The Cities Inside Us
Alberto Ríos
We live in secret cities
And we travel unmapped roads.
We speak words between us that we recognize
But which cannot be looked up.
They are our words.
They come from very far inside our mouths.
You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city
Inside us, and inside us
There go all the cars we have driven
And seen, there are all the people
We know and have known, there
Are all the places that are
But which used to be as well. This is where
They went. They did not disappear.
We each take a piece
Through the eye and through the ear.
It's loud inside us, in there, and when we speak
In the outside world
We have to hope that some of that sound
Does not come out, that an arm
Not reach out
In place of the tongue.
I can't sleep. Due to a recent hand injury, I can't type well or quickly, either, but that is a story for another day. Think: Christmas Eve, It's a Wonderful Life, copious tears, serious anger, a steak knife, a bell pepper, a four hour E.R. visit. You fill in the blanks.
You should know sleep is my friend and that I'm not prone to sleepless nights or insomnia, regardless of the problem presenting itself. You should also know I am prone to horribilizing, or catastrophzing. Think: take a situation or problem, any situation or problem, and I'll take it out to the netherworlds of the universe, (or perhaps the secret cities inside),for a good spin, bring it back to planet Earth, send it out for at least one more spin to see if I can outdo myself, then tuck it away and go searching for historical or mythological references. I go through at through at least ten cycles of examining the issue under a poweful microscope until I'm satisfied with possible outcomes. Yes, I know I don't control variables or outcomes, but it's good for a gal to be prepared! Sounds like a slow process, and sometimes it is, but usually I reach my conclusions very quickly. When the towers came down, the first thing I thought was, "My god! the Goths and Visigoths!" In that moment the only thing my mind could compute was that we were the Roman Empire and the barbarians had us. Then I got myself together, went down my checklist of every person I knew who could have been in those buildings and began calling. Then I got on The Onion and tried to smile. I did. I'll never forget the HFS bullseye, or the interviews from Hell with the perps.
Okay, back to not sleeping. It's now 12:43 (I told you it's hard to type!)I tried everything my weary insomniac friends swear works for them (see, I really do listen to everything). Not working. I'm feeling a little guilty keeping my puppy up so I'm going to have to sign off soon (he's under my chair kicking restlessly).
To the point: my father has cancer. We won't know until early next week if it's bad or if it has spread. I haven't allowed myself to catastrophize until today. I finally turned to Oracle, (the ancient kind). Here's the thing with Oracle, yes it used to explain things that science now explicates bloodlessly, and yes, it is relagated to the realm of kooky crackerjacks, but think about it, almost every religion has one form or another of Oracle that relies on some otherwordly power. If Julius Ceasar had listened to Oracle, he wouldn't have gone to the Senate. Maybe not the best example.
So, I asked and shuffled and this is what I got:
I. 2 Cups
II. King Staves
III. Ace Swords
IV. XIV Balance Yemana
V. 5 Staves
VI. Queen Cups
VII. 9 Swords
VIII. Queen Swords
XI. 6 Cups
X. XVIII The Star Inanna
I have no idea what the Oracle means, but the scary card didn't show up, so I'm going with the prognostications of the ether that his cancer hasn't spread. It's 1:03 and I'm finally tired. I'll edit later in the afternoon. Morning ya'll!
Cooking the Blues Away: Day Four
Just so you know, I have been cooking a lot, just not blogging about it. So far the cooking and poetry therapy really aren't working so well, so I'm going to try potato therapy, (this fabulous idea is inspired by the book title Potatoes Not Prozac). Maybe I should just make my own Mr. Potato Head figures and forget about it. Could be fun. I mean, winter doldroms really can't be that oppressive when there's a troupe of potatoes on the kitchen counter dressed for every occasion: hoedown to cocktail party.
Speaking of potatoes, I made a pretty spectacular fritatta/quiche sauteed vegetable pie which I adapted from a Moosewood Cookbook recipe. I'll post that recipe another day. btw, if you haven't ever heard of this cookbook, don't google, get in the car right now and head to the bookstore for an hour of thumbing through Mollie Katzen's no-frills, handwritten recipe book that is certain to stir your senses.
It's the season of family celebrations, and that always means an abundance of sweet treats. A friend brought this treat as a gift the other weekend, and I couldn't stop eating it, so she gave me the recipe. For lack of a better name, I'm calling it salty sweet crunch treat.
Salty Sweet Crunch
6 cups Captain Crunch
2 cups small pretzels
2 cups roasted almonds
1 pkg CandyQuik (vanilla or chocolate)
note: I've only found CandyQuik in Target stores
1 large cookie sheet
wax paper
Directions:
In a large bowl, mix Captain Crunch, pretzels, almonds.
Microwave CandyQuik for one minute.
Stir melted CandyQuik over mix until mix is saturated.
Spoon mixture onto wax paper-covered cookie sheet.
Put in refrigerator until cool, (or if you live in a freezing climate like mine, outside for a nano second will do the trick).
Break mixture into sections.
Serve.
Speaking of potatoes, I made a pretty spectacular fritatta/quiche sauteed vegetable pie which I adapted from a Moosewood Cookbook recipe. I'll post that recipe another day. btw, if you haven't ever heard of this cookbook, don't google, get in the car right now and head to the bookstore for an hour of thumbing through Mollie Katzen's no-frills, handwritten recipe book that is certain to stir your senses.
It's the season of family celebrations, and that always means an abundance of sweet treats. A friend brought this treat as a gift the other weekend, and I couldn't stop eating it, so she gave me the recipe. For lack of a better name, I'm calling it salty sweet crunch treat.
Salty Sweet Crunch
6 cups Captain Crunch
2 cups small pretzels
2 cups roasted almonds
1 pkg CandyQuik (vanilla or chocolate)
note: I've only found CandyQuik in Target stores
1 large cookie sheet
wax paper
Directions:
In a large bowl, mix Captain Crunch, pretzels, almonds.
Microwave CandyQuik for one minute.
Stir melted CandyQuik over mix until mix is saturated.
Spoon mixture onto wax paper-covered cookie sheet.
Put in refrigerator until cool, (or if you live in a freezing climate like mine, outside for a nano second will do the trick).
Break mixture into sections.
Serve.
Poem Therapy at 1:21 P.M - Michael Dumanis
Joseph Cornell, with Box
Michael Dumanis
World harbors much I'd like to fit inside
that the parameters preclude me from.
I'm the desire to have had a say.
I'm the desire to be left alone
amid brochures for Europe's best hotels
behind a locked door on Utopia Parkway,
where Brother, crippled, rides his chariot,
where Mother's all dressed up and going nowhere.
Together, sotto voce, we count hours,
fuss over newsprint, water down the wine.
When I was shorter, we were all divine.
When I was shorter, I was infinite
and felt less fear of being understood.
I am the fear of being understood.
I am the modest Joe who hems and haws
at blond cashiers ensconced in ticket booths.
Lacking the words to offer her the flowers
I'd spent a fortnight locating the words
to offer her, I threw the flowers at her.
As penance, I entrenched you, Doll, in wood.
Through your shaved bark and twigs, you stared at me.
Being a woman was out of the question.
Being a question caused women to wonder.
How unrestrained you must feel, Wind and Water.
You are the obligation, Box, to harbor
each disarray and ghost. I am the author,
the authored by. I am a plaything of.
Who makes who Spectacle. Who gives whom Order.
My father was a man who lived and died.
He would commute from Nyack to New York.
The woolen business had its ups and downs.
How unrestrained you've become, Cage and Coffin.
There is an order to each spectacle.
You are the obligation, Wind, to sunder
this relic of. Am reliquary for
the off-white light of January morning.
Have seen you, Fairies, in your apricot
and chestnut negligees invade the mirror,
tiptoe on marbles, vanish from the scene.
Am reliquary for what World has seen.
I'm the ballet of wingspan, the cracked mirror.
Canary's coffin. Sunshine breaking through.
Boxing is the working title of the new work I'm creating. Joseph Cornell is one of my favorite artists. He took detritus and made art. If you're unfamiliar with his work, prepare to unwrap a box of delicious eye candy. You may be inspired to learn more or even to make your own box.
Michael Dumanis
World harbors much I'd like to fit inside
that the parameters preclude me from.
I'm the desire to have had a say.
I'm the desire to be left alone
amid brochures for Europe's best hotels
behind a locked door on Utopia Parkway,
where Brother, crippled, rides his chariot,
where Mother's all dressed up and going nowhere.
Together, sotto voce, we count hours,
fuss over newsprint, water down the wine.
When I was shorter, we were all divine.
When I was shorter, I was infinite
and felt less fear of being understood.
I am the fear of being understood.
I am the modest Joe who hems and haws
at blond cashiers ensconced in ticket booths.
Lacking the words to offer her the flowers
I'd spent a fortnight locating the words
to offer her, I threw the flowers at her.
As penance, I entrenched you, Doll, in wood.
Through your shaved bark and twigs, you stared at me.
Being a woman was out of the question.
Being a question caused women to wonder.
How unrestrained you must feel, Wind and Water.
You are the obligation, Box, to harbor
each disarray and ghost. I am the author,
the authored by. I am a plaything of.
Who makes who Spectacle. Who gives whom Order.
My father was a man who lived and died.
He would commute from Nyack to New York.
The woolen business had its ups and downs.
How unrestrained you've become, Cage and Coffin.
There is an order to each spectacle.
You are the obligation, Wind, to sunder
this relic of. Am reliquary for
the off-white light of January morning.
Have seen you, Fairies, in your apricot
and chestnut negligees invade the mirror,
tiptoe on marbles, vanish from the scene.
Am reliquary for what World has seen.
I'm the ballet of wingspan, the cracked mirror.
Canary's coffin. Sunshine breaking through.
Boxing is the working title of the new work I'm creating. Joseph Cornell is one of my favorite artists. He took detritus and made art. If you're unfamiliar with his work, prepare to unwrap a box of delicious eye candy. You may be inspired to learn more or even to make your own box.
Voodoo Collage: Two
voodoo collage section 2009
voodoo collage 2009I started this collage out of desperation. I just can't get a concrete idea of what I want to do for my annual Christmas card. Okay, I'm lying, but the images I'm entertaining are from the dark side of my imagination and therefore, far more appropriate for Halloween. The closest I can come to Christmas-themed inspiration, is Dicken's ghosts, (with a twist).
I always leave my cards for the last minute, but generally have something interesting bubbling on the back burner. Not this time. I'm almost of a mind to just buy a box of cards and send them out.
I usually create a painting or collage and include write a flash fiction piece. Last year I painted caricatures of the entire family.
I think I may have found inspiration in what Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about a dream, so I'm going to play around with "eating the world", perhaps using an erasure process in which you take a page of prose and cross out phrases and paragraphs, leaving specific words to communicate meaning.
For an example of Erasure Poetry check out Travis Macdonald and JenMarie Davis of Fact-Simile Editions', The O Mission Repo, which uses the the 9/11 Commission Report text for erasure purposes.
Why not try it for yourself?
Erasure Exercise
Instructions: Run a pen or marker over any of the words or punctuation from the Poets & Writers text below and see what kind of prose or poem emerges.
Poets have long known that there is as much power in words that are missing as in those that rest on the page. Anne Carson provided a brilliant example of this in If Not, Winter, her 2002 translation of the work of the ancient Greek poet Sappho. Of the nine books of lyric poetry that Sappho wrote—on papyrus rolls—only one poem has survived intact; the rest are fragments. To indicate where words are missing or, in some cases, are illegible, Carson included brackets, so that one of the fragments begins "]heart / ]absolutely / ]I can" while another is a single word trapped in, as John D'Agata put it in an essay in the Boston Review, "a blizzard of brackets." The haunting fragments bring to mind the best erasure poetry, in which the poet alters an existing text by striking or erasing words. Fact-Simile Editions, an independent press in Denver, recently published a unique example of this form of found poetry. While The 9/11 Commission Report is an important and compelling text in its own right (indeed, when it was published in 2004 the report soared to the top of several best-seller lists and was named a finalist for the 2004 National Book Award in nonfiction), its riveting account is nevertheless crowded by the mountain of information that the commission was obligated to document. Travis Macdonald, a graduate of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University and a coeditor, with JenMarie Davis, of Fact-Simile Editions, used the text for an erasure titled The O Mission Repo that is a moving commentary on what Davis calls the "shifting fields of language that have arisen in the post-9/11 world." For instance, the second page of the preface, or "reface," as Macdonald has modified it, reads: "Our aim has been to / redress / Its / lexicon / adjust the / lines within / between and / across / loss / and / balance / event / against / the instruments of / change / over every page" with heavy black lines obliterating every word of text save those that remain. In another section, "The Found Error," taken from the original chapter titled "The Foundation of the New Terrorism," the preserved words seem to float down the pages as if in clouds, the missing words literally erased from the text. Macdonald lived in Brooklyn, New York, at the time of the terrorist attacks, and Davis says he performed the erasure "with the alternating tenderness and rage of one who has experienced the uncertainties of this changed world firsthand." The press also publishes a biannual poetry magazine of the same name that is always open to submissions of "work that pushes the envelope of polite society and has little to no regard for the arbitrary margins of genre." Those interested in more erasure poetry might want to check out the Erasures section of the Wave Books Web site, where users can create their own virtual erasures using texts by Henry James and others. Of course, the great thing about erasures is that a poet can use any source text—even this one. Go ahead: Print this page out and run a pen or marker over any of the words or punctuation to see what kind of poem emerges. Send it to us (90 Broad Street, Suite 2100, New York, NY 10004) and we'll post it online.
Hol Art Books, a fledgling independent in Tucson, Arizona, dedicated to the publication of writing on visual art, is developing a collaborative publishing model worth noting. Anyone can submit a complete manuscript, a rough draft, or a proposal and sample chapter of a book; the press will post it on the Web site. There readers can review it and, if moved to do so, apply to join a "project team." All such teams include a project manager, author, editor, publicist, graphic designer, and bookstore sponsor. Once a team is assembled, the members collaborate online to develop the book. If a given book then passes a review process by other project teams, Hol will print it, market it, and get it on bookstore shelves. Everyone involved receives a percentage of sales. Publisher Greg Albers says several teams have been assembled and the press's first books will be published in the fall. "Though our particular focus is writing about visual art," he adds, "I hope the model we're developing will prove a viable new approach to publishing in all areas."
Kevin Larimer is the deputy editor of Poets & Writers Magazine.
Poem Therapy at 2:42 P.M. - Piotr Sommer
Continued
Piotr Sommer
Nothing will be the same as it was,
even enjoying the same things
won’t be the same. Our sorrows
will differ one from the other and we
will differ one from the other in our worries.
And nothing will be the same as it was,
nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound
different, newer, since they’ll be more simply, more newly
spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love
won’t be love anymore. Everything will change.
Nothing will be the same as it was
and that too will be new somehow, since after all,
before, things could be similar: morning,
the rest of the day, evening and night, but not now.
Some days are like that. This is one of them. The trouble with writing in a blog rather than a diary, is that it's not a good idea to get medieval and let it rip entirely. It's better to be a little cryptic, because there's an off-chance somebody is actually reading.
I'm going to cranial sacral on Monday and I know she's going to get after me. And she should. I just can't make this decision. This decision that I've been worrying like a loose tooth for over a year now. What is the decision? Like I'd tell. You'll have to pilfer my journal for that information. The majority of the decisions I make are of a split-second nature. But the really gnarly decisions that need that kind of incisive steel, are the very decisions that take the longest.
My decision making process when confronted with a serious problem: 1)shock mode - Oh shit! 2)catastrophe mode - The Apocalypse is T-minus ten minutes and counting, prepare to die! 3) battle mode - General Danna here, prepare to lay siege! 4) rational mode - Okay, I'm going to calm down and take a long, hot bath and think about this. 5)intellectual mode - I will read everything man has put to paper on the subject, then google, dogpile, yahoo, and bing. 5)Popeye mode - I'm gonna' get cha, and get cha, and get cha again! 6)multiple point-of-view mode - if twenty-five women from twenty-five different backgrounds were presented with this problem, what would they do and why? 7)kick ass mode - We need to talk! 8) Change of mind mode - Um, we'll talk later, okay? 9)mystical mode - It's really been a long time since I've been to the psychic. 10)ouroboros mode - Back to the beginning for another cycle.
This cycle has been one year three months and eleven days. Plenty of time to nail it down. I'm off to tarot.com to ask the question again.
Piotr Sommer
Nothing will be the same as it was,
even enjoying the same things
won’t be the same. Our sorrows
will differ one from the other and we
will differ one from the other in our worries.
And nothing will be the same as it was,
nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound
different, newer, since they’ll be more simply, more newly
spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love
won’t be love anymore. Everything will change.
Nothing will be the same as it was
and that too will be new somehow, since after all,
before, things could be similar: morning,
the rest of the day, evening and night, but not now.
Some days are like that. This is one of them. The trouble with writing in a blog rather than a diary, is that it's not a good idea to get medieval and let it rip entirely. It's better to be a little cryptic, because there's an off-chance somebody is actually reading.
I'm going to cranial sacral on Monday and I know she's going to get after me. And she should. I just can't make this decision. This decision that I've been worrying like a loose tooth for over a year now. What is the decision? Like I'd tell. You'll have to pilfer my journal for that information. The majority of the decisions I make are of a split-second nature. But the really gnarly decisions that need that kind of incisive steel, are the very decisions that take the longest.
My decision making process when confronted with a serious problem: 1)shock mode - Oh shit! 2)catastrophe mode - The Apocalypse is T-minus ten minutes and counting, prepare to die! 3) battle mode - General Danna here, prepare to lay siege! 4) rational mode - Okay, I'm going to calm down and take a long, hot bath and think about this. 5)intellectual mode - I will read everything man has put to paper on the subject, then google, dogpile, yahoo, and bing. 5)Popeye mode - I'm gonna' get cha, and get cha, and get cha again! 6)multiple point-of-view mode - if twenty-five women from twenty-five different backgrounds were presented with this problem, what would they do and why? 7)kick ass mode - We need to talk! 8) Change of mind mode - Um, we'll talk later, okay? 9)mystical mode - It's really been a long time since I've been to the psychic. 10)ouroboros mode - Back to the beginning for another cycle.
This cycle has been one year three months and eleven days. Plenty of time to nail it down. I'm off to tarot.com to ask the question again.
Portrait of the Family Sans Dogs
baby girl
three amigos
the 'rentsI'm playing around with Photoshop trying to work out ideas for our annual holiday card. Last year I painted caricatures. I think I'm going to make a poster image this year. For now, here are a few rough draft images.
Poem Therapy at 1:25 P.M. - Peter Covino
Cut Off the Ears of Winter
Peter Covino
Cut off the ears of winter
they have overheard too much,
where incinerators burn,
where rubble-strewn streets
are covered in dust from the remodeling.
Again, the doe-man in mauve cashmere—
the nerve of him—in the never world
(where ashes are harvested) where
ashes rain down in glory, a jackpot
of answers. Tonight, the underwriting
of desire is an inky carbon copy.
I have already—that last time drunk
on scotch. Then all morning
a chain gang of transvestite prostitutes
litters the front yard—the Police Station
next door also on fire, burning,
burning handcuffs, the soles of shoes
not holding the earth, cars skidding
everywhere, the tire’s frame sets sparks
along the road. This is my last dollar,
last cigarette, last match.
I concur, most whole-heartedly!
Peter Covino
Cut off the ears of winter
they have overheard too much,
where incinerators burn,
where rubble-strewn streets
are covered in dust from the remodeling.
Again, the doe-man in mauve cashmere—
the nerve of him—in the never world
(where ashes are harvested) where
ashes rain down in glory, a jackpot
of answers. Tonight, the underwriting
of desire is an inky carbon copy.
I have already—that last time drunk
on scotch. Then all morning
a chain gang of transvestite prostitutes
litters the front yard—the Police Station
next door also on fire, burning,
burning handcuffs, the soles of shoes
not holding the earth, cars skidding
everywhere, the tire’s frame sets sparks
along the road. This is my last dollar,
last cigarette, last match.
I concur, most whole-heartedly!
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