Another early morning in the late season.
I can see people waiting for the Messiah and the bus. Twenty new souls on the street chilled in a purple shade. They watch the sun warm a growing strip of asphalt. Its brightness is burned through by the shadow of a woman made up with clumpy mascara and cheap red lipstick flapping a watercolor likeness of the lord in a tongue of lazy enunciation.
The flock thins around the plump bellied prophet. Eyes dart around her, not sure if she is prepared to break into Oration.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Bits of dust settle
I spent the first half of my day off waiting for the man to come to fill the rat holes. Fret not, dear reader, we are not co-habitating with rodents. Two and half hours after the time we scheduled with the management company--not answering phones today-- Romanian Bruce Springsteen arrived with caulk, silicone and plaster. Please do not let your imagination wander, dear reader, there is still the kitchen light, the toilet seat and some electrical issues to address.
It was rather uninspiring before the sun burned off the clammy cold, and now, our windows are open to the last couple hours of day. Is it wrong that I should want to spend them laying down with a dead physicist instead of a computer screen?
There's a new biography on Richard Feynman. It's an unfortunate cover, but I have it under my pillow so I can kiss his face in the morning. It's rather good so far.
Also from W.W. Norton, Townie, also unfortunately covered and not yet published. I hope they print it soon, so it can hurry up and be a big deal already. Dubus the Younger wrote a phenomenal portrait of turbulent humanity.
I have a dinner in Onion Square tonight, for a children's writer whose book I have yet to see. I can speculate, but I hope they give us a copy so I can test my hypothesis. Very scientific, this book selling business.
It was rather uninspiring before the sun burned off the clammy cold, and now, our windows are open to the last couple hours of day. Is it wrong that I should want to spend them laying down with a dead physicist instead of a computer screen?
There's a new biography on Richard Feynman. It's an unfortunate cover, but I have it under my pillow so I can kiss his face in the morning. It's rather good so far.
Also from W.W. Norton, Townie, also unfortunately covered and not yet published. I hope they print it soon, so it can hurry up and be a big deal already. Dubus the Younger wrote a phenomenal portrait of turbulent humanity.
I have a dinner in Onion Square tonight, for a children's writer whose book I have yet to see. I can speculate, but I hope they give us a copy so I can test my hypothesis. Very scientific, this book selling business.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Corps! Dormez vous!
I think my body is taking this extra hour and choosing to write.
A half hour ago I woke to the usual sounds of the city, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. How does one just add an hour of life?
After not blogging for three months, I could probably suck that hour right out of Dear Reader. Perhaps the hour is already devoted to something else.
Suffice it to say, I will gesture and begin to write plus que ça change...I will end up trailing off because I want to write about how I noticed the other day that Raquel Welch has absolutely no dialogue in 1966's "Fantastic Voyage" until nineteen minutes have passed.
So you see, what is an hour? When in some forty years, there are still so many of us fighting the good fight.
I voted, barely. I should have registered in New York but I floated on the blue blood of this town. I'm interested to see what will happen in the two years of a political body that has evolved into something of a Hydra, but what a beautiful beast she is.
Here is my current literary sound-track:
Scott Pilgrim, A+ for Awesome in the skateboard sense.
Witches on the Road Tonight, V for very good and very hard to sell.
Graveyard Book, G++ for Good Golly Gaiman.
and the marvelous Nina Simone.
A half hour ago I woke to the usual sounds of the city, and I haven't been able to go back to sleep. How does one just add an hour of life?
After not blogging for three months, I could probably suck that hour right out of Dear Reader. Perhaps the hour is already devoted to something else.
Suffice it to say, I will gesture and begin to write plus que ça change...I will end up trailing off because I want to write about how I noticed the other day that Raquel Welch has absolutely no dialogue in 1966's "Fantastic Voyage" until nineteen minutes have passed.
So you see, what is an hour? When in some forty years, there are still so many of us fighting the good fight.
I voted, barely. I should have registered in New York but I floated on the blue blood of this town. I'm interested to see what will happen in the two years of a political body that has evolved into something of a Hydra, but what a beautiful beast she is.
Here is my current literary sound-track:
Scott Pilgrim, A+ for Awesome in the skateboard sense.
Witches on the Road Tonight, V for very good and very hard to sell.
Graveyard Book, G++ for Good Golly Gaiman.
and the marvelous Nina Simone.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
comme c'est chaud!
It's nearin' ninety today, and that ain't nothin' to sniff at. Where some of the weaker souls have a hard time with the temperature, I revel in the fact that l'humidité n'est pas là.
Things could always be worse, eh mon ami?
For example, Paris Hilton, another line on your rap sheet is better than say, falling out a window.
You can blame whomever you like but stories like these are horrendous.
I'm of the camp that finds the tragedy in everything leading up to the conclusion. How totally preventable these stories can be.
LiLo is quick to point her finger to her daddy issues and poor role-models, and if that's the case, she has a long road to recovery. Undoubtedly, Michael Lohan and Dina Lohan have concocted the exact opposite of a healthy, nurturing environment for their children. However, after a certain period of time, patterns become apparent.
To wit: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H...shall I continue?
It's tragic that LiLo thinks she can recover by blaming everyone else in her life, because it means she doesn't recognize that the real problem.
On the other hand, the late Nicole John must have seemed normal and well-adjusted to her otherwise normal parents, if they were watching at all. It's harder to see where the tragedy lies when the only part of the story we have is the ending.
My thoughts go to people who suffer this tragedy, but then I wonder what kind of tragedy it is.
Last night, we had an event with local author, Ghita Schwarz, a civil rights litigator specializing in immigrants' rights. Her new book, Displaced Persons is a story of an unusual family that searches for some sense of normality after Liberation. It brings attention to the Holocaust as a commodity, but also an experience, shocking and traumatic that "Displaced" close to 25,000 different people.
So, then young girls who were ripped from their children, mothers, brothers. Young men who may have killed or sacrificed other lives in order to make it another day in prison, in mud and shit. Is that tragic enough?
And how to prevent tragedy like THAT again? {Ahem, Yann Martel, not your smarmy experience--recall your Adorno}
So as the media frenzy for the Muslim Community Center at the bottom of Manhattan wanes, and media coverage centralizes over other celebrated issues, how to keep in mind the tragedy of humanity?
In my opinion, it is best to dance, laugh, and live.
(lots o links!)
Things could always be worse, eh mon ami?
For example, Paris Hilton, another line on your rap sheet is better than say, falling out a window.
You can blame whomever you like but stories like these are horrendous.
I'm of the camp that finds the tragedy in everything leading up to the conclusion. How totally preventable these stories can be.
LiLo is quick to point her finger to her daddy issues and poor role-models, and if that's the case, she has a long road to recovery. Undoubtedly, Michael Lohan and Dina Lohan have concocted the exact opposite of a healthy, nurturing environment for their children. However, after a certain period of time, patterns become apparent.
To wit: A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H...shall I continue?
It's tragic that LiLo thinks she can recover by blaming everyone else in her life, because it means she doesn't recognize that the real problem.
On the other hand, the late Nicole John must have seemed normal and well-adjusted to her otherwise normal parents, if they were watching at all. It's harder to see where the tragedy lies when the only part of the story we have is the ending.
My thoughts go to people who suffer this tragedy, but then I wonder what kind of tragedy it is.
Last night, we had an event with local author, Ghita Schwarz, a civil rights litigator specializing in immigrants' rights. Her new book, Displaced Persons is a story of an unusual family that searches for some sense of normality after Liberation. It brings attention to the Holocaust as a commodity, but also an experience, shocking and traumatic that "Displaced" close to 25,000 different people.
So, then young girls who were ripped from their children, mothers, brothers. Young men who may have killed or sacrificed other lives in order to make it another day in prison, in mud and shit. Is that tragic enough?
And how to prevent tragedy like THAT again? {Ahem, Yann Martel, not your smarmy experience--recall your Adorno}
So as the media frenzy for the Muslim Community Center at the bottom of Manhattan wanes, and media coverage centralizes over other celebrated issues, how to keep in mind the tragedy of humanity?
In my opinion, it is best to dance, laugh, and live.
(lots o links!)
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Sensitive issues
Summer was about to slip quietly off the stage, here in NYC. But then the media pigeons spotted a story.
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
The Story.
There are plenty of words being flung about like steaks in a dog fight. (I think Jon Stewart has the choicest cuts, thankyew Gawker.tv) Is this an issue of religious freedom or of sensitivity to the victims of September 11?
I thought we were all the victims of September 11th's attack.
Granted this country was founded in the name of Puritanical freedom to burn witches and lofty business speculations--but c'mon now, after all these wars I think the general consensus is that might does not always equal right.
Whatever you believe, you'll have the right to believe it. But justice for all means justice for all, and that includes dissenting opinions.
In my opinion, those taking time to protest the "Ground Zero" Mosque---have you walked those city blocks? They are LONG!
might find that their time is better spent in local politics, local infrastructure and local education. At the VERY LEAST, their local movie theaters, watching
THIS MOVIE!!!
Oh. And in other amendment news:
Happy 90th anniversary of the 19th amendment.
Shoulder to shoulder into the fray!!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Rumor Has it.
I like reevaluations.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
Evaluation is all well and good, but if your math skills are on par with mine, a reevaluation will improve your situation. (Thusly, dear Mother, you have explained my grades in Math lo' these many years, no time to reevaluate during tests).
We're watching the Monarch Chrysalid quite closely. It's a pearlescent geometric nugget of nature.
For those unfamiliar with the process by which a milkweed caterpillar becomes a butterfly,
the body of the larva is nothing but an well-spun shawl that keeps all vital chewing gears and pooping parts safe from the elements. As the caterpillar eats and expels his way to the end of the vine, the shawl stretches to keep all the soft parts soft.
Then, after seven days or so of using all its energy to eat and expel, our little miracle might drag itself to a sturdy (albeit inverted) promontory, weave a little silken pad and make a place to hang out for the next two weeks.
Once it is well-seated, it begins to rip the shawl, and a glistening glob settles into a shape that will become a most fashionable bag that will take a prehistoric powder and sprinkle it into a goop that stews into a butterfly with scaly (sometimes membranous) wings. Then, nature rips that bag away, an alien emerges, pumps life-force into its flappable appendages and goes off in search of sex. Perhaps the use of procreational drugs is involved, sometimes called pheromones.
I sent off some mail last week, an opportunity I relished and exploited to sketch a bee on an envelope. Well, I remember getting a ton of mail in camp, and brother, those stacks of letters remind you of home in their own special way. So Chere Cousine S.C. in North Carolina, relish and exploit every moment made available to you. The friendships you weave in arts and farts and crafts, short and long; above all the sunrises.
Also, nobody wants to be the dead girl in the SLEEPAWAY CAMP MOVIE!!
Summer is past its peak and while it is hot, the days are growing shorter. We use these days to reflect the high points of the year behind.
I happened upon Mythology's old friend Thomas Bulfinch this week. He's a delight, and a choice in pure denial, because I also need to review something new that is not the New Yorker, and I have about three write-ups for September. This is of no use, the next month is clearly August.
By Golly, the store is out of good galleys.
So I have fostered the following paperbacks:
Sick City by Tony O'Neill. It struts the stage like Eddie Murphy [following clip most definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK] Delirious. And the humor is not quite as approachable, or incongruous, or even worthwhile. I think I got over the glorification of track marks and selfish junkies a few years ago. O'Neill's short stories are pretty tolerable, though.
In a similar vein of satire, Albert Cossery, The Jokers. The introduction itself incites scoffing, thank you James Buchan.
As the French are the wittiest race in Europe, so are the Egyptians in Africa. Cossery's comedy derives from contraposition of exquisite French and an exceptionally squalid setting.
Translated rather skillfully from the French by Anna Moschovakis, The Jokers does not sit well before bed. I recommend sitting upright for this bad boy.
Coming in first, Gary Shteyngart. (Not that cute in real life, I'm told)
His writing found its way into my eyeballs when the New Yorker published 20 under 40, and the excerpt from Super Sad True Love Story had me with its bashful honesty and brutal satire. Perhaps I have a thing for bespectacled writers, estranged from the Russian Jewry.
And it's not just that he has an event at the store. No, it was my LOLing on the subway that told myself how much I enjoy the book. I said to myself, "Self! You are really enjoying this novel written in nouveau epistolary fashion, you are laughing out so loud!"
And really, dear readers, what other test does a book need to pass, if it is not causing you to miss your stop on the train, or LOL?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Look out honey, I'm using technology
I love having Tuesdays to myself.
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
I don't have to worry about finding space for the exciting New Releases, although I do get pumped about new titles, and seeing what is being regularly replenished.
I finished Fun Home this morning, enjoyed perusing
the shelves here in Zero-Dome, and have been impelled to use the fleeting hours to read/write El Gran Novela americana.
But whom shall I use as inspiration?
Use this fun (and questionable) algorithm to find out whose writing you emulate!
According to the past five blog entries I have here at Moving Prepositions, I, like, write like :::
David Foster Wallace (haven't read him yet),
Cory Doctorow (ditto),
Nabakov,
and the oh-so-horrid Lovecraft (also never touched, save the copies of a Lovecraft tribute that I counted, packed up and returned)
I have yet to decide whether this is:
1. all that credible (what with the simplicity of web-programming these days)
2. an obstacle I steer to avoid in shaping my own words
3. none of the above
4. all of the above
The store has acquired a pet. Last Thursday, I noticed a fat little inch and a half of Monarch larva feeding his way through the wilting of our weekly floral arrangement. By Friday, our florist had made accommodations for the tiny pest with plenty of milkweed and oregano (whose floral buds are remedial!). When I opened the shop on Saturday morning, the creature had fattened up to about 2 inches, and flung his poop all over the new David Mitchell title and the remaining copies of the third Stieg Larsson. He continued to munch and as Attenborough says, deeeeficate until yesterday, at around 4:30 pm, when he crawled to the underside of a faded sunflower to pull one of these.
Enjoy the linkage today! I had fun throwing it in. Too bad the "IWRITELIKEATRON" can't take my hypertext into account.
Incidentally, is anyone out there interested in/familiar with Storyspace?
From the site, you'd think people who place a high-value on word-structure would hire a decent web-designer, but I'm more interested in the software.
Oh and this entry?
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