Read so much I thought I was turning into stone.

How to continue a project when you've finished a project - there are all these hangover project poems. You can't stop and it is meaningless because to fit it into a new project it has to become something else and you must just stop and wait.

The bottoms of my feet are blue because the blue hair color washed out and I was standing in it.

Was thinking of turning the fragments from the diary into a daily one sentence entry, but then its just twittering? And I can just update facebook?

Maybe I should just write straight up poems like normal poets do.


Watch Dead Can Dance - Cantara.divx in Music  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Not sure if its yoga or the aging process, but I can't eat lactose stuff anymore, can't eat gluten, can't eat sugar, can't drink alcohol without feeling disgusting, can't eat meat, I guess all that's left is quitting coffee, and I'm shaking all the time lately, so it probably does mean that. Or I'm not eating enough. All I'm eating lately is soup for lunch, and quinoa and broccoli for dinner. Yogurt and granola for breakfast. I'm still eating chocolate, a little, in small doses, but too much doesn't do well for me either...

That weird yoga studio owner where I used to go used to say something like yoga will make your dreams come true. And I think that's silly, no one's dreams ever come true, it's propaganda for the rich I think. I always wanted to ask Why does suffering make us lucky? I don't think most yoga people think about darknesses as a sort of luck. Maybe that's what zombie pose was all about yesterday! The difference between yoga studios that cater to the rich and those (few) to the working class.

Proofreading work all weekend makes me think too much. I don't know how to get out of thinking overthinking brain mode when I'm sitting in front of the laptop and I just have to be there... I think listening to The Cure's Pornography helps a LOT though.

The Figurehead - The Cure

maybe I'll be me for halloween

(right click my big hair)














More me 20+ years ago here

Little mini-visions all day yesterday but nothing coelesced, except little rainbow lines everywhere in the air

Blog Post in the Traditional Style

Had a nice post sushiplus nap and now I am proofreading. Oddly nice just coming straight home as all last week I went to yoga after work. Every day I think. Have been doing the agni sara and could oddly touch my chest to my knee in pyramid pose. Not sure if it is the sucking in the belly or the fact that we went bottom up instead of top to bottom. If my chest is already low to the ground, it is easy to just turn. My body randomly started doing the retention of breath thing at work today. It is kind of mysterious but cool. Instead of blogging for a proofreading break I should do some crunches or something, but... Think I did too much yoga last week and I am feeling tired. Or maybe it was walking from Oakland to Berkeley Saturday. I don't know why I did that, but I wanted to see things. There are so many neighborhoods to explore in my new city. I am still missing being a San Franciscan like crazy, and don't know if I will last longer than my lease. But at least I can explore. Also, it is cleaner here, and people smile at you, so that is nice.

Saturday I walked up to Temescal looking for a chilaquile; pico paco taqueria does not have this, they are salvadorean I think. She squinted at me. The other place La Calaca has them, but only until 1, I will try next weekend. Then I walked up trying to find BookZoo. I walked from 51st to Alcatraz. I didn't know how far a walk that is. Also it was hot, and I was carrying my laptop on my shoulder. I bought a Camille Roy and a Stephen Ratcliffe, and almost a Vanessa Place but it was $15 and I don't think I quite understand the genre. Probably if I started reading it the process would teach it to me, but $15... I also had a long conversation with the daughter of the bookseller, she had a cinderella bike and was telling me all about cinderella and showing me all the different ways to ride the bike, some worked better than others. I didn't know Cinderella had friends, but there were a bunch of other people on the bike picture, slowly days later I realize they are the stepsisters. Duh. I find talking to children one of the most bizarre ways to pass time. But after that I was feeling friendly and asked the bookseller where I could get some wifi. So he pointed me in the direction of nomad cafe. It was ok, there was a very strange east bay cultural situation where I was standing by the bathroom, thinking I'm next, but no the girl sitting at the table was next, and then the girl at the other table sitting was after her, and then there was a guy sitting at another table. How do you sit at a table and still be in "a line"? Students maybe. Have unusual ways of communicating. But I worked on my manuscript for a good 2 1/2 hours or so. Black Radisher,David Wolach gave me tons of intricate notes, so I went through one by one. It took a while. I got so into it I was late leaving to go to the city, meet up with an old new college friend (blogless friend how do I link to you), and I missed his friend's reading, but made it to the next one, the CIIS reading, and the next one, the SPD reading, where I abandoned the CIIS group and went off on my own, but saw Kaya, Barbara, and Cedar, and some other cute 20 year olds. I may have stumbled across my next book idea, which will be called Poetry Reading, and is sort of a third cousin to Flarf, zlarf? Because I had to write a poem to get the free book, and of course I had to have a free book if there was a free book to be had, so I wrote lines from each of the poets, kind of collaged together. I think it came out kind of cool. My free book was a bio of Alice James.

Then Sunday I tried to go to the noon yoga to the people class but was late, I just missed the BART when I got there, and this 20 year old boy kept asking me questions: did we just miss the BART, yes we did. He likes my socks. Oh. Do I go to Berkeley. No. What am I reading. What I wrote. Maybe it was the kneesocks that made me look like I was a college student? Then I couldn't get in to the yoga class because I was 5 minutes late and they lock the door. So I went to the half price books and found an Elise Ficarra book and was carrying it around until someone asked me Do I go to State. What is up with this day? Then I went to Royal Cafe for a bit and worked on my other manuscript for a while, until it was almost time to go catch a BART again. I stopped in crossroads, and found a cool 3/4 inch sleeve MTV shirt, so 80's, but didn't buy it because the only time I wear printed shirts is for yoga - actually my favorite yoga outfit is the printed T-shirt outfit, I sometimes start to think tank tops are kind of "traditional" and I like to be different, but has to be short sleeves or I would probably die.

Then I went to Ashby, Ashby is a very exciting BART station. I found David and Sarah's place, and almost felt too shy to go in, the house reading terror, but then I heard familiar voices talking and I felt comforted. I went in and me and Sarah are the only women, and I thought that was odd. The end count was 7 women. I didn't count the men. Ending up leaving with the latest Try!, Sara's latest chap, and Julia Drescher gave me a beautifully made Lulu perfect bound called The Islands. And also CJ's Delete press chap. Beautifully made, and a weird title. I need to start making ypolita chaps again because I don't like not having something to give people. I almost wanted to get up and get my notebook to writ zlarf during the reading, but didn't, but should have because 4 people were writing in notebooks during the readings... Thought I'd try and remember but all i remember is a Julia Drescher line: "Here is an impossibility." I think I remember it right. She writes about land a lot.

Then I left and for some reason, maybe all the sitting, listening, I walked from Ashby Bart area up to Downtown Berkeley BART area, at this point my hip was starting to hurt, and also my feet. I did make it to the 5 o'clock YTTP class, thank god, but my practice was kind of rickety. I also forgot to pay. I feel bad about it. But I love that place because it is ok to forget. Then what did I do? I did not call my mother as I should have. I had A LOT to do on the computer, is how I always feel. I did not watch the movie I've had for two weeks either. I did not go grocery shopping. My feet were hurting. Thinking I really want to just quit netflix, I never watch them, and maybe I could just go to a video store when the mood hits. Sometimes watching movies alone makes me sad, or I only want to if I have an art project or book binding type things to do while I watch. But the only one semi in my neighborhood seems to be here. Not sure what kind of walk that is.

This is kind of like a John Sakkis post but without all the beautiful people. Kind of without any people.

During Paschimottanasana yesterday I was having a mulabhanda freakout, and I knew, even though I wasn't in an ashtanga class, ashtanga wanted me to try the mulabhanda checkup, lift up, which I can't find a picture of, but you lift up with your hands by your thighs, and your butt and your feet are supposed to all lift up, and the only thing touching the ground is your hands, never have I been able to do this one, and get my feet off the ground, but I did it yesterday!!!

She came up, though, I don't know why... maybe her bandhas are engaged.

Anubis

Creeley/Halou

Massachusetts

What gentle echoes,
half heard sounds
there are around here.

*

You place yourself in
such relation, you hear
everything that's said.

Take it or leave it.
Return it to a particular
condition.

Think
slowly. See
the things around you,

taking place.

*

I began wanting a sense
of melody, e.g., following
the tune, became somehow
an image, then several,
and I was watching those things
becoming in front of me.

*

The you imagined locates
the response. Like turning
a tv dial. The message,
as one says, is information,
a form of energy. The wisdom
of the ages is "electrical" imulse.

Lap of water
to the hand, lifting
up, slaps
the side of the dock --

Darkening air, heavy
feeling in the air.

*

A PLAN

On some summer day
when we are far away
and there is impulse and time,
we will talk about all this.

Oceanwide - Halou



Goodbye

Now I recognize
it was always me
like a camera
set to expose

itself to a picture
or a pipe
through which the water
might run

or a chicken
dead for dinner
or a plan
inside the head

of a dead man.
Nothing so wrong
when one considered
how it all began.

It was Zukofsky's
Born very young into a world
already very old...
The century was well along

when i came in
and now that it's ending,
I realize it won't
be long.

But couldn't it all have been
a little nicer,
as my mother'd say. Did it
have to kill everything in sight,

did right always have to be so wrong?
I know this body is impatient.
I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind.
Yet I loved, I love.

I want no sentimentality.
I want no more than home.

Meditation sometimes feels like I'm boiling a pot of water, with the top on. Where is the steam coming out? My ears? No, instead it is prana/kundalini or whatever that energy thing is, coming out of my crown chakra!

In vinyasas, it is easy to breathe in going from push up to upward facing dog, but always so hard to breathe out as you are going down into push up; I always tend to hold my breath.

Did a handstand today with the help of Michelle at Namaste Yoga in Rockridge! Love a class with lots of arm balances. Was about to quit because it is not ashtanga, but Michelle is great! I have the fear issue with handstand, so bad, and I talked to her about it, and she says it is just practice, and it took her 5 years. With all fear issues; I am reminded how true it is - you just keep putting yourself in the situation that causes fear, and eventually it dissipates, because eventually everything becomes ho-hum. You can't stay in that state forever. The problem with me tho is, I haven't gone fully into the fear, or the pose, on my own. I trepidate on the outside of it, and so I never fully experience it, and it never dissipates, because I am AVOIDING it. I'm not quite sure how to solve this issue since the fear in my body prevents me from ever entering the pose...

For those who want more pictures. Hi Dad. Obviously, pre-move, more forthcoming, with stuff, later. Maybe much later.










































Not sure why I though going to a yoga class would be invigorating and give me energy for unpacking, cuz now my abs hurt like mad, and my knee hurts, too much with the hurdler pose I think. so I just want to get back in bed!

Took the class here - good class but very yuppie area. Then across the street, lo and behold, was a library! -not the best selection, but I got my new library card. Doesn't seem the Oakland is connected to Link + though, so that is a bit of a quandry. Bookstores here though.

Then I ate here Was "OK," not the best. I'd say 3 and a half stars. I miss Tofu Huarapa Krob, I'll never find that anywhere else. :(

Then I took maybe 3 naps all in a row.

Plan on going here soon. Almost, like next door. Honey ginger coffee?? WOW.

And off to the Temescal Farmer's Market. Hungry. I need food.

My new digs!

The weirdest thing about having quit It's Yoga, I thought I'd miss parsva bakasana, astavakrasana, my almost peacock, but I don't for some reason, the weirdest thing is my ankles are constantly throbbing in disuse pain. I think it was their really long standing on one foot thing: tree, toehold, warrior 3, dinkasana, standing splits, half moon, revolving half moon, arda baddha. I must have had amazing ankle strength and that is what I miss. We seem to do enough vinyasa pushups that my arms don't crave for anything, totally satisfied. Also, happy to not have to attempt to do handstands, and elbow stands which I can't do. It is sort of a relief. Also though, I occasionally feel like I'm losing my bandhas, and they give us much less meditation time at the end, but I've been going home and having a more consistent home meditation practice. And when I'm bored at work I try to engage the bandhas, it is something to do... so. They are also, at the gym, oddly into crescent pose, i don't understand this pose! It's weird that they like it so much but I don't know why. Also, lunges, they like the lunges, and they don't seem to *do* anything.

Two epiphanies

My first epiphany being (ha!) that the body does not exist. While looking at my nose dristi, where it sort of disappears, yet can still see it also, I realized I seemingly and simultaneously do and do not exist. After this epiphany, where every time I look at my nose, I remind myself that my body does not exist, I realized that strength poses are not about strength, it is an illusion, the trick is to make your body disappear, slowly, sort of. It is through extreme relaxation, simultaneously with using your bandhas to pull everything in, and up, or whatever, and so partially you don't exist, and then you can fly.

Whenever I get very, very quiet, have my eyes closed, meditating and am really in a happy happy place but very quiet and like almost in the void, a song comes up out of that voidy happiness, and that songs seems to be this.

Six Different Ways (2006 Remastered LP Version) - The Cure

Conceptual Praise Song for the Day

After Caroline Bergvall's many Dante translations in a row: The many lineations of Elizabeth Alexander's Inaugural Poem:


Original Transcript from New York Times (seemingly no longer available unlineated)

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

Joseph Harrington's excised version, or if Pound had been her editor:

Praise the Day


We walk past, catching each other’s
eyes, or not, about to speak –
All about us is

noise and bramble, thorn and din.
Someone is repairing things that need it.
Someone makes music:

a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
We encounter each other in words

spiny or smooth, whispered, declaimed,
words to re-consider.
We want to find a place

where we will be safe.
Say it plain: many died for this day:
Sing the names of them that brought us here,

picked the cotton, or lettuce –
praise for every hand-lettered sign
under widening light at kitchen tables.

In today’s sharp sparkling winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun,
on the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,


The Beat Diaspora version with the subject title: cello, boom box, harmonica, voice


Praise Song for the Day
Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business
walking past each other,
catching each others’ eyes
or not,
about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise.
All about us is noise and bramble,
thorn and din,
each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform,
patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden
spoons
on an oil drum.
With cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words,
Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone
and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side.
I know there’s something better down the road.”
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks,
raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep
clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle. Praise song for the day. Praise song for
every hand-lettered sign.
The figuring it out at kitchen tables.
Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”
Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial,
national?
Love that casts a widening pool of light.
Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any
sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp – praise song for walking
forward in that light.


A shoe blogger's version


Praise Song for the Day by Elizabeth Alexander

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other,
catching each others’ eyes
or not,
about to speak
or speaking.

All about us is noise.

All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din,
each one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching
a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden
spoons on an oil drum.
With cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky.

A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words,
words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider,
reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and
then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side;

I know there’s something better down the road.”

We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train
tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and
work inside of.

Praise song for struggle,
praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by, “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”
Others by,"First do no harm,"
or, "Take no more than you need."

What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital,
filial,
national.
Love that casts a widening pool of light.
Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle,
this winter air,
anything can be made,
any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp — praise song for walking
forward in that light.

And a Novelist's version (my favorite)

Praise Song for the Day
by Elizabeth Alexander

Each day we go about our business
Walking past each other
Catching each others' eyes or not
About to speak or speaking
All about us is noise
All about us is noise and bramble thorn and din
Each one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem
Darning a hole in a uniform
Patching a tire
Repairing the things in need of repair
Someone is trying to make music somewhere
With a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum
With cello, boombox, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus
A farmer considers the changing sky
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words
Words spiny or smooth
Whispered or declaimed
Words to consider, reconsider
We cross dirt roads and highways
That mark the will of someone and then others who said
I need to see what’s on the other side
I know there’s something better down the road
We need to find a place where we are safe
We walk into that which we cannot yet see

Say it plain
That many have died for this day
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here
Who laid the train tracks
Raised the bridges
Picked the cotton and the lettuce
Built brick by brick the glittering edifices
They would then keep clean and work inside of

Praise song for struggle
Praise song for the day
Praise song for every hand lettered sign
The figuring it out at kitchen tables

Some live by “love thy neighbor as thyself”
Others by “first do no harm” or “take no more than you need”
What if the mightiest word is love
Love beyond marital filial national
Love that casts a widening pool of light
Love with no need to preempt grievance

In today’s sharp sparkle
This winter air
Any thing can be made
Any sentence begun
On the brink
on the brim
on the cusp
Praise song for walking forward in that light.

Buddhism is Pro-Art!

from The Lotus Sutra:

If there are persons who for the sake of the Buddha
fashion and set up images,
carving them with many distinguishing characteristics,
then all have attained the Buddha way.
Or if they make things out of the seven kinds of gems,
of copper, red or white copper,
pewter, lead, tin,
iron, wood, or clay,
or use cloth soaked in lacquer or resin
to adorn and fashion Buddha images,
then persons such as these
have all attained the Buddha way.
If the employ pigments to paint Buddha images,
endowing them with the characteristics of hundredfold merit,
if they make them themselves or have others make them,
they have all attained the Buddha way.
Even if little boys in play
should use a piece of grass or wood or a brush,
or perhaps a fingernail
to draw an image of the Buddha,
such persons as these
bit by bit will pile up merit
and will become fully endowed with a mind of great compassion;
they all have attained the Buddha way.

My affinity with the crucifixion

How I feel what Christ felt, but in my ethereal body. I feel pain in my palms and feet from time to time. I think there is something like chakras or bandhas there because I feel it, sometimes the pain is so intense it is like it is glowing. I feel it in my heart sometimes too. I guess everyone feels that from time to time. And then when I've been meditating a lot I feel a prickly circle thing around my head. The only thing I can't account for is the spear in the side, I never have an ethereal body pain there. Maybe the spear really went into his heart.

Wrong holiday I know, but I have nothing to say about virgin births, or babies being born who are sons of some god or other...

Goodreads Review: A Poetics?

Gross stuff, but maybe that is the Herodotus. Better read all in one sitting I think. Wasn't "getting it" at all at first, but the latter part I totally got in a I think I had a dream that was this exact context kind of way. Collies are not included, although the petting of them is. A narrative of narrative itself? Chapters as characters. Characters as ideas. I had to look up insel in the dictionary, it wasn't in the dictionary, but inselberg was, from which I can kind of figure it out...Something about multiple palimpsests, two centers to the book, and to see vs to sea... vispo and fairytales. I wanted to say I read this on the plane 30,000 feet in the air, which would have been closer to the subject matter, but I finished it before we took off, due to a huge delay because of a missing oxygen "something" in the cockpit... The real subject is its subjectlessness. I don't really understand the "sample poems" and what are they samples of but I kind of, maybe realized that they are not Keith's poems but Jacob's and then it kind of makes sense. I read the whole thing waiting to get change at Thai Stick. I am often, often forgotten about but I get more reading done than people who are noticed. Incidentally, the Tofu Huarapa Krob is much much better than the Pad Huarapa. I've not barfed since 1995. Is that weird? I like the lyrical, but I don't like war. Read this in its entirety in the honey honey cafe, which is really expensive, but if you sit there long enough they give you free coffee refills and it has a sign that reads "Please let others enjoy reading." Really dug Joanne's hilarious piece revisioning Descartes! I think I really liked this but I kept daydreaming...probably just a personal defect on my part, or my period... I'm a sucker for prose poems. With illustrations. Helps to have read a "normal" translation perhaps, because it actually makes no sense. But it is a brilliant not making sense. I liked the idea of knowing the original somewhat as a sort of palimpsest. Where can i get some ayahuasca? I was so enraptured that when a homeless man asked me if he could sit down at my table, I confusedly said yes! This book will make you less uptight with smelly people. He put his backpack on the other chair, and then spread his stuff all over the table barely leaving any room for my peanut butter cookie. So then I looked up and noticed there were three empty tables... I don't really like his newer work but this old school stuff rocks the house with a UHF antenna! A rare instance where the movie is a million times better. Good day for mixed-southern nostalgia and eating an oatmeal raisin cookie at a table not meant "for one" while trying to call my friend who's been told to evacuate and not being able to get in touch w him. H.D.'s ghost everywhere and the beginning of the Drafts. Goes great with some 90's ethereal goth. Atmospheric, never quite sure where you are, but you kind of like it there - kind of poetry. I think these poems are better read than heard (in contrast to something else I just reviewed). I read every poem 12 times in a row, more or less, and want to read them 12 more times! Deceptively simple but really really complex. This book is a great laxative. I'd been constipated all week, and then was reading this in the bathroom at the yoga studio, and voila! Although the cover scares me a bit, the poetry is not scary at all. Totally wonderment and truth and beauty and so forth. Also if I ever have an "author photo," I'm totally going to wear a big, big hat and a tube top! Did this win an award? Very human, gut wrenching sequences mixed with porn searches, mixed with a very beautifully constructed aesthetic - a sort of architectural grammatics... Better in person, but still pretty vibrant on the page. I guess I'll be reading some Bob Kaufman now. I felt confused reading this and wished someone would read it to me instead of me reading it. I think it would work better for me "performed." Probably more genius than I can understand. What about the poetics of the studio apartment? But loving the chapter on mollusks! Victorian-age Language Poetry? Very weird, I'll have to read this a few more times... very easy reading, armchair enlightenment. Apparently, all you need to do is realize that awareness and consciousness are separate. Although I may have missed something. I can't do the beat stream of consciousness thing right now. Poets! I Implore You! Write Poetry not novels! Sigh... I can see how it would have been really cool, if only it were all poetry, instead of just moments. But I admire, intellectually, the genre twistingness. I admire also that it might have had a plot, although I am not sure what it was... Totally postmodern, but like in reality. It is like a sort of nostalgia, although not. Best book written ever for children or adults. I made my mom check this out every single week for months and months until she finally bought it for me! Not really up on the Traherne criticism, but was thoroughly enjoyable. He is apparently more metaphysical than the metaphysicals. And possibly buddhist. Next, or sometime, I will read Eckhart, Boehme, Plotinus, Plato, Pelagius, St Theresa, Augustine, Herbert, Vaughan. I tried to read this once. I just couldn't. Nothingness *is* sexy. I like the font. Perfect for the after TESOL certification blues. Is this flarf? Not sure why anyone is white, this book does not clear that up at all. He is just silly. I should've just reread that simulacra thing. "Wonders" confused me, as things that leave the mystical and enter into religion tend to do. Chapters and chapters on her interest in Fungi! OMG what am I doing! 4 stars for not being actual poetry, but I liked the writing about writing bits... I think I am starting to kind of understand the infinitive used as a noun thing. Maybe... The bear kind of freaked me out but I liked the dolphin parts. Not as good as I thought it would be for lifting depressions... This is not like I expected at all. I would give it 5 stars if this were the 70's. Liked him better in person than on the page... this is SO riveting; it is my kitchen book, while I am cooking, and I keep overboiling things... A lot of blood. I didn't read this but I saw the movie, I mean I went to the reading. Really funny! So funny I felt confused because I am really not used to laughing. The last bit, the title bit, with the sound motif, was really awesome. So instead of moving, I kind of use the book as armor, holding it up between us so I don't have to feel his weird erratic energy, ironically, keeping us from being face to face. I learned that I am supposed to read this book from right to left, but not until I was half way through reading it, apparently, backwards! Dear Surrealism, I love "the little house," the character, so much, I think I am her. Her story is my story. This book is devastatingly, brutally heartbreaking, possibly really disturbing. Don't read this during your menses, before, or after. Maybe that one week where everything is kind of in equilibrium, but be careful. It simultaneously made me think and was a balm for thinking too much. I learned about enclosures. After reading so many of these nature poems, after a while, it stops being about "about" since every poem seems to be saying the same thing, and seems more about different conglomerations of word clusters. I think this is his "humor" phase. If it is the end of the world and people want you to go to the top of a roof, but there are perhaps better, other things you should be doing, maybe don't go to the top of the roof, do those other things, and maybe I should start thinking now about what those other things are that I should be doing, so that when the end of the world does come, I will know exactly what I should be doing. I learnt it is not okay to drink the aftermilk. I kind of feel like I am at work reading this. I'm definitely going to quit my job. What do you read after Patanjali? This book scared the crap out of me! I learned some Italian phrases and (possibly) what it is like to have a broken leg in a foreign country. I learned about graphemes and prime numbers, and why the number one is not a prime number. I liked it better before I realized about the homonymic translation thing. Not for those who need "meaning" but lots of cool lines: "Come up and almonds are nomads." kind of like how when some one says something they think is witty and you can kind of see how it is witty, but you don't think that kind of witty is witty.

"with our
meth among the late lilacs & snow --"

Random pictures from Mom's camera

was trying for the good posture!













writing in the woods (Muir)=bad for posture


















need to do more pilates clearly.























Most of his reading Slosek just stood there like this looking pretty














Me and Slosek after his (last SF) reading















My chap in Books and Bookshelves














Me and Paulo














One of those awful California cliffs














Me taking a picture of mom taking a picture of me (wait until i find my uploading cord)