Monday, February 23, 2009
Wee
I have never felt so imersed in the world of writing as I have this past year and I can't imagine my life any other way. I have the great pleasure of interviewing William Kittredge this week and I've been exploring his writing. He seems like a great guy and I love his essay on nature and writing. I'm reading a collection of short stories next and will move onto his novel, hopefully before the day is over. Yay, books. I have plently more to get through this week!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
He's Just Not That Into You
I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It's exhausting.
I hate it when a movie prompts my reading of a book--it should be the other way around. Or actually I should avoid the movie because I know the book will resonate more than film could ever capture and simply won't compare. But this is a self-help book, and I'm not wary of adapting self-help books since they're meant to be applied to real life situations, so I've read the book and I'm ready for a good laugh.
For good measure:
"A Little Love Poem"
Andy Weaver
Someone who hates scrabble.
Someone who sleeps on her back near an open window in winter, her breath rolling like a river into night.
Someone who wants me to wake her in the morning by reading ee cummings' love poems, giving a small candle-flicker of a smile just before opening her eyes.
Someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside.
Someone who has hands fit to hold hurt sparrows and robins.
Someone who threw out an her Alice Cooper records when she found out he loves to golf.
Someone who would swerve a new car into the ditch to avoid a frog crossing the road.
Someone who would tattoo my name on her arm in writing the same colour as her skin, so it would appear slowly from nowhere when she suntanned, people thinking her blood was telling secrets to the world of its own accord.
Someone who learned Spanish to read Marquez, or Lorca, or Neruda.
Someone whose hips whisper their own stories of the serpent and the garden of Eden.
Someone who bites the back of my neck like a leopardess carrying her kitten to safety.
Someone who'll make me wait for her to come out of the shower.
Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she sits down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.
Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.
Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.
Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.
Someone whose tongue, if we're kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.
Someone who practises her signature with her wrong hand, in case of accidents or a sudden arrest.
Someone whose fingernails smell faintly of her hair.
Someone who reminds me of the soft tickle of fog.
Someone who would rush outside in the middle of the night, setting a spider onto the lawn, never admitting it's because she hates rain.
Someone who understands the unforgivable importance of ravens.
Someone who'll flicker into my lips with the ferocity of a dragonfly.
Someone who will open, thick, pungent and vital, like a Mapplethorpe flower.
Someone who has searched for me like a near-sighted woman groping for her glasses, stubbing her toes and swearing in Yiddish.
Someone who would understand why Steve and Dave and Paul and I sat in a bar staring at the mirror behind us for twenty minutes because somebody had asked what would happen if you looked at yourself in a mirror using a pair of binoculars until we had to admit the question was too big for us, and we turned back to the safe optics of the beer bottle.
Someone who would just happen to cut my wrist shortly after reading Ondaatje's "The Time Around Scars. "
Someone who'll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class's heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.
Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.
Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.
Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.
I hate it when a movie prompts my reading of a book--it should be the other way around. Or actually I should avoid the movie because I know the book will resonate more than film could ever capture and simply won't compare. But this is a self-help book, and I'm not wary of adapting self-help books since they're meant to be applied to real life situations, so I've read the book and I'm ready for a good laugh.
For good measure:
"A Little Love Poem"
Andy Weaver
Someone who hates scrabble.
Someone who sleeps on her back near an open window in winter, her breath rolling like a river into night.
Someone who wants me to wake her in the morning by reading ee cummings' love poems, giving a small candle-flicker of a smile just before opening her eyes.
Someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside.
Someone who has hands fit to hold hurt sparrows and robins.
Someone who threw out an her Alice Cooper records when she found out he loves to golf.
Someone who would swerve a new car into the ditch to avoid a frog crossing the road.
Someone who would tattoo my name on her arm in writing the same colour as her skin, so it would appear slowly from nowhere when she suntanned, people thinking her blood was telling secrets to the world of its own accord.
Someone who learned Spanish to read Marquez, or Lorca, or Neruda.
Someone whose hips whisper their own stories of the serpent and the garden of Eden.
Someone who bites the back of my neck like a leopardess carrying her kitten to safety.
Someone who'll make me wait for her to come out of the shower.
Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she sits down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.
Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.
Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.
Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.
Someone whose tongue, if we're kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.
Someone who practises her signature with her wrong hand, in case of accidents or a sudden arrest.
Someone whose fingernails smell faintly of her hair.
Someone who reminds me of the soft tickle of fog.
Someone who would rush outside in the middle of the night, setting a spider onto the lawn, never admitting it's because she hates rain.
Someone who understands the unforgivable importance of ravens.
Someone who'll flicker into my lips with the ferocity of a dragonfly.
Someone who will open, thick, pungent and vital, like a Mapplethorpe flower.
Someone who has searched for me like a near-sighted woman groping for her glasses, stubbing her toes and swearing in Yiddish.
Someone who would understand why Steve and Dave and Paul and I sat in a bar staring at the mirror behind us for twenty minutes because somebody had asked what would happen if you looked at yourself in a mirror using a pair of binoculars until we had to admit the question was too big for us, and we turned back to the safe optics of the beer bottle.
Someone who would just happen to cut my wrist shortly after reading Ondaatje's "The Time Around Scars. "
Someone who'll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class's heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.
Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.
Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.
Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Snow
I'm trying to remind myself to not seek stability in things that needn't maintain it. Sometimes it's just not meant to be.
So much to do.
Came across this gem earlier today. Thanks Jenna.
So much to do.
Came across this gem earlier today. Thanks Jenna.
Snow
Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.
My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.
Louise Gluck
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Hot Ass
I've been having so much trouble sleeping lately. I think last week really threw me under with all I had to accomplish and travel. My body is still readjusting. I've had both amazing and heartbreaking news thrown my way in the past few days. I feel in limbo in so many ways, and I hate that feeling. I don't know which way to lean. Hopefully I'll figure it out soon. I just want more.
I made Swedish Meat Balls with all the trimmings (courtesy IKEA), brownies and picked up many other treats for my lovelies tonight. I also had far too much sangria. Tomorrow should be interesting, as well as Friday. I can't wait for Valentine's Day to be over. I picked up my D40 again. Hopefully I'll take more pictures. I want to be back in the snow.
Current indulgence: http://www.fmylife.com/
I made Swedish Meat Balls with all the trimmings (courtesy IKEA), brownies and picked up many other treats for my lovelies tonight. I also had far too much sangria. Tomorrow should be interesting, as well as Friday. I can't wait for Valentine's Day to be over. I picked up my D40 again. Hopefully I'll take more pictures. I want to be back in the snow.
Current indulgence: http://www.fmylife.com/
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Mammoth Mountain, TWSkiA
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