krockcandy

From the Department of: Lovely

2007-12-28T12:46:00.000-06:00

“Life, ideally, I think, should be like the Minuet or the Virginia Reel or the Turkey Trot, something easily mastered in a dancing school.”
-Kurt Vonnegut

He = God or Man or Both

2007-12-18T11:38:00.000-06:00

Fast
Heather McHugh

If he's the rock, then I'm the water.
If he's the water, I'm the wind.
If he's the wind, I must be moonshine

driven in wavelengths to rock.

I Run Around Like Mad Picking Up Handfuls of Birds

2007-12-11T11:37:00.000-06:00

I Would Like to Describe
Zbigniew Herbert

I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say—I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face

and anger
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue

so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
what white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
and said
this is the subject
and this is the object

we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully

I Walked to Work in Rubber Boots, And Still I Have Soaked Sockies

2007-12-05T14:52:00.000-06:00

[With] Snow
Anne Sexton

Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.

Way True Again

2007-11-30T09:42:00.000-06:00

(Thanks for this, dad.)

"You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life."

-J. Krishnamurti, Indian philosopher (1895-1986)

Steph. Better?

2007-11-29T07:19:00.001-06:00

"Painting By Chagall [By The Weepies]"

Well, This Is Just Bad Videography, What With All The Blinking Pink

2007-11-27T21:21:00.001-06:00

Good song though. Right?

Way True, Bertholt

2007-11-26T12:52:00.000-06:00

“Art is not a mirror to reflect reality but a hammer with which to shape it.”

-Bertholt Brecht

The Remark Below from "De Daumier Smith's Blue Period" (A Great Great Short Story by J.D. Salinger) is Charming, Yes

2007-11-15T06:58:00.000-06:00

"...the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid."

Love Love Love Love Love Love

2007-11-14T18:02:00.000-06:00

You Have What I Look For
by Jaime Sabines

You have what I look for, what I long for, what I love,
you have it.
The fist of my heart is beating, calling.
I thank the stories for you,
I thank your mother and father
and death who has not seen you.
I thank the air for you.
You are elegant as wheat,
delicate as the outline of your body.
I have never loved a slender woman
but you have made my hands fall in love,
you moored my desire,
you caught my eyes like two fish.
And for this I am at your door, waiting.

Love and Apples

2007-11-13T07:50:00.001-06:00

This song is about the best song ever.

From "Someone You Have Seen Before," by John Ashbery

2007-11-12T07:04:00.000-06:00

...So much that happens happens in small ways
That someone was going to get around to tabulate, and then never did,
Yet it all bespeaks freshness, clarity and an even motor drive
To coax us out of sleep and start us wondering what the new round
Of impressions and salutations is going to leave in its wake
This time. And the form, the precepts, are yours to dispose of as you will,
As the ocean makes grasses, and in doing so refurbishes a lighthouse
On a distant hill, or else lets the whole picture slip into foam.

"No One" is So Terrific It's Almost Absurd

2007-11-08T07:18:00.001-06:00

I don't know exactly what I mean by that, but I mean it. Anyways, I certainly like this song.

Goddam Gorgeous

2007-11-05T21:40:00.000-06:00

"[Stradlater] kept holding onto my wrists and I kept calling him a sonuvabitch and all, for around ten hours. I can hardly even remember what all I said to him. I told him he thought he could give the time to anybody he felt like. I told him he didn't even care if a girl kept all her kings in the back row or not, and the reason he didn't care was because he was a goddam stupid moron."

-Holden Caulfield

Brunch, Lunch, Dinner, Dessert

2007-11-04T08:15:00.000-06:00

Undertow
Dean Young

People looking at the sea,
makes them feel less terrible about themselves,
the sea's behaving abominably,
seems never satisfied,
what it throws away it dashes down
then wants back, yanks back.
Comparatively, thinks one vice president,
what are my frauds but nudged along
misunderstandings already there?
I can't believe I ever worried
about my betrayals, thinks the analyst
benefitting facially from the sea's raged up mist.
Obviously I'm not the only one suffering
an identity crisis knows the boy
who wants to be a lawyer no more.
Nothing can stay long, cogitates the dog,
so maybe a life of fetch is not a wasted life.
And the sea heaves and cleaves and seethes,
shoots snot out, goes to bed only to wake
shouting in the mansion of the night, pacing,
pacing, making tea then spilling it,
sudden outloud laughter snort, Oh what the
heck, I probably drove myself crazy,
thinks the sea, kissing all those strangers,
forgiving them no matter what, liars
in confession, vomitters of plastics
and fussel fuels but what a stricken
elixir I've become even to my becalmed depths,
while through its head swim a million
fishes seemingly made of light
eating each other.

Breakfast

2007-11-03T10:16:00.000-05:00

Wanting Sumptuous Heavens
Robert Bly

No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

Suddenly I Realize That If I Stepped Out Of My Body I Would Break Into Blossom

2007-10-24T05:08:00.000-05:00

That sentence, the last in the poem below, I have always read as an exclamation of happiness. This morning though, I see that it's more like a recipe for it.

A Blessing
James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Thanks John

2007-10-20T16:48:00.000-05:00

This week I'm reading "The Winter of Our Discontent." So far, I've found in it (1) a phrase which someday I hope to use as the title to my first book, which - bound by a solid, deep purplish/black jacket - will be pretty cool and (2) a quote, which follows, and is also squiggled on the chalkboard that I bought and mounted (all by myself) this morning: "The sniffing mind smelled danger - a mouse confused between the odor of trap wire and the aroma of cheese." Words to remember, I think.

fyi

2007-10-18T12:12:00.000-05:00

Happiness
Carl Sandberg

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of
thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though
I was trying to fool with them
And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along
the Desplaines river
And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with
their women and children and a keg of beer and an
accordion.

On Writing Your Rear Off

2007-10-15T07:34:00.000-05:00

"I write to realize the world as one has come to live in it, thus to give testament. I write to move in words, a human delight. I write when no other act is possible. [The poem is] that place we are finally safe in, [where] understanding is not a requirement. You don't have to know why. Being there is the one requirement...If one only wrote 'good' poems, what a dreary world it would be. 'Writing writing' is the point. It's a process, like they say, not a production line. I love the story of Neal Cassidy writing on the bus with Ken Kesey, simply tossing the pages out the window as he finished each one. 'I wonder if it was any good,' I can hear someone saying. Did you ever go swimming without a place you were necessarily swimming to—the dock, say, or the lighthouse, the moored boat, the drowning woman? Did you always swim well, enter the water cleanly, proceed with efficient strokes and a steady flutter kick? I wonder if this 'good' poem business is finally some echo of trying to get mother to pay attention." --Robert Creeley

Homework

2007-10-07T15:38:00.000-05:00

Below is the first paragraph of the prologue to my--piece for writing group on Thursday.

September 26, 2009
I had given no thought whatsoever to the point of this story. But nonetheless I was inventing people while jogging in the morning and walking home from work at night like the functional crazy I half believed I was, and spending most Sunday afternoons writing about them, the made-up people, per the recommendation of Saul, my therapist, who probably around visit three said to me, “Marianne, your regret about the past and anxiety for the future will lessen if you utilize your present. Tell me three things you wish for yourself.” My response went something like, “[too cheesy to admit], [too shallow to admit], publication.” So there we are.

Trouser Arouser

2007-10-01T23:26:00.000-05:00

Tonight I heard Rudolph Delson read from his--exuberant book ("Maynard & Jennica"), which is a love story - between M (a misanthrope) and J (a romantic) - told from many different points of view, including that of the title characters and also their parents, and also cicadas ("She-eee-ee, He-eee-ee"), and also 13-year old graphiti artists, and also their lawyer, and also train emergency alarms, and also Puppy Jones, who's like--a P.T. Barnum in rap get-up.

In the Q and A, I asked a few Qs, one of which regarded how/where he found Jennica's voice. Which here, I attempt to emulate. Someone else inquired about the empidemiology of the lyrics to Puppy Jones' hit song. Which twines phrases, such as "air-fare," "chunky monkey," "legal eagle," "later skater," "jelly belly," "heebie jeebies," "pooper scooper," you get the idea. His A to my Q was like "With this book, which is my first published, I decided to write about people wholly unrelated to me. So I just IMAGINED Jennica." Smart, right?

His A to the other dude's Q? May I just say, it dealt something with a pair of pants and Brad Pitt and a caption on the cover of an Irish magazine. And it was just so--funny.

Genuine Birthday, Scott

2007-09-24T06:44:00.001-05:00

I can't seem to find the photo of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald - fully dressed and playfully drunk - in the fountain of New York's Plaza Hotel. (If this image exists in my head only, it is in good company.) But I did find reprinted an interview by Michael Mok - taken this day (FSF's birthday) 71 years ago - which depicts a less glad Fitzgerald. Of the interview - which was recently regarded as one of greatest of the 20th century - Jay McInerney (author of "Bright Lights, Big City" and - famously - a close friend of Bret Easton Ellis) writes: "Mok is remembered as one of the villains of the Fitzgerald story, one of history's cloddish butterfly crushers...[His] portrait is unseemly, but it's not unfair, and one of the things that makes it so poignant is Fitzgerald's collaboration in his own depantsing. What possessed him, you can't help wondering, to expose himself this way? It's as if he has determined to be a representative figure once again, even at the expense of humiliating himself, to reaffirm his significance as a generational totem by portraying himself as an exemplary victim of its faults. What makes this document even more poignant, almost unbearably so, is that Fitzgerald seems to have undervalued the literary achievement that would one day resurrect his reputation, even as it would always remain intertwined with the tragic myth of his life." Read it here.

The taste of "the cracked-plate" - like a bite of banana compared to one that's been smoothie-whipped - is wildly different than "Fountain Fitzgerald." But suffering and celebrating, both are original and real. Which - I think - is his, is anyone's, most lovely quality.

On Waiting

2007-09-22T19:15:00.000-05:00

So Blockbuster finally sent me "Beautiful Girls." I don't even want to go into how many months this took. Many. In any case, I watched it last night and was totally let-down. I've waited for a few major things in life, and I feel like - yep - each was worth it. The wait. But proverbs don't apply to things like ice cream and naps and movies. So, see "Eastern Promises" now. It's unbelievable.

Wolfsheim

2007-09-21T19:37:00.000-05:00

Probably I'm late in discovering Wolfsheim, a German band named after a character* in F. Scott Fitzgerald's magnum opus, "The Great Gatsby." Regardless. I think one song in particular, that is "I Won't Believe," deserves its own special post. I'm not really sure what it's about, but I listened to it - start to finish - four times as I walked to work this morning and my step was for sure more bouncy. Awesome. iTunes has 150 Wolfsheim tracks available for purchase. I'm totally getting on it.

*Meyer Wolfsheim, a business associate of Gatsby, is a notorius underworld figure deeply involved in organized crime. Other details: he claims credit for fixing the 1919 World Series; he wears cufflinks made of human molars; he is among the few who sincerely mourn Gatsby's murder.

The Seas

2007-09-17T20:35:00.000-05:00

Not sure if I mentioned the book buying habits around here, but they include picking up books based on notable mentions, spine color, the first letter of the author's last name (generally, the Ps are a good group); his or her photograph and other less romantic things. I'm loving this book by Samantha Hunt that I bought yesterday. It's about a girl who's convinced she's a mermaid. But despite this element of fantasy, the story is "urgently real," thanks mostly - I think - to Hunt's well developed characters and dense text. (See Village Voice, 2004 Top Shelf Selection.) Poetry strokes every sentence. (If you like subject plus predicate equals punctuation then next sentence, you will not dig this.) Hunt doesn't write "Character misses Other Character." Instead, she breathes depth into them (her characters), manipulating nuance to propel story. Like when the grandfather, a former typesetter, looks up from his Russian to English dictionary and announces "'I don't think you'll believe what I found...A word, 'razbliuto.' We don't have a word to match it but we should. We should develop it tonight because the word means, 'the feeling one retains for someone once loved.'" Bamo.

September 12

2007-09-13T21:38:00.000-05:00

All my luck to those who observed yesterday's holiday.

My Favorite Song, Lately

2007-09-05T20:32:00.001-05:00

"First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes

Perfect. Flawless.

2007-08-29T14:10:00.000-05:00

Beyond its lyrical aspects, what fascinates me about the poem below is the question of subject/verb disagreement in the first line. The idea that 'woods' - and depending on your read, the trilogy - is singular/whole (and present and shining and still): this might mean everything.

Grace
Wendell Berry

The woods is shining this morning.
Red, gold and green, the leaves
lie on the ground, or fall,
or hang full of light in the air still.
Perfect in its rise and in its fall, it takes
the place it has been coming to forever.
It has not hastened here, or lagged.
See how surely it has sought itself,
its roots passing lordly through the earth.
See how without confusion it is
all that it is, and how flawless
its grace is. Running or walking, the way
is the same. Be still. Be still.
“He moves your bones, and the way is clear."

One Book One Movie One Song

2007-08-22T06:55:00.000-05:00

One of the many reasons why I’ve not posted so frequently lately is that many wonderful things are taking up my time, and I have waited to write until I have the time to post about each one at length so that you will be sure to read/watch/listen to each, but the other thing that’s been taking up my time, work, prevents me from doing that now, so I'll just list 'em.

One Book
The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud. Smart. You'll totally want to be Claire Messud's friend.

One Movie
Rocket Science. Man, that Jeffrey Blitz (writer) really gets people, gets love, gets life. And Reece Thompson (Hal Hefner) is refreshing as a sullen person's laughter. Ditto with Anna Kendrick (Ginny Ryerson). And Nicholas D'Agosto (Ben Wekselbaum), who should have smoking hot after his name - Nicholas D'Agosto, smoking hot - killed me with all his "throw me the cello[s]."

One Song
How To Be Dead by Snow Patrol (Final Straw). Despite the title, this song is punky and sweet, and I've listened to it 50 times in the last week.

Raisins

2007-08-18T08:16:00.000-05:00

Naturally, for me, the idea of a suitable
snack (the definition of which I
took to be any food I could
eat without ruining my want
for the meal to come) was nothing
more than a Rule - smart but (maybe?)
limiting like the hope for a bridal suite
with crisp white sheets and a porcelein
bath for any single Catholic girl age five to forty.

Among Women

2007-08-16T12:41:00.000-05:00

I bought this poetry collection by Jason Shinder today and below share one of the most beautiful poems I've read in recent memory.

Man Dressing

When I am dressing
I sit a long time
looking at my shirts.

I do not know
which one will be
the one I choose

but I see each one
has taken a style
of its own….

…Before

slipping my arms
sideways
into their sleeves

I unbutton
the buttons
and press

every pore of my face
in their chests
and sometimes

underneath
their armpits.
When I have

stepped inside
of the one I choose
I stand

before the tall mirror.
I love to see
if I have changed,

if I'm less worried.
I'm so lucky
I have found

the one.
It is the only one
I could have found.

I am
the only one
who could have found it.

What To Do Before August 27:

2007-08-07T17:26:00.000-05:00

See "August: Osage County" at the Steppenwolf Theatre. (I wish I had the time to write a lengthy review but right now a few seconds is all I got so please just trust me on this one cuz I really happen to love this play a lot and think you will too.)

The End of Missing Someone*

2007-08-06T18:58:00.000-05:00

I found "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer absolutely tender & tremendously funny. Without giving too much away, I'll drop some plot: Oskar Schell (THE most lovable nine year-old, smart, sweet, smart, sweet) searches New York for a lock that fits a key that belonged to his father, who died in the World Trade Center on 9/11. He's hopeful until he's not. But at that point, he's met enough strangers - heard enough stories of sadness and survival - to have almost the insight to deal. Almost.

*page 109

So Cool and Formed, Like a Pillow at Leisure

2007-07-23T19:18:00.000-05:00

I read "Breakfast at Tiffany's" last night. For the first time. Ever. And today - because I read it last night, for the first time, ever - I feel I might be a little different. Never mind why, but I memorized two quotes and have already used both in conversation once. (No twice (if this blog post counts).) See below.

Not Me: And he's basically....So what should I do?

Me: [G]ood things only happen to you if you're good. Good? Honest is more what I mean. Not law-type honest - I'd rob a grave, I'd steal two-bits off a dead man's eyes if I thought it would contribute to the day's enjoyment - but unto-thyself-type honest.

Not Me: What? Anyways, ....

Me: I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours until you've thrown it away.

Not Me: Wow, Kate...

I Don't Know The Type. But Oh, Jesus God, This Flower.

2007-07-21T13:32:00.000-05:00

It's perfect.

Whether Or Not This Is A Good Thing, I Do Not Yet Know, But.

2007-07-17T19:50:00.000-05:00

But, I just removed, coded and filed every interesting recipe and craft idea from 36 issues of Martha Stewart Living.

I Ain't Tellin' You No Lie [*1]

2007-07-12T20:12:00.000-05:00

I can't honestly say that I know much about music. (It might be a nice touch to say that the first song I ever memorized was "Hook" by Blues Traveler and until very recently, my all time favorite album was "August and Everything After" by the Counting Crows [*2].) One thing that I know is true, though, is that when you very much like every (every!) song [*3] written and recorded by any one musician [*4], then that person [*5] certainly must rock.

*1: ...suck it in suck it in if you're rin tin tin or Anne Boleyn...
*2: who I still love
*3: e.g., "Ode To Sad Clown" by Joe Purdy
*4: e.g., Joe Purdy
*5: e.g., Joe Purdy

Improv Hereafter Amen

2007-07-11T19:57:00.000-05:00

For a little while when I was thirteen years old, I thought hand/hair/neck, also jaw, intensive frenching - like on 'Days of Our Lives' - was the very crest of romance and so in my first game of spin the bottle, concentrating with such intensity on parts of me unrelated to seventh grade kisses, I bit Jon Kattke. Of course I didn't tell anyone and eventually forgot about it. But at church tonight, as Frank Hannigan (Director of Family Ministries) spoke about reality and marriage, I had occasion to remember this childhood memory and suddenly it struck me that method acting had, in a way, been the pattern of my romantic relationships. Until now, God willing.

Bird by Bird, Buddy. Just Take It Bird by Bird.

2007-07-09T18:47:00.000-05:00

Today, I received a package from my dad containing an instruction book on "writing and life" by Anne Lamott, and as before, I opened this new book ('Bird by Bird') to a random page and while thinking to myself "Kate, whatever you read first will mean something, like in the greater scheme," I found a poem by Sharon Olds, which I assume is the only piece of poetry in 'Bird' [but I can't yet confirm this because so far my intimacy with the book is limited to pages 229-230], that speaks pretty profoundly about destiny. I think it's what I needed today.

Isn't It Pretty To Think So?

2007-07-08T20:45:00.000-05:00

Honestly, there was nothing false and nothing tired about my crying close to the whole of the movie 'Evening.' I mean I did this even though I didn't much care for the main character Ann (played by a young Claire Danes and an aged Venessa Redgrave) and never fully accepted Patrick Wilson in the role of Harris - which, if you saw PW as Brad Adamson in 'Little Children' is understandable, given the laundry room scenes. I cried even though I found the movie undeniably long and horribly predictable, poorly titled and maybe a little misdirected (I'd have centered the story around the crushingly sentimental Buddy Wittenborn (High Dancy)) - but I don't know, it's funny. When sisters Nina (Toni Collette) and Constance (Natasha Richardson) fought and when Ann stood in the rain with Harris and when Buddy was dancing and drinking and quoting Hemingway and when Mrs. Wittenborn (Glenn Close) folded with grief and when Lila, well, whenever Lila said or did anything, you know what I felt like doing? I felt like crying.

I Just. Mmmmm.

2007-07-07T10:20:00.000-05:00

Listen to this song and get back to me. It's so happy.

Soy Franks

2007-07-05T19:34:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I generally don't read each (any) issue of 'Poetry' front to back because - for one thing - most feature some pretty dark or entirely obscure stuff, and I'm exponentially more interested in poems charged with love or at least like. But yesterday on the train back to the city from my sister's house (where hot dogs are called franks to avoid confusing my puppy-obsessed niece with a limited vocabulary), I did. No lie. And I found it to be great. Really really great. I will share with you some plums - in order of appearance - from the July/August edition, entitled "Summer Break."

From "Muchness," by Tony Hoagland
You were going to work with your backpack and sketchbook and your bushy gray hair which bursts out in weather like a steel wool bouquet. That's how my heart is, I thought - It lies coiled inside of me, asleep, then springs out and shocks me with all of its muchness...

From Q & A with Kevin Young
Q: [Do] you think that life is chaos? If so, what's a poem supposed to do with this chaos?
A: ...Someone - Frost? - said that art is a stay against confusion...Life is the maintenance of a semi-permeable membrane; form is a distinction between an outside and inside. It all ends up rather messy. Chaotic? Maybe, but chaos is only the moment of the glass's shattering - afterwards, what a lovely arrangement of the glittering, lethal bits!

From "3. B. Digital; a. Baginal Wall," by Albert Goldbarth
[I]nstead of being blinded by the immediacy of their own impossibly boringly splendid lovers and boringly obtuse exes, not to mention grandma dying, not to mention their totalitarian parents and ditto their watery angst...instead, consider turning a corner, in this shimmering cousin dimension, this existence just one silky aspirate or nanobot or hydrogen solution or presidential election off from ours...a world that, thought it isn't ours, still speaks for ours each time her nearness makes his chart beat faster in a pour of rain, in a power of ruin...because it isn't ours, we need to make it as durably rock-knockable as ours. If we begin with a man, before we get to his sex life or his gods, let's not forget how real the sky should be, and the air at his face, and the weight of a long day's laboring..."

From "My Poet," an essay by Naeem Murr
The reason poets are able to read so much is because they spend more time "waiting" than writing. Waiting! What a bizarre concept. Reading, taking walks, debating whether an autumnal leaf is really red ochre or more a perinone orange, all the time twisting the miserable wire coat hanger of their souls this way and that in hope of becoming receptive.

See Him For Me!

2007-07-01T10:31:00.000-05:00

My fifth row vision is not v. good, so I had to take this picture - of two Gen Art'ers holding mike to cell phone on which the screenwriter of Numb, a so awesome movie starring Matthew Perry, was on the line - to gage the greatness of the guy on the right. Very amazing.

"Whoever you are holding me now in hand, Without one thing all will be useless, I give you fair warning before you attempt me further...

2007-06-29T16:09:00.000-05:00

I am not what you supposed, but far different."
- Whitman

If you saw the movie I saw last night you'd now have the fantods.

Minor Complaint

2007-06-28T04:22:00.000-05:00

I have a kink in the valley between my neck and right shoulder, which is - I aver - the result of a too heavy purse roosting there always minus the time I'm naked, recumbent, sitting, working, exercising or preening (because then - doy - I carry a clutch).

Breaking

2007-06-26T15:50:00.000-05:00

Ever since I saw him, standing starboard to the Salad Bar at Whole Foods this afternoon, I've had Bill Rancic on my mind.

Makes My Heart Go

2007-06-25T20:04:00.000-05:00

I would like to thank (1) Fleet Feet for exchanging the really cute but totally wrong for me running shoes I bought yesterday for the ugly but snuggly pair I will - for the next four months - wear cheerfully and (2) Powell's for stocking both a book of stories (for lunchtime reading) and a novel (for reading pre-sleep) by Ken Kalfus, who is - it goes without saying - the most awesome. The import of the goods far exceeds their monetary value ($0.01/0.1 mile and $7.08 for the two (yes two (2)!!) books) and practical functions, having more to do with lending narratives to feelings of mine about object- v. subjectivity and life's gifts which have - until today - defied simile. Anyways I'm really grateful to and a little in love with both stores.

(I'm not satisfied with the above description of the ugly shoes or my joy in finding these perfect books. There are other details: the shoes are white and marroon and pretty much shapeless and Ken Kalfus has been compared to George Saunders (whoa!) but has never - never ever - been on the shelf at Border's or B&N or WaldenBooks.)

Established Fact

2007-06-23T00:53:00.000-05:00

That the White Hen Pantry store across the street from where I live smells smelly - this is unfortunate, much the way discovering the one you're with is not 'the one' is a little unfortunate. Tonight I walked - without escort - three blocks to and from Walgreens, where I bought not really a tube but more like a flask thingy of toothpaste, and was - needless to say - nearly young-adult-napped by two medium built men. So unfortunate is a gross understatement, actually. And so on and so forth.

Walking to Work is My New Thing

2007-06-20T12:51:00.000-05:00

And this morning - at Huron and State - I passed a portable-toilet manufactured by Oui Oui Enterprises and haven't stopped smiling since.

Book Hangovers

2007-06-17T08:17:00.000-05:00

Often when I'm mulling four funny and slash-or smart books in say one night, which rarely happens, the following day I feel a little bit haunted. Late last night I finished Slapstick, started Oblivion, considered my position in re: Mysteries of Pittsburgh, and decided what about Lonesome Dove I want to write (stay tuned for that, btw). Think about Vonnegut + DFW + Chabon + McMurtry; about all the funny and slash-or smart ideas and images commingling in my brain; about my favorite, from Vonnegut, below.

"[Love] does not seem important to me. What does seem important? Bargaining in good faith with destiny. I have had some experiences with love, or think I have, anyway, although the ones I have liked best could easily be described as 'common decency.' I treated somebody well for a little while, or maybe even a tremendously long time, and that person treated me well in return...I wish that people who are conventionally supposed to love each other would say to each other, when they fight, 'Please -- a little less love, and a little more common decency."

Hi Ho. (Also Vonnegut.)

I'm Going to A Concert By Myself

2007-06-13T21:13:00.000-05:00

It's true. Because I'm in this * Life is Short and Amazing * stage, there's no way I could work late or retire early two Wednesday nights from now while Rosie Thomas sings Much Farther To Go at Schubas. Just in case you were wondering.

Wait. How Do You Really Feel?

2007-06-12T04:24:00.001-05:00

I keep this notebook in my purse and every now and again I write down something profound, but seriously, most of it isn't really, although last night at a Stop Smiling event, listening to Dennis Loy Johnson (Melville House) speak about the future of independent publishing, I - paraphrasing Johnson - wrote this: We live in an anti-influential culture with little respect for brains; only a troubled society elects a dunce as President.

Please Note

2007-06-11T21:18:00.000-05:00

Fabrication doesn't sound like a real word. But it is.

Orange Sky

2007-06-10T18:46:00.000-05:00

Here's something I had forgotten about until I heard that song by Alexi Murdoch today. About three years ago or so, I went by myself to Sunday night mass at St. Clement's. It was summer time and the sun was on the verge of setting. The church's front lawn was covered with lit candles and Father Hickey - at the alter - spoke about human hunger and happiness. Anyway, I sat in the back of the church, and I know I couldn't see the alter, so I mostly just focused on the strange man in the pew in front of me (hereafter referred to as "he/him") wearing layers and shrouds and possibly bags. So I'm at church, listening to the gospel, which was - I seem to remember - the story of Jesus feeding 5,000 men with a loaf of bread and two fish, and he keeps clearing his throat, which is annoying to me. And then the ushers are passing around the offertory basket, and I see him give every cent in his pocket, and then - while we're saying the Lord's Prayer - he reaches back for my hand, and I take his, and he continues to clear his throat, and I cry.

"And Then You Must Remember That The Greatest Love Is The Simplest Love, Just As The Best Verse Is Written Most Simply." - Nabokov

2007-06-09T08:26:00.000-05:00

I love my running group.

Dear Guy At The Gym This Morning (I Wish I Knew Your Name So If You Google Yourself, And You Probably Do, You'd See These Tips And Be A Nicer Person),

2007-06-08T07:06:00.000-05:00

1. When a gym opener/membership card scanner person begins gym opening/membership card scanning 98 seconds late, smile and say good morning. (Remember how you yelled at her? That wasn't so nice.)

2. When the TV you want to watch while stair-climbing is set to NBC, make sure Fred on the treadmill (red shorts, 80-ish, first man on the machines - always) is done with the news before turning the channel to Sport Center.

That's it. Have a great day,

Kate

Tonight

2007-06-07T20:42:00.000-05:00

As I sat on my roof reading "Lonesome Dove" I decided it might be time to become someone who drinks tea.

Kate's Word Of The Day

2007-06-06T21:08:00.000-05:00

Mouthfeel, people. Exactly perfect to describe "physical and chemical interactions" in your mouth. Who knew?

And I'm Back

2007-06-05T19:32:00.000-05:00

Me: Lest you think I've forsaken you, I have not, it's just that I want to be able to write in purple and Wordpress was totally not down with that, but I found Blogger, which is, so now I'm back.
Blogosphere: Cool.