A Study in Contrasts

A little levity that seems fitting given the season.
First off, how about something higher in the vocal range: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FNK4w8dnc0Y

Next, a bit lower: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMZih9eQThw


Should there be a favorite?

Open Question Details

While reading Fredric Jameson, I came across this quote by Chrystia Freeman (Sale of the Century, 2000): "Yet, at least for the intelligentsia, life in the fin de siecle USSR had its compensations. No one had very much money, but no one had to do very much work, either. The result was a whole society that acted as if it had never left college: intense, emotional, time-consuming friendships; endless hours spent drinking tea or vodka and discussing the meaning of life; the avid pursuit of esoteric spiritual or creative interests. If middle-class Russians sometimes seem perversely nostalgic for the Soviet Union, one reason is that the collapse of communism forced them horribly and abruptly to grow up" (p. 114). Feel free to problematize the related notions of "growing" and "intellectual" and "college" at will.

For Stephanie

Bar Scene Minneapolis: The Hat in the Corner

Not everyone can pull that off,
but you make wearing hats
look good again.
Maybe it is the symmetries
of facial geometry—a
curved brim parallel to the taught jaw—
there is a nostalgic appeal
to the workaday look of 1953,
particularly in these days
of manicured ruffians and
mass-marketed hoodlums.
Or maybe it is the rumpled quality
that draws me in:
tendrils of dark hair escaping
the fabric’s cockeyed slant.
What I like most, however,
is the way the hat shelters
your dark eyes,
winking and mischievous,
until you look up,
laughing riotously at a joke
so inappropriate that it was whispered
behind a swaying fist and a sweating bar glass,
punching the air with exclamations
of “you can’t, you didn’t”
and “again.”

Fireflies in June

Flitting about the lawn outside my window.

"Whorrior": My Response to Writing a Poem with the Word "Feminist"

What is s/he,
all sinew
and curved pectorals,
rushing headlong
into the fray--
propelled by id &
Jungian mantras--
dreams held back
by gritted teeth
and long lashes?
The he said/
she said no
longer matters;
androgyny is
so last century.
Hike up your skirt,
snap your suspenders,
run in heels
and a sailor's cap:
I don't want
to go home, Dorothy.
Toto indeed.
Pretty in Pink
even if John Hughes
said so, said go.
After all, I
put the femme
in feminist.

The Deleted Safari, or Dial W for Basho

Lest my writing be found by some bored blog troller looking for sites dealing with safari recommendations and reflections, this is not a post about African ungulates. For that matter, this is not a post about much of anything, except that the search for a proper thematic orientation for the utopic project continues. I will try to write more about that soon, but I felt like writing something for a former colleague. This one is for W.

Do they know what to do with you in Texas, bearded red like some New World pirate?

Your wit, your scandalous humor, and the ever-present addiction to novel things: ancient ideas, neologisms, shocking concepts, and new bodies. A bawdy boy with a penchant for wordplay--who could not love you?

We are sorry that they lacked imagination. We are sorrier still that Tony was incapable of taking your advice. Yes, the loss is his own, but I feel we all have been cheated.

Roll the bracelet over the thin bones of your wrist; Lift those eyebrows in mocked surprise.

Nothing can disappoint one who is learning to let go, yet still drawing everything in.

Inspired . . . an open letter (blog post) to the Rambling Cultivatrix

In deference to the Lotus Eater (http://ramblingcultivatrix.blogspot.com/), I have composed this little posting:

Rousillon. The word rolls off my tongue like the splash of tea I was awakened to yesterday morning. My British mother would be proud of me. Thousands of miles and many years from the habits of a childhood breakfast nook and still I am an Englishwoman’s youngest child, all dainty teaspoons and Prufrock posturing. Margo was right; some things taste better in the French air: day old baguettes, unfiltered red wine, and my raw heart’s latest suffering.

These ochre hills hint at old footpaths taken by Romans and Gauls. I can almost smell their leather straps and hear the crackling of campfires. When I reach down, the soil stains my fingers like the cheap nail polish I used as a girl. What sprigs of summer flowers this land will yield I cannot tell, but I am sorry to leave before the ground is abloom with our efforts.

Tonight, under a rough weave of stars, I will try the Pastis at the café down the road. Maybe a Claude or Henri will offer me a light for the cigarettes I won’t smoke. In the guttering light of a dim candle, if I am lucky, he can see me for what I now am: amiss from home, forgetting to be sad, shovel tired and stinking of rich earth, and all the better for it.

Setting Sail, Selling Settings

"Meet the new blog, same as the old blog."

My apologies to Roger and Pete, but modifying this bit of popular culture was just too tempting to resist. In the coming days, I will post more on my progress concerning the utopia project. For the time being, these little witticisms will have to suffice.