Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
(more)
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
(more)
This
always happens. I woke up this morning feeling less
pain. I always do feel better on the day I'm going to
a doctor of any kind. It wasn't like I was gonna
cancel the appointment. I still had pain.
It
was great to see Barbara. I feel better. But I'm sore.
Which is normal. I'm going to go back and see her again
Monday.
I
got home and received a wonderful and very helpful gift
from a friend. Which made me feel very blessed. And.
A rejection for the book.
Just.
I dunno. It's hard. It just is.
I
didn't do a thing for Black history month. Nothing for
Women's history month. But I am going to be reading
poetry this
month. I've been feeling the need to
know more about poetry.
T.S.
is probably pretty cliche as a starting poet for April.
But sometimes ya just gotta go with the obvious. I'm
going to try to put a new poem up every day. And I want
to read poets I don't know. And support poet bloggers. The
Elliot brought up a design issue. I couldn't make the
type small enough to get the line breaks right in the
table. They'll be all right once I move them to the
page
for April but ...line breaks are important to poets.
Because
I haven't been able to read blogs I didn't notice that Maria
had passed the book meme onto me. Done
it.
It
still hurts to sit in the desk chair. And I'm a bit
weepy about the rejection. And (speaking of poets) Il
Postino is on the tube. I'm gonna grab my ice pack
(but only for twenty minutes says Barbara) and settle
in. It's such a beautiful movie.
But
one more thing from Fat
Girl. There's a scene in which she has a friend
over for dinner. They've enjoyed good food and some
wine and they are talking about their love of poetry
and they recite an Archibald
Macleish together at the end of which she spontaneously
plants a kiss on his cheek. It's a kiss of delight and
the affection born in the after glow of good food and
wine and the shared love of language. The guy moves
away from her and she is embarrassed. I don't have the
impression that she thought it was kiss to begin romance.
It was spontaneous. And then she feels like she has
to make it clear that she would NEVER imagine anything
romantic. I don't know why I mention it. Except I'm
thinking about poetry. And rejection.
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind--
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--
A poem should not mean
But be. (here)
*******
O my America for whom?
For whom the promises? For whom the river?
“It flows west! Look at the ripple of it!”
The grass “So that it was wonderful to see
And endless without end with wind wonderful!”
The Great Lakes: landless as oceans: their beaches
Coarse sand: clean gravel: pebbles:
Their bluffs smelling of sunflowers: smelling of surf:
Of fresh water: of wild sunflowers… wilderness.
For whom the evening mountains on the sky:
The night wind from the west: the moon descending?
Tom Paine knew.
Tom Paine knew the People.
The promises were spoken to the People.
History was voyages toward the People.
Americas were landfalls of the People.
Stars and expectations were the signals of the People
Whatever was truly built the People had built it.
Whatever was taken down they had taken down.
Whatever was worn they had worn -- ax-handles: fiddle-bows:
Sills of doorways: names for children: for mountains…
The People had the promises: they’d keep them.
(here)
Reading
Fat
Girl has been profoundly disturbing for me for more
than one reason. I have had many of the experiences
written in the book. Most fat kids have. Moore
and I both met our fathers late in life and had complex
relationships with our mothers and our maternal grandmothers.
However, her mother and grandmother were cruel, soul
killing and unable to love. I have my issues with my
mom and my relationship with my grandmother was complicated.
But I always knew that they loved me. I give praise
and thanks for my grandmother's refusal to believe that
there was anything wrong with my body.
Moore's
book is about a childhood filled with abuse. Physical.
Emotional. Being fat, in my view, was the least of her
problems. But being fat provided the focal point for
so much hatred. Hatred that came at her and from within
her. If she had been thin I imagine she would still
have a book to write about abuse. She was born into
a family of emotional thugs. She was starved for love
but she was also starved. She describes days and weeks
and months of eating lettuce, dry toast and tuna. And
she was a child. She writes about how she would lose
to a certain point and then not lose more. It's a story
I hear from so many fat people. The one time she was
slender (her word and this was when she was a young
adult) she was living on 900 calories a day and lots
of exercise. 900 calories a day.
Despite
the obvious fact that her's was simply a fat body as
was her father's, Moore talks about the gorging that
she did (and does) as the reason for her weight. Certainly
there is a connection between what she eats and her
weight but the biological choice she is given is to
live on 900 calories or eat normally. In all the
long descriptions of eating that she writes there is
nothing that seems terrible. I read more tonnage of
consumption in Wasted.
Moore drinks a soda and that's the reason she's fat.
She eats a candy bar. One. And that's the reason she's
fat. But it's the combination of her DNA and the soda
and candy that is the reason. And it should never have
been made into such a big deal.
In
the end of the book she writes a lovely description
of her idea of having a fat man as a romantic partner.
It is the most fat positive thing in the whole book.
Until...she puts them both on a diet together.
Moore
says she does not want anyone to feel sorry for her.
See, this is the lesson that fat women learn. The thing
that is wrong with you is your fault.
So don't go looking for compassion. Ever.
We
know that fat people are discriminated against. In what
other form of discrimination is the cultural response
for the person to change themselves?
What
I feel for her is much bigger than pity. I feel rage.
I want to find every person who ever called her fat
with the intent to hurt her and destroy her sense of
self and I want to annihilate them. Honestly. I feel
murderous. Imagine the most
wrathful dhakini and that is who I want to be.
I
hope lots of people read this book. There is lots of
truth in it. Truth that should rattle you. But if you
are fat it may also hurt you. It hurts me. I'm glad
I read it but it hurt me. My sorrow for this little
girl who was so battered and the adult woman who cannot
find the love for her body every person ought to have
is overwhelming. She lives in Berkeley. I might be able
to write to her and meet her. But I think she would
find my point of view abusive. She is convinced that
her appetite is the problem. She understands that it
is also genetics but she believes that the onus is on
her to conquer that natural expression of diversity.
So she diets and diets and diets.
20/20
had a show last night about a
young girl with Prader-Willi. I didn't watch because
the commercials for the show suggested that the topic
would be treated with the same fat fearing/hating smugness
that most media uses to talk about people's lives. In
the commercial you see her in a raging temper tantrum.
If you saw this young girl on the street you would imagine
that she is a glutton. And you would be right. Her hunger
knows no bounds. It is not emotional. She is not comforting
herself with food. She is not eating for pleasure. She
has a syndrome that makes it impossible for her to experience satiety.
I'm
glad that researchers are trying understand the syndrome
because this little girl is suffering. But she becomes
part of the obesity epidemic paradigm. The paradigm
in which fat is a one size fits all term. Her life and
the life of Judith Moore and my life and the life of
other fat girls are not one size fits all.
Because
of Moore I know about MacLeish.
So, in honor of her wisdom and love of lanquage he is
my poet of the day. There are problems with the line
breaks again so best to read it here.
My
back is better but still hurting. It just is what it
is.
The very
perfume Kienholtz must have used in his environments on the 1950's--the
slow music, the polyurethane men at the bar, or servicemen in the
waiting room of a house of prostitution, memorabilia about
Eisenhower--all on a brown and red carpet of roses. Your mother's
letters at your bedside table, unopened, overpower the wilting cherry
reds. She follows you to Europe with her drawl and plaint. I practice
the flute, cascading cheerful melodies with low notes on the end. The
Festival, the tinsel, the flash of light in the eyes of the well known
and us, driven into the event by your departure. That day we heard of
the terrorism and shootings and were sorry we had believed you were
going for a rest. Not that you would be involved, but that once there
would find consort among those wronged. We surfaced among costumes on
the promenade, the faces of the hotels marking a period of history when
architecture was sculpture: colonnade and white facings below black
ivory domes, crystal high in the dining rooms' omphalos. We drank
Sambuca under the celebrated sky, blacker and more riddled for your
absence. It was your drink, and we sipped to the hard coffee bean,
split like a nipple; we were surprised--very few people had heard of
it, although it is not uncommon. (more)
My poetry
month project is supposed to be about me learning about
poets and poetry. I have my favorites and I have some
awareness of poets even when I haven't read them. So
I want to use the time to read more and find more
as well as honor the ones I already know and love. I
just want to read poetry every day.
It
was interesting to read the MacLeish but it didn't move
me in a big way. And I am thinking about why. Unlike
other kinds of writing I don't have a way to talk about
why I do, or do not, like a given poem. It's a much
more visceral response. Case in point. Cleis
picked up on the project and posted some of the
poetic collaboration of Olgus Broumas and Jane Miller,
which did ring for me. But I can't say why I liked it
any more than I can say why I didn't like the MacLeish.
It really isn't as simple as like/didn't like.
The
MacLeish was declarative and had a familiar form. Everything
about the
Black Holes Black Stockings was vivid and the form,
the how they did it, was exciting. I can't say I know
what it's about. But I know it feels thrilling. I wonder
about the words and the meaning. I impose my own meaning.
I don't have as much space to that with the MacLeish,
or with the Elliot for that matter. But the Elliot is
saying something that has a deep personal meaning for
me in a way I feel.
I'm
sort of fumbling around with this project. I'm somewhat
dependant on the web for the project. I did find more
Olgus Broumas and more
Jane Miller.
My
back is better but the mornings are still bad, the computer
chair is still painful and I'm just glad I have another
appointment. My mood is really unformed. (Like my thinking
about the poems.) I think I'm fending off a crash. I
watched Fierce
Grace yesterday, which was another one of those
perfect timing Netflix arrivals. I met Ram Das years
ago and, of course, read Be Here Now. He's a sweetheart.
So I'm trying to ignore my melodrama and take care of
my back. I don't think I'm really being here now. I
think it's more like I'm being neither here, nor there.
Which, may be as good as it gets right now.
I
do feel better. Mornings are still painful but I can
move more and be up for longer and have more range of
motion and I will get an adjustment later and it will
be better and ...
I
think I'm slap happy.
I
just. I just. I'm. I dunno.
There
have been ways in which I was waiting to hear about
the contest. And now I have. So now I have to pull it
together and do whatever it is I'm going to do next.
And I can. And I will. And I still feel sore and tired.
I
never feel like I understand the difference between
taking care of myself and indulging my limitations,
fears and confusion. It's like that know what I can
change, know what I can't and know the difference thing.
Sometimes it's harder than other times.
It's
late enough in the day so the first dose of Advil and
ice pack therapy has kicked in. There's a little time
before I need to leave for my appointment. I'm trying
to come up with something to do. I did the lighting
candle, incense, fill water cup, put apple in place part
of my ritual. I'm a little afraid to try to do yoga
just now,
although I was able to do a few stretches.
Slow.
Slow. Slow. I'm so slow. I wasn't always slow. I was
even sort a fast sometimes. I don't even want to be
fast. Just not so slow.
Actually
I don't really mind being slow. I guess.
Ray
is my poet of the day. Just coz. I've posted Ray's stuff
before. I'm crazy about him. I will admit that the line
about being so out of alignment had a personal meaning
for me right now. That's what we do. We grab other people's
language and use it for our own purposes.
What the bad news was
became apparent too late
for us to do anything good about it.
I was offered no urgent dreaming,
didn't need a name or anything.
Everything was taken care of.
In the medium-size city of my awareness
voles are building colossi.
The blue room is over there.
He put out no feelers.
The day was all as one to him.
Some days he never leaves his room
and those are the best days,
by far.
There were morose gardens farther down the slope,
anthills that looked like they belonged there.
The sausages were undercooked,
the wine too cold, the bread molten.
Who said to bring sweaters?
The climate's not that dependable.
The Atlantic crawled slowly to the left
pinning a message on the unbound golden hair of sleeping maidens,
a ruse for next time,
where fire and water are rampant in the streets,
the gate closed—no visitors today
or any evident heartbeat.
I go rid of the book of fairy tales,
pawned my old car, bought a ticket to the funhouse,
found myself back here at six o'clock,
pondering "possible side effects."
There was no harm in loving then,
no certain good either. But love was loving servants
or bosses. No straight road issuing from it.
Leaves around the door are penciled losses.
Twenty years to fix it.
Asters bloom one way or another.
My
back got kinda worse. And I got kinda depressed. And
I just haven't had it in me to write a post. I'm not
sure I have it in me now. There's only so much you can
say about being in pain and being in a bad mood. All
the funerals and weddings and wars and rumors of wars
come to me from the TV and the radio. Nothing moves
me.
But
my back is feeling better and I'm hoping the rest of
me will follow.
One
extra nice thing happened. I got to meet Barry.
He's in town for a comics convention. I was worried
because I wasn't able to leave the apartment but he
was kind enough to come over. That pulled me outta my
funk for a bit.
My
poetry project has been ignored. I went looking for
someone and found the Ashbery. He's someone I've heard
Krisitna
talk about and I liked the idea of morose gardens. Suits
my mood.
O THOU whose exit wraps in boundless woe, For Thee the tears of various Nations flow : For Thee the floods of virtuous sorrows rise From the full heart and burst from streaming eyes, Far from our view to Heaven's eternal height, The Seat of bliss divine, and glory bright ; Far from the restless turbulence of life, The war of factions, and impassion'd strife
From every ill mortality endur'd, Safe in celestial Salem's walls secur'd.
E'an yet from this terrestrial state retir'd, The Virtuous lov'd Thee, and the Wife admir'd The gay approv'd Thee, and the grave rever'd ; And all thy words with rapt attention heard ! The Sons of Learning on thy lessons hung, While soft persuasion mov'd th' illit'rate throng. Who, drawn by rhetoric's commanding laws, Comply'd obedient, nor conceiv'd the cause, Thy every sentence was with grace inspir'd, And every period with devotion fir'd ; Bright Truth thy guide without a dark disguise, And penetration's all-discerning-eyes.
THY COUNTRY mourns th' afflicting Hand divine That now forbids thy radiant lamp to shine,
It's
the little things. Ya know? Like being able to get in
bed and be comfortable, turn over with out crying, get
out and stand up and walk. I still have some tightness.
But I am just way better.
I
need to do laundry. In the time it took me to sort it
my back began to ache. I took some Advil and rested
and ... it's OK. The laundry room is down a buncha stairs.
It feels so good to move but I'm still worried about
the pain. Back to the task of trying to navigate
what I can do and accept what I can't do.
I
haven't been swimming for a variety of reasons but there
is a
pool a block away from me that is supposed to reopen
soon. I love swimming.
Andrea
Dworkin. Well. I am sad to say that I haven't read
much of her writing. I have read some but it was years
ago. I am not an anti- porn feminist but I took her
ideas to heart. As too often happens I will probably
read more now that she has passed. I don't have a personal
reaction but I do have a reaction to the idea that she
isn't being treated kindly on the net because of the
radical nature of her feminism. (And, I should say that
I haven't read much of it. I'm still having trouble
sitting at the computer.)
It
makes me think of conversations I've had with my dyke
friends when I have romantic feelings for a man. There
is a way in which I lose myself when I feel attraction.
There is a way in which I make allowances. There is
a way in which I don't ask much of my male friends and
romantic interests in terms of feminism.
The
last time I had feelings for a man it was because of
his web writing. It was the way he wrote, the music,
art and books that he loved, the artistry of his
page. I never knew what he looked like and I still felt
attraction for him in my body. We exchanged some e-mail
and things got a little confused. I'll never know exactly
why things got as bad as they did. I thought we would
have a friendship if nothing else. And in the last communication
between us, along with the discussion of what we did
and did not feel for one another and how we were dealing
with all that, was an altercation about a post I made
about feminism. It confused me then. It confuses me
now.
These
text based relationships are odd. We read each other.
How well do we read? It seems so delicate and fraught.
I like to think that if we just keep talking things
will work out but I know that isn't always true. I know
it from my on line world and my off line world. The
number of possible misunderstandings is just ... phew.
HUGE.. But there are things that feel absolute.
I
am a feminist. I don't really get people who can't say
that. I know some people don't like to be too political.
I know some people like to say that the issues of feminism
are really the issues of us all and therefor fall
into humanism but that always feels like a side step
to me. The issues of people of color fall into a broader
humanist stance as well but we talk about racism. We
need to talk about specifics. We need the language of
the isms to unseat the assumptions of the dominant language
structures. We need to have the difficult conversations.
I do.
Feminism,
like everything else, is not a one size fits all concept.
When I say I'm not an anti porn feminist I mean that
I want us to remember the body. The body with its smells
and needs and inconveniences. Obviously we have a head
and a heart and a spirit and we like to think we are
more than our body and I suppose in some very real ways
we are. But we have these bodies. We are, all of us,
sometimes profane, if we pay attention. No doubt most
porn would make me want to pull my eyes out of my head.
No doubt most of it lacks any fundamental humanity.
No doubt most of it is done for the male eye and serves
the objectification of women. But, there are women in
the industry who are doing their own thing.
Yesterday
Deb took me to get my adjustment and then we went to
get some dinner. A table of six people, three m/f couples
sat next to us. They were loud but I didn't really care.
I was feeling less pain and eating good food with a
great friend. I wasn't going to be bothered. But they
were loud. One man told story after story in which a
"good looking" woman was featured. I didn't
listen to it all but I kept thinking about the three
women at the table. I wondered how it made them feel
to hear story after story about "good looking"
women. There's no way for me to know. I know how I felt
listening to these bits and pieces. I felt the need
to be on guard.
It's
interesting that just the mention of Dworkin brings
all this out of me. It comes from a scant reading of
her, done years ago. I do have a deep and personal response
to the ideas of feminists, feminism and what is radical.
I think of myself as radical. I want to be radical.
Do I think I lost the opportunity to have a romance
because of that? Oh. Not really. There was more going
on in all that mess. Things that I may never understand.
But the part that was about feminism cut into me and
left me feeling less hopeful about the world.
Because
these things matter.
Barry
wrote a post about fat
men and their thin wives in cartoons and sitcoms.
We talked a bit about it when he was here. It rivals
his Absent
Fatso post in terms of coolness. I don't watch a
lot of those shows so I feel like I can't jump into
the conversation but as I read through the comments
I feel this thing that I so often feel when fat hatred
is the topic. Everything seems beside the point. In
some ways I feel that people just don't want to take
the bias against fat people seriously.
Barry
and I talked about how men can be fat because (in general
cultural terms) men are allowed to have appetite. Men
are allowed to have bodies.
Yesterday,
at the restaurant, Deb and I had desert. As it arrived
the guy with all the stories about "good looking"
women turned to look and the whole table looked with
him. I somehow knew they would. I had a brownie hot
fudge sundae thing. As he turned I held up the first
spoonful and asked if he wanted a bite.
Yes
I did.
I
was acting out. I was saying I wasn't ashamed to be
eating. I was saying I was willing to share my pleasure.
I was owning the part of me that experiences pleasure
and wants to share pleasure and is able to experience
and share pleasure. Quite a bit of stuff and none of
it clear to him. He stammered something about them getting
their own and turned back.
Funny.
When Barry was here we talked about blog popularity.
He said I write long paragraphs. It made me laugh. I'm
still laughing. It is somewhat true that blogging is
short attention span writing and sometimes I write in
a long winded and all over the place manner. Today my
unruly and profane body is feeling better and with that
relief comes a torrent of thought. It is what it is.
Want a byte?
Heh.
I'm
posting some Phillis Wheatly today. Because as I was
writing all this I was thinking about women and oppression
and isms and poetry. I have read some her poetry and
I don't really like it that much. It is too formal for
me. I have read that she hid messages in her text but
I haven't the wisdom to parse them. But I thought of
her because she was a woman, a woman of color and a
slave. Owned. It brings the same tension to my body
that I felt overhearing the stories about "good
looking" women. It would be nice to post her poetry
because I like it and not in service to some political
agenda. But. These things matter.
And.
One more silly thing. If you are reading because you
came her from Barry's link and you want to see a picture
of my drivers, look here.
I gotta go get the laundry.
To what good, in the alleys of the lilacs, O caliper, do you scratch your buttocks And tell the divine ingenue, your companion, That this bloom is the bloom of soap And this fragrance the fragrance of vegetal?
Do you suppose that she cares a tick, In this hymeneal air, what it is That marries her innocence thus, So that her nakedness is near, Or that she will pause at scurrilous words?
Poor buffo! Look at the lavender And look your last and look steadily, And say how it comes that you see Nothing but trash and that you no longer feel Her body quivering in the Floreal
Toward the cool night and its fantastic star, Prime paramour and belted paragon, Well-booted, rugged, arrogantly male, Patron and imager of the gold Don John, Who will embrace her before summer comes
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Four
loads of laundry. An hour of folding, at the end of
which there was still a pile of pants that I thought
I'd do today but did just before I went to bed in some
reflex need to feel complete. And no relapse of the
back pain. I was a bit stiff and achy but I did the
ice/heat/Advil routine. And I changed the sheets on
the bed.
This
morning I turned over on my stomach and stretched my
legs out. It's my favorite way to sleep but even last
night when I tried it my back spasmed. This morning
I could do it for the first time in two weeks. I was
filled with relief and gratitude.
There's
still a load of laundry and the freezer needs defrosting
and it would be good to vacuum. All this stuff that
people do and it's no big deal but being able to do
them is filling me with an almost giddy sense of joy.
You know there is that saying about after enlightenment
the dishes and for me, today, the dishes feel like enlightenment.
I may be grouchy and discontent all too soon but not
today.
I
am a little grouchy about the conscription
of Cookie Monster into the food fear gulag. I suppose
I am over stating but I was just thinking about appetite
and who is and isn't supposed to have it. There's nothing
terrible about kids being encouraged to eat fruits and
vegetables. I can think of a million ways to do
that. But Cookie Monster is about something else.
The Count counts. Oscar is a grouch. And the Cookie
monster loves cookies.
When
I was stuck in my chair I had cravings for things that
I don't usually want. If someone would have brought
me a box of Krispy Kremes I woulda eaten it in one sitting.
I didn't really have an appetite and I wasn't able to
cook so I wasn't eating much. But the cravings didn't
feel like they were about hunger. I would have eaten
them. And I probably would have gotten a stomach ache.
And so?
I
always feel the need to qualify when I write about things
like this. I know there are fat people who eat a lot
of what I would call junk. I know there are people struggling
with compulsive over eating who would have found a way
to get those Krispy Kremes and eaten them and more and
then felt guilty. I never want to shame those people.
But ya know, it's the Cookie Monster thing. Some people
just love cookies. It really is OK.
Now.
Let me qualify some more. If you took me to Cafe
Du Monde right now I would eat some beignets. Oh
yeah baby. Laissez les bon ton roulette! Gimme sumthin
mister and all like dat der.
I
dunno. I just think we need the moments of excess. We
need the people who are excessive. Too much moderation
is just too much moderation. It is as much of a trap
as anything else. And all this fear of food is going
to mess these kids up.
Anyway.
My
whole poetry project things is suppose to be about reading
more poetry by new poets and not just my old favorites.
But awhile ago I jumped to this
site from a link on K's
blogroll. Interesting woman. Has a knitting
blog. Seems to be into Amma.
And she has this whole blog for Wallace. I first heard
Wallace from a blues and jazz playing piano playing
and singing guy who used to get ripped and recite the
Emperor of Ice Cream. I had a crush on the guy despite
the fact that he was kinda mean and in some ways women
hating. I was young. I stopped liking him after he did
all my dope and used my tooth bush. But I still smile
when I read the poem.
on the dark cold street
at night
alone
the wind whispered
"try to stay alive until you die"
she fumbles past crumbling doorways
the same dead child feeling
running from men with horrible gifts
or psychotic mothers
inventing her own self
barefeet toughened by shards of glass
her pain becomes pleasure
and all hunger disappears
as she drowns in the darkness
just a child
in the twilight
a child
believing in nothing at all
except the words of the wind
she will survive the invisible day
when they uncurl her legs
and spread her knees
when her anguish becomes pleasure
because it must
and there is no hunger
and there are no math classes
for runaways
and she becomes a disgrace to her sex
remnants of the distant sky where civilized stars dance wildly illuminating hints of primitive patterns
the coincidence of opposites dissolve into the twilight of non-duality emanations dissolutions
water wheels turn into a nebulous sea of bliss while feral instinct is trapped in suffocating pages of imposed morality until the unsustainable light flickers and fades into a circle unseen yet unbroken
I
tried to catch up on my blog reading and in the process
learned from Veronica
that All Consuming had been down and was now back and
better. Better because you can add the movies you're
watching and music. It is a little confusing. Instead
of sections for what you have read there's just one
big list of everything you add. I had a lot of fun with
it yesterday. I added my Netflix stash and the five
discs in my disc player, which meant that I had to change
them because they were the same five that had been in
there for way too long.
I
wish I was listening to music now but I'm listening
to the debate on the bankruptcy bill. Just this morning
I heard a bit on the news about how people are paying
their taxes with their credit cards. Taxes, medical
bills, groceries. My own debt is mostly about buying
food with the cards but I will admit to what might be
called frivolous spending. I buy books. I could go to
the library. I guess. The debate is interesting. I'll
listen to music later.
It
doesn't seem like you can move the stuff in your All
Consuming things around. So, if I change the discs and
listen to them later I'll just have them on the list
twice. I guess. Not that it matters. I just get a kick
out of these web things. He added an "other material"
section, which I haven't been able to figure out. It
might be cool to make note that I am consuming scrambled
eggs on a corn tortilla and green tea.
And
I needed to work on the page because I had to fix my
gaffs. I never changed the month on the yesterday link.
I'm just not that good at this web design thing.
There's
a show in rotation on PBS stations right now: Not
in Our Town. It's both deeply troubling and also
encouraging.
So
all the laundry is done and the freezer is defrosted.
Oddly enough the freezer was harder on my back than
all of the laundry put together. I had to get up every
twenty minutes to empty the water tray. I started
the project too late in the day. At midnight I was still
pulling out chunks of ice. Today I feel tight and achy
and I have an ice pack on even as I write. I'm not worried.
I'll get an adjustment tomorrow and some of this is
just middle aged back stuff. I think I can do yoga again.
It'll all be OK. Still hafta a run the vacuum.
The Red Spider so much depends on the small red spider crawling
the circumference of a lost silver Public Storage key left
glinting on the ground outside the poetry workshop
here it is the spider who unlocks the cold bins of put away
things who calls us out onto the thin crimson web of words where me
might catch our private winged losses and hold them close against our
heated cheeks until they glow into hot communal embers that warm the
tribe of the found
There
is something about this
that chills me to the bone. The newscast that I heard
went out of its way to say that it was all really bad
guys. But. 10,000? In one day? Something about that
feels creepy. It's not about law enforcement. It's about
sending a message.
I had my own weird stuff with banks
and credit card companies yesterday. I didn't do anything
wrong but I sure got treated like I did. And as the
truth began to reveal itself I got no apology. It always
bugs me because I know these are just people doing their
job. They aren't the company, or the bank. There is
no one to confront. Today I have to do more work to
clear it up. I'm not worried about it. I'm just pissed
off.
Bad vibe day.
Except
there was this one thing.
You
may, or may not, remember my plant. I only had one plant
and it was not doing well. There was a moment a year
ago, or more, when it was basically a tall stick in
a pot and I thought about tossing it. And then it came
back. Lots of shiny, green leaves. Around Christmas it dropped some
leaves again but most of the time it just looks great. Yesterday
I repotted it with lots of new soil in a blue ceramic
pot I found in our back garden area. I keep looking over at it. Tall
and green.
Sometimes things get better.
I
was going to try and write a poem about how much depends
on a tall green plant. Especially after reading Kristina's
LJ. I put her poem as the poem of the day. There
is another of Kristina's poems here.
MORNING JOY
Piano buttons, stitched on morning lights.
Jazz wakes with the day,
As I awaken with jazz, love lit the night.
Eyes appear and disappear,
To lead me once more, to a green moon.
Streets paved with opal sadness,
Lead me counterclockwise, to pockets of joy,
And jazz.
On
Sunday mornings I listen to Larry.
But I knew that he wasn't going to be on this week since
he is dealing with some health
issues. I turned on the show to see who they had
as a substitute and what a surprise! It was Matt!
That was fun. He has a very sibilant quality in his
speech. Easy to recognize.
I'd
been thinking about him lately. Wondering what he was
doing. And there he was on the radio and again on the
nightly news talking about his
friend Marla Ruzicka who was just killed
by a car bomb in Iraq.
SF
has a small town feel some times. Interesting how people
gather to support one another around illness and
death. Just like in a small town.
And
he had some poetry slam people on the show. I love slam
poetry. So I did listen to poetry on Sunday.
I
think my syntax was off the other day when I wrote that
my poetry project had been ignored. I didn't mean it
had been ignored by others. I meant it had been ignored
by me. I wanted to really read poetry this month. But
I haven't done much. Maybe a bit more than I usually
do. I jump to poetry links from Wood_s
Lot often. And that's where I found the Kaufman.
Poetry
slows me down. And if my mind is agitated or spaced
out I can't read poetry. My mind has been both agitated
and spaced out at the same time for a few days. Money
issues. Ya know how that can be. I'm still preoccupied
with it. My thinking is like mud.
But
I am declaring myself fully recovered from the back
stuff today. Even over the weekend I was tight and sore,
especially in the morning. I was still grabbing an ice
pack and some Advil first thing. Today I was able to
put the dishes from the dish rack away. I haven't been
able to stand up that long in the morning. Today I could
and I made my eggs some apple
sausage and green tea. And I think I'm going to
put the Advil away.
I
did Armageddon shopping yesterday. The apartment is
more or less clean. Although I still haven't run the
vacuum. Maybe today. I have fruits and vegetables and
chocolate. So. I'm better. I'm going to finish this
and do my ritual and some yoga. Back to ... uh
... normal. Or something.
One by one 'til I'm the only one left in the photo we took in Gay Paree, trill the final syl- lable, thrill to pretending we're the Revue Negre, funking so fiercely our black clothes stained our curvature, fab- ulous flames let loose in the city of lights.
One by one you leave the picture, nix nix nix, my moonpie face left shining there. Au Revoir, or like they say in Sula, "Vwah!", bright as a bottle, the beau- tiful childen are leaving me to trill the final syllable, this beautiful- ugly world.
2. 1983
The other girls taught shy me to be a diva, to preen, to plump my titties up like they did, to work it. We danced. We wanted the body of life and I lived for a year in that body, the body of life, in D.C., in the African diaspora: Chocolate City.
That was my slut year. All the men I didn't sleep with, all I did, all the lunch dates, all the dinners, all the whistles on the streets of Chocolate City, all the men who called me Baby, called me Girl, like the one who made me tuna- fish and tried to suck my breasts, then asked me to type his resume. My buzzer in the middle of the night, my phone, a man who greased me head to toe with Lubriderm, a Cape Verdean who appeared on busses and trains as if by divination, sketched me naked, never spent the night. I told one man how much I loved Betty Carter and he said, I hope you're not one of those bulldaggers. A lonely Nigerian who cooked fufu groped me on the sofa, his across-the-ocean wife and daughter watching from their picture frames. Rum and dancing, too many things in my mouth, genitals cobbled with passion or disease, bright clitoris a phantom limb, remembering --
I moved away to Boston and would call you for the update: Renee was a samba star at Brasil Tropical, shimmied on Brazilian TV. Denise graduated school and made the foreign service, moved to Jamaica, to bungalow, with a man and a maid Pansy. "Who's sick?" I'd ask and you'd tell me, and who died, and one day you said, "And I'm living with AIDS."
There was Kemron in Kenya. You were saving to get it. You met with a support group of other black men. You had a Dominican boyfriend, same as me. Mostly you felt O.K., but you hated your medicine. You were fat, but you still took class. No, Tyrone wasn't sick. But David was dead.
It was Njambi who called me to say, you were back in shape. You performed for the visiting Eminence of Senegal, the next day went into the hospital, the next day died. It made a romantic story, but you're still gone. "I love when you call me because you're alive," you said once, one of your few friends still alive. I'm writing this poem to say how we were, that we danced and fucked and sweated, loved ourselves and each other, lived fiercely, knew joy. I'm writing to say, I got lucky, you were my friend, you knew me as a girl, I am a woman, now, with my little piece of your story, the year of the body of life.
It rains. The blistered skin of this city
cools. Summer has been an endless circle
of labors -- the heat, the rituals of our lives.
At noon, the rain stammers to a drizzle
and the thin glow of light catches the bodies
of women moving quickly; black women
bent low, hurrying through the damp cool.
And I watch a body, the promise of a smile
in the round of her hips, the rapid nervous
pace of her, and I take her in as one does
with a familiar movement -- a vaguely comforting
pattern. This has happened before,
a moment with a stranger, imagining
that she too will turn, grin -- and I think
of the delicate ribbons of a woman's
laughter as she comes closer. On the edge
of sin, the naked welcome, I see it is you
and I feel like a strange man waiting to touch
you with words. In this indiscretion
I want to say I fear losing you; I am
angry at me for being that strange man
taking you in as a predator does. Your smile
disarms me, its trust and pleasure in our
accidental meeting -- and the rain gathers
again in the sky. You hand me the car keys.
We say something about money and time,
and you hurry away, your hips -- my hips,
the bloody world's hips -- swinging sweetly
while I cradle in me the terrible fear of love.
-Kwame
Dawes
I
turned on channel 26 yesterday morning and there was
a building commission meeting. A woman was
giving public testimony saying something about false
accusations of sexism after which one of the commissioners
said that it wasn't useful (I'm paraphrasing) to deny
a woman's feelings and the woman who had been speaking
began to yell and the chairperson began to bang the
gavel and I became completely enthralled. It seemed
so early in the morning for such drama.
So.
The mayor had appointed a
woman as the head of the department of building
inspection and the commission was there to confirm it.
At a previous meeting the head
of the SF development association had spoken in
favor of keeping the man who has been in charge and
not replacing him with "pregnancy brain."
Uhhuh.
The
woman is pregnant and in that same hearing four others
sited her pregnancy as a reason to not appoint her.
This
is one of those times when, for me, there are two
things that are true at the same time. Is there such
a thing as pregnancy brain? Well....
I
knew a woman once who warned me to never admit that
I had my period because people would use it against
me. I was dumb founded. It doesn't seem like a source
of shame. How could it be used against me? I am more
emotional around that time. I sometimes feel like I
lose physical dexterity. I may be in some stage of menopause
and I am spacy often. There is just no doubt that hormones
have an impact on us. So?
For
ever and ever women have been working when they had
a period, or were pregnant, or were in menopause. For
all women it's a different experience and it's a different
experience from day to day. It's just part of life.
No one of any gender is in perfect form at work every
day. If a man has a bad day they are just though to
be having a bad day. But I think men have hormone cycles
of their own and I also think that men track the cycles
of their partners and are impacted. The idea that a
woman's hormones are debilitating or make her unable
to preform a job is just wrong headed. And I really
thought everyone knew that.
But
not Joe.
Now.
I like Joe. He's bombastic and irascible and I almost
never agree with him but I like his largesse. Is he
sexist? Oh yeah. In that very well intended but ultimately
obtuse and really just not getting it kind of way. And
it gets worse. Joe likes to speak in verse from time
to time. He wrote a poem questioning the mayor's sexual
preference in light of the mayors divorce and support
of same sex marriage.
The recent pattern of public comments
degrading women and lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered individuals by
members and leaders of the Residential Builders Association of San Francisco
must be addressed and firmly disavowed by the city of San Francisco in order
to reconfirm our commitment to fighting all forms of bias and intolerance.
OK.
Well. Yeah. But make no mistake. This is a lot of political
chest thumping. I support and join in any condemnation
of such language, especially in civic dialogue. But
... it was said in PUBLIC testimony by a member
of the PUBLIC. A leader of an influential private organization
but still a member of the PUBLIC. So, I have mixed feelings.
I don't have mixed feelings about how wrong what he
said is. I am, in some ways, glad to live in a city
where the city government publicly and formally condemns
such speech. And it makes me a little tense. Because
people need to be able to speak their mind. If you've
listened to him talk you know him as he is. He is an
atavism to an old, fading way of thinking. (Please.
I hope. May it be so.) If he had been a board, or commission
member I would be in complete support. But this is about
power.
Sometimes
I question my own radicalism. Am I making excuses for
Joe? I don't think I am. I don't support what he said.
I support his right to say it and be stupid in public.
On the other hand, I do like that the public parent
is giving him a scolding. Joe says his "pregnancy
brain" comment is just a matter of fact. And there
is some truth to the idea of hormones impacting clarity
of thought. But it's overstated, not useful and ultimately
a way of keeping women out of power. So then ...
Awhile
ago I watched The
Life of David Gale. I enjoyed the movie but there
was something that troubled me. Something that took
me days to articulate. It was the women.
David's
wife spends a lot of time in Europe working and probably
having an affair. When she divorces him she leaves him
in economic ruin and takes his son away from him. He
refuses to give a female grad student a passing grade
so she falsely accuses him of rape and he loses his
job as a result. His friend and fellow anti-death penalty
activist is long suffering and loyal. The reporter is
smart enough to solve the mystery but apparently not
smart enough to have gas in her car. There is a cool
fat woman in the film played by the wonderful and beautiful
Melissa
Mc Carthy. But she is also less than smart and dignified.
And we watch the same footage of the violent and gruesome
death of a woman over and over. There's no real character
development of the women. They are all in service to
the life of David Gale.
It's
a movie against the death penalty. It portrays the fact
that people are wrongly convicted. Not many of them
are white, male, philosophy professors but ...
Does
the wife take the son because of David's alcoholism?
Because she believes the false rape accusation? Because
she's just an evil withholding bitch? Does the student
accuse David of rape because she really wanted to have
sex with him or because she's a manipulative, entrapping bitch?
Is the friend so hot for David that she just has to
have sex with him? And isn't he smart? He's the victim
of all these bad women and so he manipulates the judicial
system and a female reporter into an elaborate drama
in which he is martyred. What a guy! I like the point
the movie makes. I just wish it was made with less
misogyny.
Sexism
feels so entrenched. I am aware of my own. There
is part of me that wants to make a joke about testosterone
brain. It would feel smart and snappy and gotcha back.
It might be fun. But it would lack dignity. Elegance.
It would be bad faith. Sexism makes us all mean.
so sheer between what's right
and will be wronged
let's say the Taiwanese couple
on stage tonight in their launderette
washing and drying clothing
watched by two teenagers
in a non-descript Duster
windows fogged over with
potsmoke, fear and talk
with one gun between them
and an idea to rob
not for money
but to knife that veil
between them
and the good life
In the hole he counted heartbeats
but got scared they'd stop
listened to broken pipes
under the shit-hole in the floor
finally read the Bible they give you
but his religion wasn't in a book
unless it's the telephone book
so he stayed alive counting
letters, commas, periods
The veil
existed before he was born
and between his arising
shadowed the world he moved through
reaching for dim forms he thought
brought light
After
all that drama, the
resolution was referred to committee by a conservative,
pro development supervisor. I can't imagine what they
can do in committee except talk about it some more and
maybe change the language. It will be interesting.
It
was quite a relief (cough) yesterday to hear the news
that being fat might
not be the death sentence previously thought. Poor
diet and lack of exercise are still bad for you. Isn't
that interesting? Who knew?
The latest study had another surprising finding: People who are modestly
overweight but not obese have a lower risk of death than people of normal
weight. Indeed, the fewer deaths from being modestly overweight partially
canceled out the deaths from obesity.
Of
course, I am immodestly fat so I'm still gonna die.
I've
been pretty lucky when it comes to finding health care
practitioners who aren't fat phobic. I have a few bad
stories, most fat people do, but I have a cool doctor
now. I just can't afford to see her. I wonder how that
effects my health.
When
I was at Barbara's for the adjustment I was bemoaning
the fact that I've been doing yoga and some other exercise
and eating so well lately. Why did my back go out? She
said that vegans who run miles every day have problems.
That's the kind of thing I often say when I'm trying
to make my point about weight and health. But with my
own body I sometimes lose perspective. I'm lucky to
have someone who can talk me back to sane. My weight
may contribute to my back ache. All I ask is that it's
seen as part of the problem and not the whole problem.
The
editors of Scoot
Over Skinny are on KPFA
right now. Since they rejected two pieces of writing
from me I'm feeling a little resistant. But the conversation
is less than satisfying. The editor talks about how
he's losing weight by eating right and exercising more.
There's lots of joking and the word monster has been
used to twice. To be fair they are questioning assumptions
about fat people. It's making me sad. Not the assumptions.
I know them. The amount of internalized oppression.
our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row
and boll. fenced others'
gardens with bones of lovers. embarking
from Africa in chains
reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah's light
planted here the bitter
seed of blight and here eternal torches mark
the shame of Moloch's mansions
built in slavery's name. our hungered eyes
do see/refuse the dark
illuminate the blood-soaked steps of each
historic gain. a yearning
yearning to avenge the raping of the womb
from which we spring
bed calls. i sit in the dark in the living room
trying to ignore them
in the morning, especially Sunday mornings
it will not let me up. you must sleep
longer, it says
facing south
the bed makes me lay heavenward on my back
while i prefer a westerly fetal position
facing the wall
the bed sucks me sideways into it when i
sit down on it to put on my shoes. this
persistence on its part forces me to dress in
the bathroom where things are less subversive
the bed lumps up in anger springs popping out to
scratch my dusky thighs
my little office sits in the alcove adjacent to
the bed. it makes strange little sighs
which distract me from my work
sadistically i pull back the covers
put my typewriter on the sheet and turn it on
the bed complains that i'm difficult duty
its slats are collapsing. it bitches when i
blanket it with books and papers. it tells me
it's made for blood and bone
lately spiders ants and roaches
have invaded it searching for food
The
word depression annoys me. It's so imprecise. It's like
bad water color in which colors have bled together.
I have this laundry list of difficult feelings but none
of them are the reason for the curled in a ball way
I get. It's about everything and nothing. It's always
been this way. And I always get to a point when I know
I have to roust myself. Somehow.
And
so.
Then.
In
the words of Lord
Buckley. "When you get to it and you can't
do it, well. There you jolly well are aren't you? "
Heh.
I've
been watching Grey's
Anatomy for the last few weeks. I haven't really
decided if I like it or not but last night they did
a pretty cool thing. There was a thread in the show
in which a new doctor nods off during a surgery while
holding a heart. She nicks the heart with her finger
nail but doesn't say anything and if it comes to
light she may be fired. At one point she's talking to
the woman's husband who says his wife was in the best
shape of her life because she had lost a hundred pounds
in the course of a year. It isn't clear whether the
possible nick is to blame for the difficulty the woman
has in recovery but the loss of muscle with rapid weight
loss was mentioned and the fact that no one noticed
because the woman was still 200 pounds was mentioned
in very exact language. "It didn't matter what
she weighed, she was an anorexic."
When
people talk about health and weight they forget about
this part. Weight loss may be good for some people but
how they lose the weight may not be. I'm always OK with
the idea that we need to move more and eat better quality
food. And some people may lose weight with a few small
changes. And that's OK. I just don't think weight loss,
in and of itself, is a positive goal.
The
show was all about complexity. Things go wrong. We make
bad choices. We are all responsible and we all have
to live and die with who we are and what we do. I found
it comforting.
The
last restaurant I worked in was a small neighborhood
dinner place owned by a married couple. Very talented
chefs but not very nice people. It was like being the
kid with parents who liked to fight. She worked the
grill and he worked the salad/desert station. I worked
saute. The kitchen was small and I was literally between
them, which wasn't always a happy place. But the food
was very fun to cook. They shopped every day at the
farmers market and hauled in the stuff we needed themselves.
That's a great way to run a restaurant.
It
was the first semester I was in college. I did three
classes on Monday, class on Tuesday and Wednesday morning
and went to work five nights a week. Sunday was my only
day off but I was usualy reading or writing for a class.
It was a lot for a mid forties something grrrl but it
was also fun. On one menu I had a dish that was French lentils
with carrots and onion topped with some kind of fish.
I think it was bass. There was something else but I
can't remember. I just remember that I had a professor
whose skin was the color of those lentils and I had
a crush on him. I would stand at the stove filling pan
after pan with lentils thinking about him. It was a
very alive time.
There's
new owner now. She does pretty average diner food but
she is very nice. I've eaten there twice. I ate there
this morning. I had to go in for a fasting blood test
and I was hungry afterward. And tired. Having blood
taken makes me tired. So I ate eggs and a bagel and drank
coffee. It's always odd being somewhere that isn't what
it was when you were part of what it was.
Tonight
I'm eating red bell pepper pappardelle from The
Pasta Shop with fresh peas and ham. It's fresh pea
season and I'm crazy for them. I'm still sulking. But
maybe I'm almost done. Fresh peas. I'm tellin ya. It
might be the peas.
When
I was eighteen Mom did a cross stitch for me that said
- today is the first day of the rest of your life. K
put it on a board and framed it. I've lugged it around
ever since. It hangs on the wall between the closet
and the bathroom. It's the first thing I see as I shuffle
out the bedroom door in the morning. If I look. Which
I don't
Last
night, in bed, I told myself to look at it in the morning.
But I forgot. I moved around in rote mode. Turned on
the radio and made my eggs and tea. I woke up a little
earlier than I usually do and I feel like the morning
is infinitely expanded. Only a half an hour difference
but it feels big.
When
I sat down to write I remembered the cross stitch and
my intention to be affirmative. I don't think of myself
as negative, or positive. Even in a deep and protracted
sulk I often have moments of clarity. I don't really
need to go look at it. I do need to be engaged with
my life. And. Maybe I can be. Starting this minute.
Got
the Stafford following a
link from Kristina. The poem she linked was compelling.
It is important for awake people to be awake. The line
breaks are not right in the side bar poem but they are
here
and at the place where I linked the poem. It's true.
A bad line break may discourage me back to sleep.
Sometimes
I start to watch something on TV and I know right away
that I oughta turn it off. Sometimes I do and sometimes
I don't. But I usually know when I should. Such is the
case with Revelations.
I keep watching it and I keep wondering why. I read
the book. I thought they might be able to do something
interesting with it. But there's some obscure and simplistic
notion of good and evil that just bugs me. And then
there's the girl who is saved from having her organs
harvested so that she can be the voice box of the lord.
It might not have bugged me if they hadn't accused the
doctors of wanting the organs for profit. Seems like
a bad message for the time.
On
the other hand, I hate commercials and either mute them
or look at other channels while they're on. And because
of this I found Strange
Days on Planet Earth. I like it so much I might
get
the disk from Netflix and watch it again. Going
from the weird good guy/bad guy thriller version of
the end of days to the more real what happens when we
don't pay attention to the earth version of the end
of days gave me the spins.
Strange
Days is also full of hope and stories about interesting
people doing good work. There is a farmer who talks
about planting trees on land he had previously farmed
to protect the river against chemical run off from his
crops. Run off that might have made its way to the ocean
and the great
barrier reef. He says he might make less money but
it makes him happy and if he's happy he might live longer.
Yep.
Willa
wrote a poem for Poetry month and I love it. She says
she took inspiration from Neruda
and links to a site where the poem is taken from a book
titled: Full
Woman, Fleshy Apple, Hot Moon. I heard about the
book awhile ago and put it on the wish list just because
of the title.