1. early morning voice overs
2. small wildflowers
3. the tea house
4. short walks that clarify
5. lion's pose
6. throat
7. thresholds
8. pink moons
9. window panes
10. films noir
11. soft foot touching
12. rattle and clink of dishes while reading
13. heirloom tomatoes from the co-op
14. peppers and herbs out back
15. my sisters' voices
16. students with grills
17. communal meals
18. everday mazes
19. letters in the mailbox
20. calendula
21. dreams of the dead
22. taking notes
23. stacks of books
24. small children's pointing fingers
25. the gaze inward
26. solitude's ease
27. brain stretching
28. muscle tickles
29. skin tags
30. endless leg bones
31. the edge of missing people
32. intrasubjectivity
33. soul showers
34. joining
35. towards and further
36. surprising halos
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
clever, clever
(To be read in Andy Rooney's voice:)
You know how, lately, you must secure an especially sensitive on-line account by choosing three questions to which you and only you knows the answer? And you think and think: "What will I always know the answer to?" And then you finally land on three very clever questions that you are sure will prevent any fraudist or theif from busting in and taking all you've got? It's the cleverness I want to disabuse you of, especially if you are a writer and being clever is your specialty.
(To be read in my voice:)
In 2004, I opened an account with ______, and came up with some very clever questions and answers. Typically enough, I never used the on-line account, opting for the old-fashioned way of dealing with my affairs -- through the postal system or on the phone. But recently, feeling even more 21st century than ever, I decided to go back and try to get into the account on-line, only I forgot the password. Inevitably, I could not get ______ to send me the password via email, so I called up and got an operator. The operator told me she could send me an email confirming my password if I could answer the three questions I posed to secure the account when I opened it. Simple enough, I thought. "Okay," I said, "Shoot." I nailed the answers to the first two questions, which I will not, of course, reveal to you on-line (buy me a beer and I'll tell you).
Then came the third question, which the operator introduced by saying, "Okay, and so, now, the last question is . . ." She paused, cleared her voice, and then she deadpanned, "Who is the worst student?"
I was not only stunned by this question, but I was also incredulous about its odd phrasing -- "WHAT? 'Who is the worst student?' What does that mean?" Not even, "Who is the worst student I've ever had?" or "What is the name of the student who did X?" but a brief, almost dull-witted articulation of extremes. I couldn't believe it. Remember, I am the author of this question and I presumed that I would always know the answer.
When I confessed that I was totally stumped, the operator, feeling sorry for me, said, "Well, you wrote the question in 2004, does that jog your memory at all?" "Hm, 2004 . . . 2004 . . . I'd have to look at a grade book," I replied. What was going on in 2004 that was so awful, and why was it that I could no longer access that memory after being triggered by a question designed for its immediate recall? At the same time, I think the question is also a bit green, because it supposes that, really, this student was the worst! ever! and none would ever match her or him in what I am sure was an astonishingly aggressive and endlessly dramatic approach to learning. The question betrays a Chuck who, in 2004, could not -- or would not -- separate the professional and the financial from the emotional. It's a Chuck who chose, finally, not a question at all but, instead, a mood -- one that has no answer, only endless questions attached to it.
And I wondered, at the same time, what other kinds of bizarre questions people ask themselves the answers for in order to access their digital hordings, and how many questions have answers that go unremembered, or that are based on moods. I wondered about mean-spirited questions, sort of like my own, or ones motivated by love, anger, jealousy, loss, broken-heartedness, or delusions of grandeur?
Even though I am hating closure these days, I'll tell you that, while I never figured out the answer to the question, and had to go through a whole rigamarole to get a new password, I feel like the more I think about it, the closer I come to understanding who this might have been and why I thought I'd never forget the answer. Sorry for the vagueness, but I'm still cautious about the limits of pseudonimity.
(To be read in someone else's voice:)
(I know this seems like a lame ploy to keep readers interested in a blog that hasn't been very active these days but, really, the beginning of the academic year along has me taxed in ways I didn't expect!)
You know how, lately, you must secure an especially sensitive on-line account by choosing three questions to which you and only you knows the answer? And you think and think: "What will I always know the answer to?" And then you finally land on three very clever questions that you are sure will prevent any fraudist or theif from busting in and taking all you've got? It's the cleverness I want to disabuse you of, especially if you are a writer and being clever is your specialty.
(To be read in my voice:)
In 2004, I opened an account with ______, and came up with some very clever questions and answers. Typically enough, I never used the on-line account, opting for the old-fashioned way of dealing with my affairs -- through the postal system or on the phone. But recently, feeling even more 21st century than ever, I decided to go back and try to get into the account on-line, only I forgot the password. Inevitably, I could not get ______ to send me the password via email, so I called up and got an operator. The operator told me she could send me an email confirming my password if I could answer the three questions I posed to secure the account when I opened it. Simple enough, I thought. "Okay," I said, "Shoot." I nailed the answers to the first two questions, which I will not, of course, reveal to you on-line (buy me a beer and I'll tell you).
Then came the third question, which the operator introduced by saying, "Okay, and so, now, the last question is . . ." She paused, cleared her voice, and then she deadpanned, "Who is the worst student?"
I was not only stunned by this question, but I was also incredulous about its odd phrasing -- "WHAT? 'Who is the worst student?' What does that mean?" Not even, "Who is the worst student I've ever had?" or "What is the name of the student who did X?" but a brief, almost dull-witted articulation of extremes. I couldn't believe it. Remember, I am the author of this question and I presumed that I would always know the answer.
When I confessed that I was totally stumped, the operator, feeling sorry for me, said, "Well, you wrote the question in 2004, does that jog your memory at all?" "Hm, 2004 . . . 2004 . . . I'd have to look at a grade book," I replied. What was going on in 2004 that was so awful, and why was it that I could no longer access that memory after being triggered by a question designed for its immediate recall? At the same time, I think the question is also a bit green, because it supposes that, really, this student was the worst! ever! and none would ever match her or him in what I am sure was an astonishingly aggressive and endlessly dramatic approach to learning. The question betrays a Chuck who, in 2004, could not -- or would not -- separate the professional and the financial from the emotional. It's a Chuck who chose, finally, not a question at all but, instead, a mood -- one that has no answer, only endless questions attached to it.
And I wondered, at the same time, what other kinds of bizarre questions people ask themselves the answers for in order to access their digital hordings, and how many questions have answers that go unremembered, or that are based on moods. I wondered about mean-spirited questions, sort of like my own, or ones motivated by love, anger, jealousy, loss, broken-heartedness, or delusions of grandeur?
Even though I am hating closure these days, I'll tell you that, while I never figured out the answer to the question, and had to go through a whole rigamarole to get a new password, I feel like the more I think about it, the closer I come to understanding who this might have been and why I thought I'd never forget the answer. Sorry for the vagueness, but I'm still cautious about the limits of pseudonimity.
(To be read in someone else's voice:)
(I know this seems like a lame ploy to keep readers interested in a blog that hasn't been very active these days but, really, the beginning of the academic year along has me taxed in ways I didn't expect!)
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
bettin' on the bull in the heather
What's that Sonic Youth song? The one where Kim Gordon counts by tens?
And the bass booms along a low down dirty beat, keeping you rooted in the earth while her vocals go up into the creaking sky?
The urgency of Kim's message gets more and more heated, only to be tempered by a rat-a-tat on the drums and a shake-a-shake in your right ear.
I'm grooving on this right now, hard core, thinking back to a time when it was the early 90s and I am stuck living in a motel room whose only protection is a broken sliding glass door, and the sink overflows every night with the unflushed waste of other rooms' debris. The smell of cooking fish from the communal kitchen. Everyone's sick. 70s drapery and a bed bolted to the wall. It was cheap. A time when I was new to H/town, fresh from the northeast, thinking "Soon," and "How fast I'll be done here," and "My ideas are abstract and important."
Notice that Kathleen Hanna dances into the frame and sticks out her tongue. She punches Thurston in the face by accident while Kim curls up in a nightie in what looks like a little kid's bedding. Kim has understood something. She stares into the camera and, tacitly, asks the viewer why he's so interested in seeing some betting game gone so weird. Thurston gives a horse a banana.
You can dance to it and feel proud, but you shouldn't expect anyone to leave feeling any better.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=2T4BsnXmJaI
And the bass booms along a low down dirty beat, keeping you rooted in the earth while her vocals go up into the creaking sky?
The urgency of Kim's message gets more and more heated, only to be tempered by a rat-a-tat on the drums and a shake-a-shake in your right ear.
I'm grooving on this right now, hard core, thinking back to a time when it was the early 90s and I am stuck living in a motel room whose only protection is a broken sliding glass door, and the sink overflows every night with the unflushed waste of other rooms' debris. The smell of cooking fish from the communal kitchen. Everyone's sick. 70s drapery and a bed bolted to the wall. It was cheap. A time when I was new to H/town, fresh from the northeast, thinking "Soon," and "How fast I'll be done here," and "My ideas are abstract and important."
Notice that Kathleen Hanna dances into the frame and sticks out her tongue. She punches Thurston in the face by accident while Kim curls up in a nightie in what looks like a little kid's bedding. Kim has understood something. She stares into the camera and, tacitly, asks the viewer why he's so interested in seeing some betting game gone so weird. Thurston gives a horse a banana.
You can dance to it and feel proud, but you shouldn't expect anyone to leave feeling any better.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=2T4BsnXmJaI
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