Tuesday, February 20, 2007

"if I ever cease to love"

church facade

"Can
you
give
me
sanc...
tu...
ar...
y..."

New Orleans--never been there. But I'll tell you where I have been--at the center of myth, in the veins of ritual, in a swirl of Catholic mysticism and grasping, gripping, faithless faith-wanting semi-despair--yet catechized into never relinquishing the last of belief; on darkest days, the tiniest of seeds fallen out of place onto cold marble, nowhere to root in the vastest expanse of empty echoless cathedral. The undertow of emptiness is lonely lonely until you recognize other drowners in your deep--and then it is heady, foaming with recognition.

*****
green, gold, and purple

Green, gold, purple;
Mardi Gras in three colors.
Faith, power, justice;
nothing more compelling than a trinity.

Carnival season, farewell to flesh, from Twelfth Night to Mardi Gras: bidding adieu with a long, hot, salty embrace; anticipating forty days and nights of penitence and denial, to become worthy.

And what of those who never felt unworthy?

*****
doodle #7: 02.19.2007

"I must find
a place to hide..."


I never liked costumes, wouldn't wear masks. Never cared for losing myself, even for a day. Won't wear things that don't feel like mine; can't look in the mirror at a stranger primped for a ritual I did not originate.

"...a place for
me to
hide..."


Masques, parades, beads, and baubles; masks and costumes; torch-lit processions and liquor-lit revelers: the ritualized, orgiastic losing of self. Then here are we, too vain, too proud, to ever lose our selves in the masses--charter members of a secret society not unlike the Carnival krewes who cloak the season in mystique. And yet, a paradox: never being lost makes it that much more difficult to find the self when necessary. This we know too well.

Know we also: there are better ways to dissolve the self, if only holding out for a moment of personal choosing, so as not to be a one among the all. One among one, one among two, one among few well-chosen--these we can abide.

Remember always, the re-emergence of the self-lit blinds--blinds others, as the sun-staring had first blinded the audacious into dissolution.

Audacity is not a sin.

*****

alley, blur

"Can
you
find
me
soft
a..
sy...
lum..."

As I sit writing, in a comfy chair, in a homey chain-cafe, the time approaching closing, the employees that I'd befriended earlier cross their tolerance threshold for cafe music and find solace in The Doors. They start with "People Are Strange", though they may as well have hit "The Soft Parade", so engrossed in the mythic and mystic is my mind.

"I can't make
it anymore..."

Say what they may of James Douglas Morrison, entering this world on the Immaculate Conception, exiting via Paris on the third of July... but he knew.

He knew.

*****

seagull

We need not end life as he did, grabbing wildly at nothings, wishing density upon vapors and hallucinations, thrashing to fill the void, succeeding only in expelling the very air that shapes the vessel. What seems a vacuum is in actuality vast potential. 'Tis the void that's an illusion.

...And I would give you directions to the location of my soul, if I thought you needed them.

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Sunday, November 26, 2006

A page from the eX-Files.

Well, more like "the friends with benefits" files, but that's not quite as pithy, is it?

Warning: Flipping through XM radio stations may cause flashbacks.

The song: uber-atrocious "I Love You Always Forever".
The "artist": one-hit-wonder Donna Lewis.
The year: 1996.
The scene: Jill's car, the beach parking lot, summer.
The time: Sometime between nine pm and midnight. This I know because it was dark and we were killing time, waiting for our friends to get off work once the theater closed, and getting a head start on them by finishing off the bottle of whatever it was that I had gifted to my brother and then taken back when he wasn't home.
The cast: Jill and Drew, and I use his name only because it's relevant to the story.

Drew flips through radio stations and stops.

Drew: Listen to this.
Jill: You're not seriously playing that piece of perky pop crap in my car, are you?
Drew: Just listen. You hear that?
Jill: Yes. That would be why I'm asking if you're serious.
Drew: You hear all the you's?
Jill: That's called lazy lyric-writing.
Drew: They could be Drew's.

Seriously. Kidding?

Drew smiles with great self-satisfaction.

Drew: "I love Drew, always forever."

Huh? Are you kidding?

Drew: And the best part: "Drew's got the most unbelievable blue eyes I've ever seen."

(1) My God, do I have to do everything?

Drew: Come on. Admit it.
Jill: What's unbelievable is that we both fit in the car with your ego.
Drew: Ah, you love it... "Everything I will do for Drew."
Jill: You are so cut off for the night.
Drew: There's nothing left in the bottle, anyway.
Jill: Oh, I wasn't talking about the alcohol.
Donna Lewis: "Say it, say it again."
Jill: I definitely wasn't talking about the alcohol.

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Sunday, March 05, 2006

Maybe, After All

Oasis. (noun) 1. a fertile place in the desert, due to the presence of water.
Water: next in my series of poems, following Sky and Air. I haven’t yet a clue what it will say, but I know it will exist. Parallel: the existence of some people; me not having had a clue what I would say, now or then or someday; only knowing, somehow, doubtlessly, that they would exist.

2. any place or thing offering welcome relief from difficulty, dullness, etc.
It is possible that we don’t sense the dullness until the oasis appears. Desert and dullness both parch, but an emotional thirst can be repressed a good deal longer than a physiological. To be oblivious to its bluntness, to its rounding of your psyche like a soup spoon, is not so far-fetched.

THERE’s a hole / there’s a hole / there’s a hole in the bottom of the sea…”
I’ve always had an affinity for nonsense songs, little me, singing them at the top of my little lungs, over and over until my parents’ ears bled peanuts and railroad tracks and hearts all-aflutter. Little me, sensing somehow, in some context, that nonsense made perfect sense.

ARE there ever songs that get stuck in your head, that play themselves a million times over in the jukebox of your mind, for no reason readily apparent?
MANY of them, I find, are prescient. Years later, they make meaning where before there was merely melody.
THINGS once ambiguous and immaterial take on sense and substance.
THAT I ever doubted their clarity seems absurd.
I never foresaw the need for an oasis; I never believed my life would require intervention.
WOULD you like to know when I figured it out? Only after.
LIKE months after. At my favorite table, in my favorite bookstore.

TO intend to write one thing, and have your pen be overtaken by a story you didn’t know you wanted to tell, about an oasis you hadn’t realized you’d visited, is to be jabbed repeatedly by a cold, blunt, soup spoon. At first, there is a chill. And maybe, you laugh. Because how could a dull utensil do any damage? You laugh.
SAY, for the first three drafts. Well...maybe four.
TO continue laughing, however, after you discover that something has pierced your skin, and indeed, gotten under it, is a sure sign of delirium. Or writeririum.
YOU realize it’s in deep when the pain seems a surer sign that something’s going right. Very right. There are thousands of words where before there was only a visceral impulse to run up onto life’s metaphorical stage and kiss the universe.
BUT you’d remained seated so long, nails dug painfully into your own thigh, that your fierceness had dulled into numbness.
I fear numbness now.

DON’T get me wrong. It doesn’t overtake my system, the way my textbook phobia of all things puncture-possible will have me hyperventilating in the fetal position. It’s a wonder I can even write metaphorical punctures, a miracle that I once pierced my own ear: testament to the veracity of the assertion that given sufficient motivation, any phobia can be overcome.
KNOW that my fear of numbness is more the pain of those first few taps of cold blunt soup spoon. A rhythmic chill and retreat demanding vigilance.
HOW I ever allowed myself to get to that place of oasis-desperation so thirsty it couldn’t acknowledge its own lack is beyond my present comprehension. A nonsense song yet to make any sense. Stuck in my head. On repeat. In hindsight, one message shimmering above the sand: don’t let it happen again. I detect the piercing need for a sharper reminder. Now I understand why some people get tattoos.

Wonder.
(noun) 1. a person, thing, or event that causes astonishment and admiration. Initially, surprising to me that this is the first definition listed. Initially, I say, because contemplation yields sense. It is this wonder that births the next. Without it, no need for definition number two; without that which is a marvel to me, no words written. And that is why I thank you, I believe you believe, far too frequently. But I will not stop unless you tell me to. 2. the feeling of surprise, admiration, and awe aroused by something strange, unexpected, incredible, etc. It is a gift in return for which I ordain no amount of sincere gratitude to be excessive. As a writer, though, I loathe meandering unpurposeful repetition. Fortunately for me, an infinitude of ways to express wonder. I won’t run out any time soon.

(int. verb) 1. to be seized or filled with wonder; feel amazement; marvel.
I can write as long as I wonder. Writing can strike as long the iron-awe remains hot, lightning over the dark sea. 2. to have curiosity, sometimes mingled with doubt. Insidious doubt, electricity cackling through the undercurrent of my vast wonder—conducted to, pooling in, the hole in the bottom of the (my) sea. Awe and doubt: two sides of the same lightning bolt.

I fear your silence. Incommunication breeds numbness.
DON’T assume that because I fear numbness, I am blind to its power as a defense mechanism.
BELIEVE not q, then p. I see its power and therefore, I fear. Numbness can be cozy.
THAT is its threat. It lulls.
ANYBODY you ask can tell you ignorance is bliss: ignorance of your thirst quenches your fire. It
FEELS, at first, like a little death. Not the French le petit mort. No—that is far too pleasurable. But it requires the same surrender… I rethink… Perhaps it’s not so different after all, succumbing to the numbness.
THE relinquishment of responsibility halts the flow of electrical doubt—a reprieve from pain virtually indistinguishable from pleasure, in the
WAY falling asleep against the cool tile in the bathroom after grueling hours spent retching is the best you can imagine at that instant.

I do not wish to succumb to the numbness again. I must remain vigilant, even if means prodding myself with my own cold spoon.
DO you believe my doubt destroyed the moment of our mutual marvel?
ABOUT my inability to answer questions, to be verbal in my wonder, my silence indicating my incredulity of the incredible: I profess my responsibility, recognizing that I was the one who advanced to your soil, and also the one who started slapping mortar, laying bricks, doubting my welcome the louder you greeted me. I was given what I'd hoped for and was too stunned to properly receive it.
YOU know nothing of the depth of my regret. May you never. I wish my regret unwarranted.
NOW for the first time, I wish to be lightly informed of my unquestionably overactive imagination.

See how I redefine words for you.

Wall. (noun) 1. (and only.) a figment of my imagination.

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Thursday, February 09, 2006

To(o) Long

Keep your eyes on me.

Treadmill today. Eyes straight ahead. 4 miles. Left, right, left, right. Keep breathing. Left, right. Stay loose. Left, right. There's that mound of papers to read. Left. Two deadlines I'm behind on. Right. Turn up the iPod. Left right left right left--

That's right. Look here.

Blender. Here's the milk. One cup. Look for the peanut butter. Where could they have moved it? Oh, there it is. Behind the whipped cream. Of course. Tablespoon of peanut butter, scoop of whey, packet of hot cocoa--diet. Adds flavor; adds calcium. Blend on low. Shoot I forgot the ice cubes. Don't want it to be warm. Want--

I want you to see who it is.

Laptop. See if there is any email. There is always email. Respond. Talk mission statements. Production budgets. Grant applications. Revisions. Messages from students. Missed class. Missed a deadline. There's always a calamity. Who is it going to be this semester? Who--

Who it is that makes you feel this way.

Only the second week. Already way behind. Two sets of diagnostic exams. One set of essays. Ought to have them read by now. Ought to have feedback, comments. Organization, style, mechanics. Just so they know what to work on.

Just so there's no confusion.

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Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Ironically, this post has no name.

Calling someone by name gets their attention, lets them know you are speaking to them. Calling me by name mid-conversation, mid-sentence, even, is like a well-placed hand. It gets me every time. If I’m yours to be gotten.

You do it sometimes when you know my mind is racing. It runs ahead; you bring it back. Without a break in the rhythm of your sentence, without distraction from the task at hand, you guide me back to here. To now. Much like I imagine your hand would.

I never liked my name as a child, fell into apathy as an adolescent. But years breed informality; old friends play the name game with ease. Today I find myself answering to diminuitives and nonsense names, as if the years had gone in reverse from the moment I entered college. They've softened me up for you.

You creep toward comfort, playing with my name, inviting me to play with yours. I find myself wondering what names we will decide upon, and when our hands might speak instead.

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Wednesday, January 25, 2006

I See Fictional Characters

You met Damon. Now meet Callie. She hasn't been hiding from me, so much as she's been hiding from him. Hang on a sec...

What? Yes, I know Damon is being a pee-pee head. That's what guys do. You'll deal.

I have no idea how I'm going to get these two to coexist peacefully on the same page.

Huh? No. I'm not going to tell her that. Tell her yourself.

But maybe that's a good thing--there doesn't really need to be peace until the end, anyway.

To be fair, Callie gets a playlist as well. You may notice Callie shares a few of Jill's favorite songs. But so does Damon. Music plays an integral part in the theme and plot of the play. These two may just learn to love each other as much as they each love music. A shared passion for The Ramones and Violent Femmes has to count for something, right? If I can get one of them to pick up the damn phone and dial. And the other to actually answer.

Just to be clear: as opposed to Callie, Damon does not share Jill's clothes.

The "Callie, Come Out and Play" Playlist
Josie and the Pussycats (Original cartoon theme song)
Rush (New York City Club Version) Big Audio Dynamite
Jellyhead Crush
Closer to Free Bodeans
Dancing with Myself Billy Idol
Mickey Toni Basil
I Love Rock and Roll Joan Jett
Hurts So Good John Cougar Mellancamp
Can't Buy Me Love The Beatles
No Matter What Badfinger
ABC Jackson 5
American Music Violent Femmes
I Believe in Miracles The Ramones
The Break Soul Asylum
Mystify INXS
When Doves Cry Prince
Everlong Foo Fighters
How Soon Is Now? Love Spit Love
Wonderwall Oasis

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Wednesday, January 11, 2006

I Put the "Pro" in "Procrastination": Meet My Dream Guy

If it were up to me, more intelligent, attractive, adventurous men would be found like this: shirtless, barefoot, in a perfectly worn pair of jeans, sprawled in (my) bed.

Back in November, I was walking through Barnes & Noble when this postcard jumped out at me. Back in November, I was actually getting productive work done on my new play. I bought the postcard, tucked it into my notebook, and have been carrying it around ever since.

I don't write physical descriptions into my character notes, because I don't want directors and actors to feel limited by them. I have written and will continue to write characters for specific actors that I know, but even when I know who will likely be playing a role, I still don't write the description in.

Because I carry my notebook everywhere, denim boy made it to Thanksgiving dinner. Lisa took one look at it and said "That's the guy from your play."

Come again?

"The guy from your play. The character. That's him, right? That's why you've got the picture in your notebook."

Psychic, much?

Yes. That's him. That's why I bought the postcard. Everyone, meet Damon. Or at least, his bottom half.

My characters routinely visit my dreams, in some form or another, and this photo jarred me into some hazy dream recollection. Oh yeah, and it turned me on. It captures the balance of virility and vulnerability that I imagine the character to possess. So yes, he's my "dream guy"; i.e., he'll haunt me at least until the play is done.

Except, recently, he's been curiously absent. (I think he's on strike because I've been paying too much attention to the blog.) So today, I did what any self-respecting music-obsessed procrastinator would do after being deserted by the person of their dreams. I made him a playlist. Damon, this one's for you.

(Yes, I just addressed a fictional character.)

(Yes, I just dedicated a CD to him.)

(Yes, he has very eclectic taste in music.)

(Feel free to direct your comments at Damon. Maybe that'll make him come out and play again.)

This is Your Life (featuring Tyler Durden) The Dust Brothers [from Fight Club]
Believe Franka Potente [from Run Lola Run]
Ripper Sole Stomp [from Tank Girl]
Call Me (E-Smoove's Beat Vocal Mix) Blondie
Sunglasses at Night Corey Hart
Mrs. Robinson The Lemonheads
The Boys of Summer The Ataris
Paint it Black Rolling Stones
Baba O'Riley The Who
I Will Follow U2
Pour Some Sugar on Me Def Leppard
Talk Dirty to Me Poison
Panama Van Halen
Dangerous Type Letters to Cleo
Hit Me With Your Best Shot Pat Benatar
99 Red Balloons Nena
Let's Go Crazy Prince
It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) R.E.M.
Blitzkrieg Bop The Ramones
Time Bomb Rancid
Add It Up Violent Femmes


By the way, the photo is actually a 1993 portrait of Moby by photographer Wolfgang Tillmans. I rather enjoy the whole photograph, but many of my girlfriends can't abide a man so...uh...scrawny. I hate to use that word, because I'm all for men with lean bodies. So I cropped the photo. I didn't want you to get as distracted as they were by the negative.

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