These brrrds lukold. Vereekold. Zitten en eyes lygedat.
I'm sher thayr war more daday.
tsacuhmferd. anyway, i find it cuhmferding
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Read with the desire to hear and you will hear, or don't I'm not trying to do anything or anything I just write like this at times and now have a blog
These brrrds lukold. I'm sher thayr war more daday.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Poem at a greek pot
Dear Fonzie,
I woke up at 5:30 and couldn't get back to sleep.
In Keats's Ode to a Grecian Urn, the poet sighs that the boy in hot-pursed lips nearing his pursing love in the picture on the pot will not ever get his kiss but wins eternally-almost-fulfilled desire, which is better in some ways than getting what you want. He'll always like her. That's not nothing.
Similarly, last week I visited Teddy's museum's "whale and giant squid fight" mocked up that scared us all as children. You remember this... in the room under the big, blue whale. When I posted the photo I thought what should I write to you as a note for it and I thought of the Keats lines.
I wasn't sure how to feel because it is sad that the whale will never get that bite of sushi it is about to clamp down on and neither will the squid. Yet as Keats says about the vase,
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
I woke up at 5:30 and couldn't get back to sleep.
In Keats's Ode to a Grecian Urn, the poet sighs that the boy in hot-pursed lips nearing his pursing love in the picture on the pot will not ever get his kiss but wins eternally-almost-fulfilled desire, which is better in some ways than getting what you want. He'll always like her. That's not nothing.
Similarly, last week I visited Teddy's museum's "whale and giant squid fight" mocked up that scared us all as children. You remember this... in the room under the big, blue whale. When I posted the photo I thought what should I write to you as a note for it and I thought of the Keats lines.
I wasn't sure how to feel because it is sad that the whale will never get that bite of sushi it is about to clamp down on and neither will the squid. Yet as Keats says about the vase,
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
Friday, March 6, 2009
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Gorilla In a Darkening Room
Gorilla In a Darkening Room
A suspicion about oneself
in the midst of placid repetition
is a vehicle.
The suspicion is not a destination.
Obviously, the suspicion
should not be denied, but neither
should one believe it.
Let us imagine that life
in the arctic is going well for you,
though you are entirely alone
and the food is long gone; you’ve
made your meek adjustments.
The suspicion is a four-wheel drive
all-terrain vehicle that appears,
with keys, one dark day. My point is:
it is important that you do not
simply begin living in the car.
Drive. Our concerns are the anxiety
of not knowing
where we’re going,
and the terrific fear
of being given anything else to do,
of anything else appearing on our desk.
We tender resignation.
We succumb. We head back
inside and stick in a thumb.
It’s a not uncommon, it’s a common
error about how things get done.
How many gorillas does it take
to screw in a light-bulb? One,
but you need a lot of light-bulbs.
The gorilla regards
the crate of light-bulbs with excitement
but by noon, despair. My friends,
I admit, I can not
bear the anxiety of not knowing.
Outside, the African sky bleeds blue
and oxidizes. Indoors, the one
light socket opens herself
to her gorilla and waits for the perfect
turn. Did you really come here
to talk about love? Poor baboon.
This is no way to go about it,
of course, of course we need
to be more honest, to admit
the secret weakness, the shattered,
well, let’s move on.
You hear the socket coo:
My lonely gorilla, did they
punish you into perversion?
Under these circumstances
it is hard to be epic. The best
you can do is re-open the field
of possibilities and resist
rushing them closed. Bear
the anxiety of not knowing.
Resist summing up.
The secret weakness
wishes to speak! Nevertheless,
face it, nothing works.
It is winter in the African
jungle and I am
empty. Below me, on the ground,
a silverback looks out
at the bruised-fruit sky of a setting
sun and then back up at me.
There’s something about
fear of darkness in his attentions.
Crates of light-bulbs
everywhere and everywhere
broken bulbs. The terrible
graying gorilla is really trying
to figure it out now. He’s
looking closer. I want him
to figure it out, much as,
in the other metaphor, I want
to park the car in the first
town I come to, buy a house,
marry the village wine-steward,
and open a nice Chianti.
But you’ve got to roam.
The mango-papaya sky
at sunset in the jungle,
the aurora in the tundra.
Either way, be brave,
press the sky back into
the distance. Give yourself
a little room. Inside
the little room, dark now,
the gorilla sighs, the light-bulbs
sigh, the socket sleeps
and dreams about the rising
sun. So this is how the west was
won? This is how things get done.
A suspicion about oneself
in the midst of placid repetition
is a vehicle.
The suspicion is not a destination.
Obviously, the suspicion
should not be denied, but neither
should one believe it.
Let us imagine that life
in the arctic is going well for you,
though you are entirely alone
and the food is long gone; you’ve
made your meek adjustments.
The suspicion is a four-wheel drive
all-terrain vehicle that appears,
with keys, one dark day. My point is:
it is important that you do not
simply begin living in the car.
Drive. Our concerns are the anxiety
of not knowing
where we’re going,
and the terrific fear
of being given anything else to do,
of anything else appearing on our desk.
We tender resignation.
We succumb. We head back
inside and stick in a thumb.
It’s a not uncommon, it’s a common
error about how things get done.
How many gorillas does it take
to screw in a light-bulb? One,
but you need a lot of light-bulbs.
The gorilla regards
the crate of light-bulbs with excitement
but by noon, despair. My friends,
I admit, I can not
bear the anxiety of not knowing.
Outside, the African sky bleeds blue
and oxidizes. Indoors, the one
light socket opens herself
to her gorilla and waits for the perfect
turn. Did you really come here
to talk about love? Poor baboon.
This is no way to go about it,
of course, of course we need
to be more honest, to admit
the secret weakness, the shattered,
well, let’s move on.
You hear the socket coo:
My lonely gorilla, did they
punish you into perversion?
Under these circumstances
it is hard to be epic. The best
you can do is re-open the field
of possibilities and resist
rushing them closed. Bear
the anxiety of not knowing.
Resist summing up.
The secret weakness
wishes to speak! Nevertheless,
face it, nothing works.
It is winter in the African
jungle and I am
empty. Below me, on the ground,
a silverback looks out
at the bruised-fruit sky of a setting
sun and then back up at me.
There’s something about
fear of darkness in his attentions.
Crates of light-bulbs
everywhere and everywhere
broken bulbs. The terrible
graying gorilla is really trying
to figure it out now. He’s
looking closer. I want him
to figure it out, much as,
in the other metaphor, I want
to park the car in the first
town I come to, buy a house,
marry the village wine-steward,
and open a nice Chianti.
But you’ve got to roam.
The mango-papaya sky
at sunset in the jungle,
the aurora in the tundra.
Either way, be brave,
press the sky back into
the distance. Give yourself
a little room. Inside
the little room, dark now,
the gorilla sighs, the light-bulbs
sigh, the socket sleeps
and dreams about the rising
sun. So this is how the west was
won? This is how things get done.
Everything is cool.
It's true. Believe it or not, everything is cool. A lot of people go around all day saying in their heads, "I'm an idiot." I know I do. I am working on it in therapy. As for you, I am certain that you are not an idiot, either, and should try to find a way to make it stop.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
sperm whale
If a blue whale's penis is six feet long (that's what he told the marine biologist, anyway) than I wish the individual sperm were commensurate in size and that I could keep one in a fish tank. I would put my hand in and it would bonk at me, as if I were an egg. Bonk, bonk, bonk. In summer, I could put a few in the swimming pool and let them bonk the people. Bonk. Or we could put one in and call it Tag. If you get tagged we say, "you're a preggo blue whale, congratulations!" And then you get out of the pool and we get you some champagne. Champagne is good for an imaginary blue whale fetus.
Good idea?! Great idea, but the damn sperms are kind of normal tiny size.
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