's being surrounded by all that concentrated energy. One of my very favorite poets, Erica Jong, once said that a poem was "a little container of energy, released by the reader when they read the poem." So, sitting in that tiny space, filled so densely by hundreds of books containing thousands of little unopened energy containers always filled me with a sense of secret excitement and deliciously precarious serenity. I would sit in the chair, then crouch on the floor, looking at every single book on the shelves, savoring the titles and authors' names, fingering the spines, pulling out ones that looked promising and flipping through just enough pages to figure out whether this poet's energy could unlock my own.
Once you've done that for a little while, you enter a state that I call bookstore-nirvana. The right books suddenly stick to your thumbs as you pass your hands over them. They fly into your hands like friendly, dusty sparrows. Sometimes, they make you sneeze. Occasionally, they make you cry. Usually, they just make you grin with total, disbelieving delight at your dumb luck, as though a blind date has just gone really well.
I found one of my favorite books there that way. Hawksley Workman's hawksley burns for isadora, which I actually found on an absolutely horrible, profoundly painful day. (To give an idea of the day's unpleasantness, I started it off normally enough, intending to just push through it. When I burst into uncontrollable tears on the rush-hour train, I decided it might be a good time to take the morning off work and go somewhere peaceful till I calmed down.) I went to Heights Books, bought the jewel-like little thing and read it on a bench on the Promenade. It didn't exactly make me feel better, but the urgently burning brilliance of the words at least shook me out of my sorry state.
That's probably the most extreme example, but it isn't the only one. I've never left the store without two or three marvelous little finds. And I loved the slightly eccentric older man at the register, who answered any and all questions about books with the alacrity of someone who had inhaled several reams worth of paper dust over the course of his lifetime. He would eye your books, tally their prices, and then give you a final quote that, I could swear, knocked off a few extra bucks if he liked your taste.
I liked everything about that place. I liked the opera music that played softly whenever that particular eccentric man was working the register. (Not when there were young, self-important hipsters on duty, though.) I even liked the prices - fair and well below retail, but clearly set by someone who knew the sentimonetary value of a first edition, even when it was a 1971 by a virtual unknown. (And, yes, they had a great selection of rare/old books; but I only allowed myself brief looks at those. Similarly to how I tend to mostly avert my eyes from Harry Winston windows.)
I loved that place. And I hadn't been there in a few months - not since the weather had last been nice enough to take a walk through Brooklyn Heights. Imagine how I felt today when I arrived to find it boarded up, all signage removed, with a "For Rent" sign in the window. I'd planned to take a walk, buy a couple of books and then begin reading one of them in the Starbucks. Like a proper white person. Instead, I ended up empty-handed, nearly weeping into my green tea latte.
This may sound totally ridiculous, but it really did put a damper on my day. I went home with the intention to write a heartfelt eulogy to this beautiful little Brooklyn gem, railing against the recession, the corporations and the illiterates. And then, I had the bright idea to Google it, just to see if anyone else was as upset as I was about this.
A couple blog entries later, my day was looking brighter again. (At 3 a.m., yes.) Turns out, it only closed at that particular location. It's just reopened elsewhere. So, it looks like I'll have to change up my walking route a bit.
But my sweet little dusty haven is still out there, somewhere. And perhaps a friendly sparrow hides inside, tucked between a required English Lit text and a 1998 issue of a high school literary magazine . . . just waiting for me to find it.
3.27.2009
happenness (the ultimate geek-out)
Just placed an order on JetPens.com. Ordered a dozen or so of my beloved Uni-ball Signo DX with the 0.28mm nib. Mostly in black and blue-black, with a couple of other colors tossed in (including the new brown-black, which may or may not become a hit with me).
I have been using these pens for about 1.5 years now. Sometime in the winter of 2007 (or perhaps December of 2006; not sure; I know it was cold and I was still on my first Moleskine), a friend of mine introduced me to them. She did this by gifting me a Hello Kitty pen she'd gotten in Japan.
At the time, I was on a quest for the perfect pen. I'd started journaling in a new type of notebook (afore-mentioned Moleskine) a couple months before, and had unlocked my personal secret to consistent graphoproductivity: sensualize the experience. Make it intrinsically beautiful and delicious. Make the act of putting pen to paper a sexy, satisfying experience.
So, I'd found the paper and the binding and all; now, I was just looking for a pen. It had to be a fast-flowing pen, capable of keeping up with my thoughts; I had not willingly used ballpoints for years. So, probably a gel-ink, felt or fountain-pen. At the same time, it had to dry quickly, so that I wouldn't need to worry about smearing the words with my hand or the opposite page.
It also had to have the finest nib possible. My handwriting is quick and messy, and a finer nib is more forgiving when it comes to legibility. Additionally, a fine nib leaves behind far less ink, which means it's a faster drying time. Also, I was using the pocket-sized Moleskine, and wanted to be able to write smaller.
I quickly realized my old faithful Uni-ball 0.5mm pens (available in bulk at all major office supply stores) produced WAY too clunky a line. Additionally, there was a bit of bleed-through on the pages. Minimal, but it wasn't good enough.
On the recommendation of some fellow obsessive graphomaniacs, I purchased the very reasonably priced and attractive Lamy Safari in red, together with a jar of Noodler's Ink in Zhivago. My God, it was sexy. The thick, red pen in my fingers; the rich flow of glistening green-black ink across the creamy virgin paper. My notebook seemed to whisper Lara's Theme every time I stroked it with the Lamy. Snowflakes fell, I think.
Unfortunately, even the finest nib available at the store wasn't quite fine enough. I got maybe 10 lines to a page. And it didn't dry quickly enough. (True to Noodler's promise, though, there was no bleed-through.)
I went through a few other options. First, I over-hastily ordered a dozen of the Pilot G-2 pens that many Moleskinites swore by. Most of those are still rattling around the house, being used to sign checks and make shopping lists.
My quest brought me to the pen-and-marker aisles of Pearl Paint, infinite mecca of artists, crafties and wannabes. I am not sure how many collective hours I spent doodling on the thoughtfully provided test-pads in those aisles, experimenting with, literally, dozens of types of pens in hundreds of colors. I am not sure how much money I spent on all those delectable Faber-Castell "artist pens," in various nib-sizes and shades (including sepiatones, mmmm). I am not sure how many sketchpads I bought, drunk on the heavy texture of watercolor paper, and completely forgetting my utter inability to sketch, draw or, frankly, color inside lines.
Alas, even the "Superfine" Faber-Castell pens were not fine enough. My Moleskine was Cinderella's glass slipper - and, just because it's a pretty foot, that don't mean it's gonna fit. I reserved my Faber-Castells for my watercolor activities (which mostly consisted of me dragging a pen across the paper and then hugging myself with the simple joy of watching the vibrant color appear on the creamy lawn, very much like a small, feeble-minded child during fingerpainting class).
I did content myself, for a while, with the Pigma Micron markers by Sakura. These also came in a nice range of colors, and - joy of joys - were available in a 0.05mm nib. (Which was like, WHOA, considering that the smallest nib I'd seen before that was a 0.1mm; which was nice, but c'mon, 0.05mm!!!!) So, for a while, I used those, and they were fine.
Then, I tried the Staedtler Pigment Liner, likewise in a 0.05mm nib. In black. (By then, I had realized, I would never be one of those cool people who can maintain a colorful and serious journal, and then take pictures of it and post them on Flickr.) The Staedtler is a fine pen, and I still have a stock of them - in 0.05mm and 0.1mm. (The thicker one is nicer for drawing, or to neatly write quotes.)
Right. So, it was in the midst of all this sturm-und-drang (I know, someone totally should write an ABC show about this), that my friend casually gave me that Hello Kitty pen. Which was really just an ordinary-looking ballpoint gel-ink (a.k.a., rollerball) pen with a clear barrel and a rubber grip. Except it had "Hello Kitty" on it, along with that little white kitty face that no female over the age of 10 should have anywhere near her person unless she is either Asian or pink-cheeked, pig-tailed, bobby-socked and is/was class president of Chappaqua High in Minneapolis or something.
But it was a damn fine pen. A damn fine pen. The finest nib I'd ever seen on a non-technical pen. Near-instant drying time. Quick, smooth flow. An unpretentious exterior. A damn fine pen. Unfortunately, the only words printed on it were "Hello Kitty." And some Japanese characters above a smirking, triumphant, elusive "0.28" on the cap. No brand name. Nothing.
So, I sighed to myself and continued searching. (Shortly after this, I discovered the Pigma Micron and the Staedtler.) Every so often, I'd use the Hello Kitty pen. But - and this is aside from feeling, every time I used it, as though a dozen small Japanese men had just ejaculated on me in a private karaoke room - I have this thing about "saving" the items I love the best. Living in the moment is all good and well, but when something is finite and rare-to-unavailable - a bottle of expensive perfume, a limited-edition MAC lipstick, the ink in a wonderful pen - I tend to only use it when the moment is either special, or when I want to make it feel that way. So I very seldom used my wonderful Hello Kitty pen.
Now. The Staedtler and the Pigma Micron are both fine pens, as I have said. However, they have their drawbacks. Firstly, they are kind of felt pens. I think. Felt-like, anyway. Which means they dry out at the drop of a cap (hah, hah?) and bringing them back to life is very difficult. Also, they have this incredibly skinny little wire-like nib, which doesn't take much effort to bend (especially when one writes on moving trains), which then makes your delicate little nib into a big-ass calligraphy nib, which is all good and well when you are trying to practice calligraphy, but not when you are angrily trying to get out onto paper how much you hate the See-You-Next-Tuesday in the cubicle across from yours, all in order to relieve the aggression and not defenestrate said See-You-Next-Tuesday upon your next encounter.
Which meant that I had to keep buying more pens. Which maybe wouldn't be so bad - despite the ~$3 price tag on each - except it was just friggen annoying to have to go to the store every few weeks; and then, sometimes, you'd get one and it was already dried-out or half-dried-out. Not cool. Clearly, the situation called for a rollerball.
Boldly, I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the almighty God, Google. I typed in "Hello Kitty pen 0.28", sprinkled the blood of a young goat over my keyboard and hit Enter. And, lo, just a few hits down the page, was someone's journal entry about her "Hello Kitty" pen and how it was really just a Uni-Ball Signo 0.28 with a logo on it. I did a dance of joy, stuck a tampon in the goat, and Googled "Uni-Ball Signo 0.28."
Which is how I came to JetPens. Basically, they specialize in Japanese pens, and all sorts of pens that, I guess, are a little rare on the American market. I nearly wept when, verily, I saw upon the screen the exact replica of my friend's pen, minus the "Hello Kitty" logo. I quickly ordered about 20 pens and waited, with bated breath, for the package to arrive. (OK, so I unbated my breath a few times in the interim.)
This was, I think, in about late spring/early summer 2007. Yes. My second Moleskine's second half is written in the distinctive blue-black rollerball ink. And Moleskines 3-6 were all written with the same pens - mostly in black or blue-black. (Except for a brief flirtation I once had with a vividly azure-colored 0.01mm Prismacolor Premier. I was feeling "blue" so I wrote in the bluest ink I could find. Don't ask.)
Just 2 days ago, I had to toss my last blue-black Signo, with just a smudge of ink left in its barrel. It wouldn't write anymore; it just tore the paper. The other black and blue-black pens were long gone too - most of them had run out of ink. I probably lost at least one or two others. It's possible I gave a couple away as gifts.
I still have my reserve of colorful pens - purple, hot pink, sky blue. (The emerald-green one was left uncapped too long; it dried out and had to be tossed a couple months ago.) But I just can't write my normal journal entries in these colors. It's too distracting. I feel like I have to be zany or something. It's very difficult to write about bleeding the black bile of your rotting love in fucking hot pink. Even purple, which I actually quite like (and do use, on occasion), often reminds me of Jessica Wakefield and the Unicorn Club.
So, I am happy to have placed an order with JetPens. I am looking forward to ripping into that package; to lovingly distributing the pens among various purses, backpacks and stationery stations; and to uncapping a beautiful, pristine pen and violently ripping out its cherry with a poem about love in the moonlight. Yesss . . .
And for now? I'm writing with . . . the old Hello Kitty pen. I never did use it much; plenty of ink left.
And you know what else? I added something to my order. In addition to the pens, I also ordered a pen refill. I plan to put it into the Hello Kitty pen. I will hold on to this pen. It is the pen that other pens came from. It has meaning and value, even if it is ridiculously decorated with a childish logo.
OK, fine - actually, I put the refill in the basket only because it costs less than a full pen, and I was only $0.50 away from free shipping, so I chose the cheaper alternative.
Or maybe . . . I kinda like feeling like a dozen small Japanese men . . . uh . . . never mind.
I have been using these pens for about 1.5 years now. Sometime in the winter of 2007 (or perhaps December of 2006; not sure; I know it was cold and I was still on my first Moleskine), a friend of mine introduced me to them. She did this by gifting me a Hello Kitty pen she'd gotten in Japan.
At the time, I was on a quest for the perfect pen. I'd started journaling in a new type of notebook (afore-mentioned Moleskine) a couple months before, and had unlocked my personal secret to consistent graphoproductivity: sensualize the experience. Make it intrinsically beautiful and delicious. Make the act of putting pen to paper a sexy, satisfying experience.
So, I'd found the paper and the binding and all; now, I was just looking for a pen. It had to be a fast-flowing pen, capable of keeping up with my thoughts; I had not willingly used ballpoints for years. So, probably a gel-ink, felt or fountain-pen. At the same time, it had to dry quickly, so that I wouldn't need to worry about smearing the words with my hand or the opposite page.
It also had to have the finest nib possible. My handwriting is quick and messy, and a finer nib is more forgiving when it comes to legibility. Additionally, a fine nib leaves behind far less ink, which means it's a faster drying time. Also, I was using the pocket-sized Moleskine, and wanted to be able to write smaller.
I quickly realized my old faithful Uni-ball 0.5mm pens (available in bulk at all major office supply stores) produced WAY too clunky a line. Additionally, there was a bit of bleed-through on the pages. Minimal, but it wasn't good enough.
On the recommendation of some fellow obsessive graphomaniacs, I purchased the very reasonably priced and attractive Lamy Safari in red, together with a jar of Noodler's Ink in Zhivago. My God, it was sexy. The thick, red pen in my fingers; the rich flow of glistening green-black ink across the creamy virgin paper. My notebook seemed to whisper Lara's Theme every time I stroked it with the Lamy. Snowflakes fell, I think.
Unfortunately, even the finest nib available at the store wasn't quite fine enough. I got maybe 10 lines to a page. And it didn't dry quickly enough. (True to Noodler's promise, though, there was no bleed-through.)
I went through a few other options. First, I over-hastily ordered a dozen of the Pilot G-2 pens that many Moleskinites swore by. Most of those are still rattling around the house, being used to sign checks and make shopping lists.
My quest brought me to the pen-and-marker aisles of Pearl Paint, infinite mecca of artists, crafties and wannabes. I am not sure how many collective hours I spent doodling on the thoughtfully provided test-pads in those aisles, experimenting with, literally, dozens of types of pens in hundreds of colors. I am not sure how much money I spent on all those delectable Faber-Castell "artist pens," in various nib-sizes and shades (including sepiatones, mmmm). I am not sure how many sketchpads I bought, drunk on the heavy texture of watercolor paper, and completely forgetting my utter inability to sketch, draw or, frankly, color inside lines.
Alas, even the "Superfine" Faber-Castell pens were not fine enough. My Moleskine was Cinderella's glass slipper - and, just because it's a pretty foot, that don't mean it's gonna fit. I reserved my Faber-Castells for my watercolor activities (which mostly consisted of me dragging a pen across the paper and then hugging myself with the simple joy of watching the vibrant color appear on the creamy lawn, very much like a small, feeble-minded child during fingerpainting class).
I did content myself, for a while, with the Pigma Micron markers by Sakura. These also came in a nice range of colors, and - joy of joys - were available in a 0.05mm nib. (Which was like, WHOA, considering that the smallest nib I'd seen before that was a 0.1mm; which was nice, but c'mon, 0.05mm!!!!) So, for a while, I used those, and they were fine.
Then, I tried the Staedtler Pigment Liner, likewise in a 0.05mm nib. In black. (By then, I had realized, I would never be one of those cool people who can maintain a colorful and serious journal, and then take pictures of it and post them on Flickr.) The Staedtler is a fine pen, and I still have a stock of them - in 0.05mm and 0.1mm. (The thicker one is nicer for drawing, or to neatly write quotes.)
Right. So, it was in the midst of all this sturm-und-drang (I know, someone totally should write an ABC show about this), that my friend casually gave me that Hello Kitty pen. Which was really just an ordinary-looking ballpoint gel-ink (a.k.a., rollerball) pen with a clear barrel and a rubber grip. Except it had "Hello Kitty" on it, along with that little white kitty face that no female over the age of 10 should have anywhere near her person unless she is either Asian or pink-cheeked, pig-tailed, bobby-socked and is/was class president of Chappaqua High in Minneapolis or something.
But it was a damn fine pen. A damn fine pen. The finest nib I'd ever seen on a non-technical pen. Near-instant drying time. Quick, smooth flow. An unpretentious exterior. A damn fine pen. Unfortunately, the only words printed on it were "Hello Kitty." And some Japanese characters above a smirking, triumphant, elusive "0.28" on the cap. No brand name. Nothing.
So, I sighed to myself and continued searching. (Shortly after this, I discovered the Pigma Micron and the Staedtler.) Every so often, I'd use the Hello Kitty pen. But - and this is aside from feeling, every time I used it, as though a dozen small Japanese men had just ejaculated on me in a private karaoke room - I have this thing about "saving" the items I love the best. Living in the moment is all good and well, but when something is finite and rare-to-unavailable - a bottle of expensive perfume, a limited-edition MAC lipstick, the ink in a wonderful pen - I tend to only use it when the moment is either special, or when I want to make it feel that way. So I very seldom used my wonderful Hello Kitty pen.
Now. The Staedtler and the Pigma Micron are both fine pens, as I have said. However, they have their drawbacks. Firstly, they are kind of felt pens. I think. Felt-like, anyway. Which means they dry out at the drop of a cap (hah, hah?) and bringing them back to life is very difficult. Also, they have this incredibly skinny little wire-like nib, which doesn't take much effort to bend (especially when one writes on moving trains), which then makes your delicate little nib into a big-ass calligraphy nib, which is all good and well when you are trying to practice calligraphy, but not when you are angrily trying to get out onto paper how much you hate the See-You-Next-Tuesday in the cubicle across from yours, all in order to relieve the aggression and not defenestrate said See-You-Next-Tuesday upon your next encounter.
Which meant that I had to keep buying more pens. Which maybe wouldn't be so bad - despite the ~$3 price tag on each - except it was just friggen annoying to have to go to the store every few weeks; and then, sometimes, you'd get one and it was already dried-out or half-dried-out. Not cool. Clearly, the situation called for a rollerball.
Boldly, I decided to throw myself at the mercy of the almighty God, Google. I typed in "Hello Kitty pen 0.28", sprinkled the blood of a young goat over my keyboard and hit Enter. And, lo, just a few hits down the page, was someone's journal entry about her "Hello Kitty" pen and how it was really just a Uni-Ball Signo 0.28 with a logo on it. I did a dance of joy, stuck a tampon in the goat, and Googled "Uni-Ball Signo 0.28."
Which is how I came to JetPens. Basically, they specialize in Japanese pens, and all sorts of pens that, I guess, are a little rare on the American market. I nearly wept when, verily, I saw upon the screen the exact replica of my friend's pen, minus the "Hello Kitty" logo. I quickly ordered about 20 pens and waited, with bated breath, for the package to arrive. (OK, so I unbated my breath a few times in the interim.)
This was, I think, in about late spring/early summer 2007. Yes. My second Moleskine's second half is written in the distinctive blue-black rollerball ink. And Moleskines 3-6 were all written with the same pens - mostly in black or blue-black. (Except for a brief flirtation I once had with a vividly azure-colored 0.01mm Prismacolor Premier. I was feeling "blue" so I wrote in the bluest ink I could find. Don't ask.)
Just 2 days ago, I had to toss my last blue-black Signo, with just a smudge of ink left in its barrel. It wouldn't write anymore; it just tore the paper. The other black and blue-black pens were long gone too - most of them had run out of ink. I probably lost at least one or two others. It's possible I gave a couple away as gifts.
I still have my reserve of colorful pens - purple, hot pink, sky blue. (The emerald-green one was left uncapped too long; it dried out and had to be tossed a couple months ago.) But I just can't write my normal journal entries in these colors. It's too distracting. I feel like I have to be zany or something. It's very difficult to write about bleeding the black bile of your rotting love in fucking hot pink. Even purple, which I actually quite like (and do use, on occasion), often reminds me of Jessica Wakefield and the Unicorn Club.
So, I am happy to have placed an order with JetPens. I am looking forward to ripping into that package; to lovingly distributing the pens among various purses, backpacks and stationery stations; and to uncapping a beautiful, pristine pen and violently ripping out its cherry with a poem about love in the moonlight. Yesss . . .
And for now? I'm writing with . . . the old Hello Kitty pen. I never did use it much; plenty of ink left.
And you know what else? I added something to my order. In addition to the pens, I also ordered a pen refill. I plan to put it into the Hello Kitty pen. I will hold on to this pen. It is the pen that other pens came from. It has meaning and value, even if it is ridiculously decorated with a childish logo.
OK, fine - actually, I put the refill in the basket only because it costs less than a full pen, and I was only $0.50 away from free shipping, so I chose the cheaper alternative.
Or maybe . . . I kinda like feeling like a dozen small Japanese men . . . uh . . . never mind.
3.18.2009
perfect playlist (v. 1)
in no particular order
1. Rachael Yamagata & Ray LaMontagne, "Duet"
2. Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova, "Falling Slowly"
3. Hoots & Hellmouth, "Two Hearts, a Snake and a Concubine"
4. Nick Cave, "The Ship Song"
5. Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"
6. Joan Baez, "Diamonds & Rust"
7. Tom Waits, "I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You"
8. Damien Rice, "The Blower's Daughter"
9. The Decemberists, "Red Right Ankle"
10. Townes Van Zandt, "St. John the Gambler"
11. Nick Cave, "Brompton Oratory"
12. Hawksley Workman, "You Are Too Beautiful"
13. The Dubliners, "On Raglan Road"
14. Blair Harvey, "Where Love Goes"
15. Leonard Cohen, "Alexandra Leaving"
16. Powderfinger, "Drifting Further Away"
17. Eva Cassidy, "Fields of Gold"
18. Ryan Adams, "La Cienega Just Smiled"
19. Bruce Springsteen, "The Wrestler"
20. Two Gallants, "Crow Jane"
1. Rachael Yamagata & Ray LaMontagne, "Duet"
2. Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova, "Falling Slowly"
3. Hoots & Hellmouth, "Two Hearts, a Snake and a Concubine"
4. Nick Cave, "The Ship Song"
5. Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"
6. Joan Baez, "Diamonds & Rust"
7. Tom Waits, "I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You"
8. Damien Rice, "The Blower's Daughter"
9. The Decemberists, "Red Right Ankle"
10. Townes Van Zandt, "St. John the Gambler"
11. Nick Cave, "Brompton Oratory"
12. Hawksley Workman, "You Are Too Beautiful"
13. The Dubliners, "On Raglan Road"
14. Blair Harvey, "Where Love Goes"
15. Leonard Cohen, "Alexandra Leaving"
16. Powderfinger, "Drifting Further Away"
17. Eva Cassidy, "Fields of Gold"
18. Ryan Adams, "La Cienega Just Smiled"
19. Bruce Springsteen, "The Wrestler"
20. Two Gallants, "Crow Jane"
3.16.2009
prophecy
I guess the hardest thing about embarking on a new form of self-expression is resisting the temptation to cut yourself off at the knees by reacting to difficulties/failure with "well, maybe this just isn't my thing."
I used to call it "self-asphyxiation." This was back when I liked to have grand words for every silly time I rediscovered the wheel.
I know the popular rhetoric is: go forth and "attempt more failure" (I actually really like that). But there is something else to consider. There is only so much life for the taking - only so many hours in the day, only so much energy to expend. Perhaps best to stick to what I know and do reasonably well, instead of over-reaching and over-experimenting. Perhaps it's best to accept the fact that sometimes, there just isn't enough talent.
Perhaps it's time to grow the fuck up and accept that Mommy and the public school system were wrong, and I actually can't "do anything I put my mind to."
Or maybe it's time to find my contrarian streak again, think of the whole endeavor as a skill-building experience and slog on. Until I've finally created something.
Whereupon, become obsessed for 9-18 months, and then gradually drop it. Which is what usually happens.
I used to call it "self-asphyxiation." This was back when I liked to have grand words for every silly time I rediscovered the wheel.
I know the popular rhetoric is: go forth and "attempt more failure" (I actually really like that). But there is something else to consider. There is only so much life for the taking - only so many hours in the day, only so much energy to expend. Perhaps best to stick to what I know and do reasonably well, instead of over-reaching and over-experimenting. Perhaps it's best to accept the fact that sometimes, there just isn't enough talent.
Perhaps it's time to grow the fuck up and accept that Mommy and the public school system were wrong, and I actually can't "do anything I put my mind to."
Or maybe it's time to find my contrarian streak again, think of the whole endeavor as a skill-building experience and slog on. Until I've finally created something.
Whereupon, become obsessed for 9-18 months, and then gradually drop it. Which is what usually happens.
3.13.2009
short stories
Reading Carson McCullers' collected short stories & marveling at how terrific those can be.
It's been a long time since I've read a short story; probably longer since I've written one. (Actually, I'll tell you - last one I wrote was "Evaporated Water" in summer of 2006.) I think it's been a bit of an underappreciated medium with me in the last few years.
It has been ages since I've actually written a STORY. At least one that didn't end up getting told in verse.
Something to think about, and perhaps work on.
It's been a long time since I've read a short story; probably longer since I've written one. (Actually, I'll tell you - last one I wrote was "Evaporated Water" in summer of 2006.) I think it's been a bit of an underappreciated medium with me in the last few years.
It has been ages since I've actually written a STORY. At least one that didn't end up getting told in verse.
Something to think about, and perhaps work on.
3.12.2009
self-indulgence
It occurs to me that what is required to keep a blog alive is not only the self-indulgence it takes to claim and design this corner of cyberspace, but also the self-confidence it takes to actually take oneself SERIOUSLY enough to think that the random shit that flies through your brain is worth putting down somewhere where ACTUAL people might actually READ it.
And then, not to edit it down so much that it loses all the traces of sincerity that made you think it was worth posting in the first place.
Pledge (with the caveat that a blogged pledge is worth less than a verbal contract) - I shall try to distill at least SOME postable bits from my paper journal entries and place them here. Otherwise, what the hell was the point of redesigning this page around a blog format?
And then, not to edit it down so much that it loses all the traces of sincerity that made you think it was worth posting in the first place.
Pledge (with the caveat that a blogged pledge is worth less than a verbal contract) - I shall try to distill at least SOME postable bits from my paper journal entries and place them here. Otherwise, what the hell was the point of redesigning this page around a blog format?
3.09.2009
carpe quispiam
Whoever first espoused the philosophy of delayed gratification never factored in the possibility of sudden death.
3.03.2009
a thought
If self-absorbed introspection is called "navel-gazing," would one call digging up one's own high school poetry "navel lint-picking"?
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