| reposted from the greatpoets community |
[May. 18th, 2009|05:17 pm] |
Samurai Song
Robert Pinsky
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep. |
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| Music... |
[May. 3rd, 2009|08:59 pm] |
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Does anyone have a Jose Gonzales CD that they'd email to me? Usual methods are not working... |
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| Job in New York |
[Apr. 14th, 2009|04:54 pm] |
Hey, for you '09 grads who are thinking of moving to New York...
I have a friend who works at a small children's book literary agency in Manhattan, and she sent me this:
"By the way, the agency is looking for a summer intern. I am not
recommending this to you, as it is full-time and pays $10 an hour and
would be pretty boring for you. But if you know anyone still at
Oberlin who might be interested, tell them to email me and I’ll get
them details. Interns don’t have to deal with my boss much, and it
will look good on a resume and be interesting to someone interested in
children’s books. And $10 an hour is great for a publishing
internship, which usually pay $0 an hour."
Anyone interested? |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 25th, 2009|01:28 am] |
Let's say a certain reed-based instrument makes its noises from the wind - varying noises for the different breezes and gusts that flow by.
Is it still an instrument if the winds die?
(Yes) |
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| The Modern Age |
[Mar. 20th, 2009|07:48 pm] |
Untitled, Margaret Atwood (from her "Selected Poems, 1965-1975)
You want to go back
to where the sky was inside us
animals ran through us, our hands
blessed and killed according to our
wisdom, death
made real blood come out
But face it, we have been
improved, our heads float
several inches above our necks
moored to us by
rubber tubes and filled with
clever bubbles,
our bodies
are populated with billions
of soft pink numbers
multiplying and analyzing
themselves, perfecting
their own demands, no trouble to anyone.
I love you by
sections and when you work.
Do you want to be illiterate?
This is the way it is, get used to it. |
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| Stranded at the airport...? |
[Mar. 2nd, 2009|10:04 am] |
Have been flouncing around in Florida sunshine for three days, visiting grandmother, aunt, and mother. Grandma is looking at mobile homes in West Palm Beach, and so we all came down and ate crumb cake and played cards and rode around in a golf cart. As Hemingway writes, "Very quiet and healthy."
Saw soft-shelled turtles twenty-six inches long, lounging in a canal two blocks away from the house. Slept outside on a screened-in porch, listening to the rustle of palms. Actually quiet, actually healthy. A chance to clear the head a little. There are blue skies here, and so many plants, and irrepressible wildlife. Herons in the shrubbery.
And now, as the flight attendant says, "I do hope you're aware of the weather up there..."
Apparently, there's a near-blizzard, and we're going anyway. Everyone else, flying to North Carolina with a connection in Georgia, has been put back on the ground. All Georgia flights have been cancelled. For heaven's sake, some school in New York has been cancelled. Twelve inches of snow?!
Tally-ho, anyway. See you later.
*edit*
Am back in New York! How about that, then? |
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| Things I Happen To Be Grateful For |
[Feb. 22nd, 2009|11:50 pm] |
Cigarettes
Their continuing absence in my life, the lungs of my family, the majority of my friends, and the lion's share of air I breathe daily.
Eighth Street Off Of 2nd Ave, 6:30 PM
Which was gusty and wet and haughty and tantalizingly springlike, in a very cold way.
My Imagination
Sometimes, the only thing standing between my brain cells and their cold, cruel death by boredom. Of course, then it likes to go sulk and take breaks, and the little cells perish terribly and write pitiful memoirs.
Sleep
For in that sleep of twelve hours or so, what dreams may come and convince one that there are dragons that need negotiating-with, intricate roofs that have tile-drawers full of microchips, and enormously complex metaphorical phantasmagorical thingies?
Endorphins
For being manipulatable, to an extent, by sleep and food and exercise.
Words
For being there when I reach for them, most of the time.
Monty Python
For confusing my cat.
Tea
For giving one something to do in that desperate first ten minutes upon coming home to a darkened kitchen, besides wringing one's hands. I like my tea like I like my Promised Land: overflowing with milk and honey.
Headphones
For making the world lyrical and understandable as I pass through it. |
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| Links and recommendations (What are yours? I'd love to know.) |
[Jan. 27th, 2009|08:49 pm] |
Useful Stuff
Tiny Url.com - Starting with the obvious. Makes gigantic URLs short.
TransferBigFiles - How I got all those Blackpool episodes to Erica.
Expert Village - Videos on how to do/make everything, from origami to pie crust to didgeridoo.
Lala.com - Imagine keeping your entire music collection online, for free, accessible from any computer, anywhere. 50 free song downloads, too. Now imagine that you can listen, once, to any of 6 million songs for free. And you can listen to your friends' music, too, as it's posted in blog-like streams. Oh, and uploading is automatic.
P.S. - you get 5 free song downloads if you invite someone who signs up. If you want to give me songs, leave a comment and I'll invite you. Or just join.
Swaptree.com I've traded thirty things so far, and gotten lots back, including a rare Disney collection going for $70 on Amazon, Watchmen by Alan Moore, and random books of poetry. I highly recommend it, especially if you've got random crap sitting around that you want to trade for shiny things.
Jobs
http://www.mediabistro.com - mostly high-end jobs in publishing, media, ads
http://www.ed2010.com - they have a word-of-mouth corner called "Psst!" for entry-level editorial jobs
http://www.idealist.org - Nonprofit jobs, organizations, and groups all over the world!
http://www.nytimes.com - the "jobs" link on the left
http://www.craigslist.com - CL of course
If y'all have good/interesting/useful links, leave them in the comments - I'd love to know.
( Interesting Pretty Things What I Think Are Really Cool ) |
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| Last day of Nerve, first day of the future |
[Jan. 16th, 2009|09:12 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | None, or other | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Calexico - Roka | ] |
(Or: [rap-esque]
my cardboard box has stereo speakers,
I sing for my supper in skirts and white sneakers,
If I didn't know then, I should know by now,
A cow is a cow, not an ox, but a cow.
A cow is a cow is a cow.)
So, today was the last day, the lazy day, the interview with the CEO day. They were all very sweet. Nicole sent Christophe out secretly to get beer and wine and cheap champagne. They surprised me with a goodbye-party. We got a little drunk on the couches. I made Christophe open the champagne bottle with a big POP, because they humored me and that's what I wanted, even though it spilled foam on the carpet. It's all right. It's that kind of office.
I mean, these people let me keep a bottle of kombucha with a BALL OF MOLD INSIDE OF IT in the fridge, because I wanted to keep the mold as my pet. They laughed! I waved goodbye to everyone. It was a lovely goodbye, because everyone said it at the same time: "Goodbye, Anna! Good luck!" And they sounded like they meant it. It was more than I'd been expecting, from New York.
And then I met a 27-year-old publicist from a major publishing company. An Obie alum, through the alum site. We met at a dark bar. He was perfectly nice and friendly, and hungry and ambitious, and I think if I had been a different person he might be arranging for his boss or friend to have lunch with me. But it quickly became clear that not only was I less than ferociously ambitious in publishing, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was not a person it would be a good idea to help. His face got dimmer and farther away, as if someone with a flashlight was walking away into the woods.
"Yeah," he said, stalling for time. "You need to focus." He told me about zeitgeisty ideas, and how to pitch them to editors. He said these days, agents have to be editors, and editors have to be entire publishing houses. He said it's tough and stressful, and everyone has to psych themselves out. He said that he loves his job and loves his company. "You have to just buckle down and go with it," he said. "You just have to take it. Can you take shit? You have to take a lot of shit."
and, "You have to just feel what's out there, talk to all the right people, network... you have to network. You have to burn, and want it really badly. I mean, yeah, sometimes it's soul-crushing, a tiny bit. But you have to put up with it."
"I'm not good at that," I said. I felt like melting, like I was brown sugar in water. "I just... I don't like competition so much. Exhilarating collaborative supportive creativity, really, that's what I'm looking for. Like working on a team, making something cool. ...It's soul-crushing? How do you deal with that?"
"You learn! You turn it off and on." ("...Your soul?" I didn't say.) "You carve a place out in your job where you can be happy."
It went on like this for forty-five minutes. It was painful. Not because of him; he was perfectly pleasant and bright and helpful. It just felt rather stark and anticlimactic and paper-white, as if someone had sat me down in high school and said, "Okay, here's why (a) you're not popular, and (b) you'll never be an actor..." and it was all as plain as flour and salt.
"I don't think you're right for publishing," he said, with well-trained tactful bluntness. "Given what you've told me about the way you think and the way you feel." (And he's probably very right.) "And as for New York, you should decide what you're going for in the next year, or just get -- out." (dramatic sweeping gesture.) "The city's not going to be any nicer to you as you get older, and you're not getting any younger. I mean, the city's hard. But it's exhilarating! You know what that's like! You moved here because of it!"
"I moved here because my friends were here," I said, and laughed on a down note, and the lights in his eyes fluttered and readjusted.
Anyway. It's growing rather clear that I'm meant to be a tour guide, or librarian in a seaside town, or spotlight operator, and live a twilight dream-filled life. Or, rather, it's growing clear that nothing is growing clear, no matter how long I sit and wait for it to grow clear. Patient or impatient, the glass remains clouded. I'm sure I could accomplish anything I set my mind to do, yeah, blah blah and all that, if I could see any of those anythings making me happy.
Even getting famous for a creative thing isn't what I want - it's the living in a nest of crazy creatives that I'm looking for, collaborating with them, not worrying and if-ing and then-ing. And I don't know how to create that nest by myself. I should be racing towards my future at full speed, and instead I'm just trying to turn into the skid. I'm trying to control the slide. I often wonder these days if maybe there's no job that will make me truly happy, and I'm just a stranger to the world, and this is where the fault line shows, after all this time. Yeah, yeah, dramatic, I know. I mean, yeah, but that's the premise I'm going on. Nothing else makes more sense right now.
And all that said, you know what? After all that, it doesn't matter if it's true, or if it's not true. Not one little bit. It doesn't matter that my attitude's so bad it could fry eggs from a distance, or that I keep boxing myself into corners. It doesn't begin to matter. I still need to find a job. So, no despair-time. Can't afford to get existential. Gotta get paid. Hey, who knows - maybe I'm wrong, and I'll get lucky. I won't know until I find out, anyway.
Maybe I can lie to myself hard enough that I can apply to a job with my heart and soul, and then maybe I'll get an interview, and lie to my boss hard enough that they believe me too, and then I can actually see whether I was lying the whole time or not. Maybe I won't even have been lying. Either way, I'll never get a job -- a real job -- unless I either have an epiphany, or fake it so well I fool everyone.
Right. Hand me my faking powder. Onward! |
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| New Year's Eve |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|07:54 pm] |
There's a staring-eyed, white-haired man that lives in the building next to ours. He sweeps the stone in front of his fence; he rakes leaves, he shovels snow. Sometimes he isn't doing anything but standing there, arms crossed, face closed like a big old gate. He ignores you unless you say something first.
I do: "Good morning!"
His face is out of practice. It takes a second for him to smile. The muscles in his face panic, flee - eyes pop, eyebrows waggle, mouth opens and shuts -- before he reigns it all in and nods once, lips pursed.
Or says "Good MOR-ning," as careful as shaping a loaf of bread.
Sometimes, when the window's open, a strange noise drifts up from the street. Under the gutteral grumble of the shuttle, the jets warbling on their way to JFK, the SCREEE?HSSHHH! of the buses... this. A low, tuneless, toneless song, with pauses and mumbled bits. He never sings when he can see us.
The wind is singing now, and it sounds like him. The skylights shudder and squeak. I saw the wind today, because snow was in it. The snow raced sideways all of a sudden, charged away, raced towards the window. I saw how fast it had to go before it made the whistle and hum.
Things have to get very hot, or move very fast, before they resonate. Iron doesn't turn red unless it can't bear it any longer, and has to give off light; sounds don't happen unless the sensation is too much, and the object sings. For every reed that makes a noise, a cup runneth over. For every clatter and bang, there is a violent shout.
You couldn't even see the individual snowflakes, it was moving so fast. There were several layers of snow, moving in different directions at different speeds, like schools of fish. And then it got dark, and the snow stopped falling.
I don't think I even have anything to say anymore. |
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| Request for good light online reading material |
[Dec. 30th, 2008|05:59 pm] |
... specifically, blogs.
What blogs are you reading? You vaporous internet folk, what websites do you frequent? I used to have a few blogs - narrative, personal ones, as opposed to political ones - that I liked a lot, but they all went defunct. The only one still around is Dooce.
Anyone? |
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| Watching Miss America |
[Dec. 10th, 2008|12:39 pm] |
This girl from my high school, Adrienne Watkinson -- she was one of the best people there. A down-to-earth violinist, she wore old t-shirts all the time, and stood up for people when they weren't there, and never gossiped, and never wore makeup... among a horde of dancers and theater folk, she never descended into drama or cattiness. She made friends with all, and always seemed to be smiling.
Just found out today that she's Miss Maine... and will be competing in the Miss America Pageant on January 24.
It seriously couldn't have happened to a nicer person. Congrats, Adrienne. |
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| Last night's dream |
[Dec. 8th, 2008|09:20 am] |
...turned into a young adult novel about vampires. A SCHOOL for vampires, actually. One of the characters was throwing a hissy fit because her boyfriend, who they both knew was gay, wanted to actually go off and shag men.
"Let's just SEE if Maliavach will have you!" I think she said.
"Have you ever thought about Gothic drama reenactments? You'd be great at them," he replied. "They're full of heaths and things."
Oh, and this quote between two guy students:
(Older) "Well, you know how the little ones get. Countryside'll be denuded of insects in no time."
(Younger) "Ugh!"
(Older) "Just make sure, if you're going to sell to them, make the glass unbreakable. Nothing like an infant that can't control his own strength shattering a beaker." |
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| I'm in North Carolina with all of my relatives |
[Nov. 28th, 2008|12:29 am] |
and my cousin has an awe-inspiring alcohol collection. It takes up a three-foot swath of countertop. Luckily, they have a wraparound.
Palm trees and cool sea air. I went out to think, and look at the stars, and talk to the sky.
I think I'm used to wine.
The youngest person here is 16; we've all mellowed out, a LOT.
Been thinking about getting older. |
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| The Bush Years: B-sides and EPs |
[Nov. 11th, 2008|04:02 pm] |
Wading through the neon, misaligned HTML sludge that is the political blogosphere, I found this tidy gem:
The Lost Bush Interview Four years ago, an Irish reporter sticks it to the man. It's like the really embarrassing scenes on TV where you cringe for five minutes straight, only this one goes for ten minutes.
Also, in today's news: the office is damned hot, and the internet took a subsequent nosedive. "Take On Me" came on the ipod, and I ran up the fire escape to the roof and danced like a fiend on the cheap tile. Blue sky, weathered wooden water towers everywhere, old curly stone carvings, a view as far as the eye could verily look upon.
When the song ended, I walked back to the fire escape. Across the divide on the adjacent rooftop was a guy in a bandanna and safety goggles. He gave me the thumbs-up sign. We grinned at each other, and I went back inside. |
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| Langston Hughes |
[Nov. 6th, 2008|12:43 am] |
I, Too, Sing America
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.
Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--
I, too, am America.
( Let America be America again. ) |
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| votevotevotevotevotevotevotevote |
[Nov. 4th, 2008|01:00 pm] |
Vote. Did I say "vote"? I meant, "vote now, muddlers". The line for my polling place took up an avenue-long block. Everyone was intense, intent, and bent on voting. Take a long lunch, take a short walk, take time off and go change the country, RIGHT NOW if you haven't already. You are hereby required. Otherwise you never get the right to complain about anything. Ever.
And now, from Nerve Media, the intern brings you a brief distraction:
The 20 Greatest Political Campaign Videos of All time. For those at home, or those who can play video at work and laugh while watching it.
See you all on the other side of the future. |
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