Archive for November, 2011
“whatever forever” is oscar’s friend’s train of thought. it may be genius or it may be careless, but the ultimate truth of existence and the future, the passing of time and the casualties and minute details that lead us to where we are right now is: “whatever forever”. hai bo then and now.first aid kit and lyyke li with annabelle on thursday. and we took the NJ transit and it felt like it was in the low 30s in jersey, well, it was. strolling around dark night suburbia there felt like a high school movie. the nordic sisters were so good. i’m obsessed with this website these days thinking about our city’s history and the secrets behind the architecture and street corners, how our apartment building used to be a tenement and probably housed a large italian or eastern european family: http://ephemeralnewyork.wordpress.com/. paz errazuriz. photo from her project ‘infarto del alma’; photos and text revolving around couples in love in a mental hospital/asylum in putaendo, chile.
roman noven: and another “Soup to nuts” is an American English idiom conveying the meaning of “from beginning to end”. It is derived from the description of a full course dinner, in which courses progress from soup to a dessert of nuts. It is comparable to expressions in other languages, such as the Latin phrase ab ovo usque ad mala (“from the egg to the apples”), describing the typical Roman meal. dean dampney
Used One Speed, Princeton
I painted my bike purple,
it’s finding a brown to fade to.
Along the long slow curve of streets
gelato-colored houses change in dusk
to colors of dove. On my one speed, life is plain.
Here the mudflats are called a river. I am feeling
new muscles in my thighs. My fat fenders
guard me from mud-splat. Look at these tires:
wide as trenches. My second-grade teacher said
“sit up straight.” My ex-fiance used to
put his hand through his hair,
make a fist, say “that’s just them
trying to keep the working class docile.”
The houses dim, colors of soap, the shaped kind
put in little dishes, that shrink and melt
to goo. I sometimes feel rather shaky
but that’s OK. I guard against regret,
disapproval, those middle-aged emotions.
I am still young, I feel I am. If I wanted I could
ride no-hands, my bike so steady, arms out
like that guy in Goya’s Third of May, 1808,
with the white shirt, his eyes wide open,
facing death. I don’t. I squint my eyes
against gnats. And so, and so, I was saying,
when a certain feeling comes over me,
something that feels like foolish bravery,
I glide, concede, I sit straight up.
(can’t wait to see this!)
“Go to your room” also by Daisy Fried
In her observatory, her little red room,
the daughter sings “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy”
into her hairbrush. It’s not true
what they’re thinking about her. She’s lying
across her bed, laughing at her mother
clanking something downstairs
to let everyone know who’s angry
and right. Turn down the music! The daughter
fills her mouth with 17 Big Red sticks
from a 24-pack, eats pretzels too, mixing in
salt and crumbs. Turn down the music!
Sunlight gapes into the room.
The daughter belly down, stomach
muscles tight, head hanging
off the bed-edge, arms straight out
before her. Turn down the music!
Eight blue glass marbles between
her prehensile toes, one
marble between each two. She
claps her foot-soles, clicking
the marbles, little worlds,
together. She turns down
the music, writes “lassitude” in
the dust on the radio.
The daughter eats icing with her
finger from a bowl on her lap:
Powdered sugar, margarine, vanilla.
She made it herself from a
recipe on the box. There are escapes and
they are true things.
Mother, that ass, doesn’t know.
blasts the curtains open like legs.
richard gier’s block party tonight. halloween. it snowed here, 4 inches deep in bedstuy on saturday.
annabelle takes naps while this song plays annabelle, i’m glad i have you.
Farmers. They almost always have facial features that resemble the produce they yield; ie. bulgy zucchini noses, old oniony forehead wrinkle skin with sprouty ear hair, plump and tight tomato cheecks. And the Deli Lady’s facial features too, That portly chubby baker woman, and her daughter with slutty caked make up. Butcher has panceta madalene face with soft doughy pink cheeks. She puts golden raisins in everything. (arcimboldo)