Chimera Song Mosaic
Monday, January 26, 2004
Oh, no, this is the last one. Well, I have a new series in store for you--a found one--so I won't have to think for another week. Sound good? Posting these here has really made me realize how much revision they need. Here's the last one:


An actor will age the way we all age, save extreme measures, expensive cosmetics, pancake artistry. All must succumb to the passage of time, or else for this instant, pretend. Years younger, where are the plumper cheeks, the flat-veined neck, the mattered eyes? If this is our retreat into wisdom & sexual agility, where is the nascence when we take it off again?

Sunday, January 25, 2004

What role should “Eine Kleine Natchtmusick” play in this film: cell phone? car alarm? Sister to the lover who is stranded, uncovered? Bold assassin in the ballet class? Double agent hamstringed between the conclusion & the past? Should pain be wretch’d from a widow’s collarbone by a severe haircut (not a comfort that would brush her shoulders the way his fingertips once did) in the fever & the pitch of an original score—or should we go with Rachmaninoff? The modern world w/cynicism calls for Ministry, Prodigy, Rage against the Machine, or nineinchnails; the modern world w/satire calls for The Dead Milkmen. Better than breastmilk, one formula calls for two parts human / one part synthesis / anarchic rainbow / one part colorless

Saturday, January 24, 2004
[Costume Design]

It is said that clothes make the man—well, what of the woman who dresses him? Arms up she says to her son she pulls the sweater down over his head too large for the opening. After the induction of testosterone, what disables men from such fabric & fluid accessories? Would they walk out naked say their lines say nothings & be done with it? But purpled trappings indicate sovereignty—and that he will wear out all his days like the sweater of a lover. These men must have counterparts so more elaborate duds are called in to fit the more tolerant women. Now mommies can play dress up w/the super-beautiful; perfection shattered by an unflattering angle can be recalled, a dress can be unstitched & made again. Surgeons of fashion, portend.

Friday, January 23, 2004
Hi, Nicole! Happy Birthday, Stephanie!

But wouldn't it be so much easier for me to send you an email personally? But this is much more fun becuase when a person reads another's blog, the reader feels anonymous--until that moment when she is mentioned and she suddenly feels caught! It's like being snuck up on and tickled (when you were a kid--nobody try that nowadays). This is, perhaps, the voyeristic climax.

Well, now I'm definitely going to read it.

Most powerful overload; smack trade absolute; the body where the buck stops openly; ruler of the flop-house muse & pimp of muses; oracle of one man’s vision; thumb & finger-framed translation; tunnel-husband to the fickle & the orient: your divination is required to muddle through this biblical adaptation, whence once like a lion you have made your bed, there (like a lion) you must lie.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

W/out you, there would be no relaxation of interior life, & yet
you bend to the will of space & time, subject & budget
a mole transformed into a mountain
an aspect of beauty most terrible
& yet, there is little room for ego here
the artist suffers along with his script
you must do what christ has asked of you: submit.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Nick on Blogging & Narcissism made me happy. Thanks, Stephanie! (I recommend you celebrate your birthday for an entire month.)
Bonus round!

An Octopus Has Three Hearts

by Deborah Wardlaw Pattillo

INT. CIRCUS – Octopus Display Room - Day

This is a temporary display inside a trailer. The walls are covered in tacky wood paneling. The carpet is orange shag. There is a very large aquarium against one wall, filled with water.

There is a glass partition with a very small hole in it in the middle of the aquarium. A pale purple octopus, BABE, lounges beside it. Several toys are scattered around the floor of the aquarium.

BARRY walks into the room. He is a man in his early 30s, good-looking, but a little too thin and worn. He is wearing a dark blue uniform with no insignia on it.

Hey, Babe, how are you today?

Babe comes to life, spinning and flipping in the water.

That good, huh?

Babe streaks across the front side of the glass in a dramatic gesture, flipping some water out of the aquarium and into Barry’s face.

Barry laughs.

That was a pretty good one! Here
you go.

Barry grabs a bucket from a shelf on the aquarium stand, opens it, grabs a few shrimp morsels, and holds them over the water.

Babe snakes up the side of the glass, leans his head over the rim, and carefully grabs the morsels with his beak.

FLYNT walks in. He is dressed like a human cannonball—red and silver fringed spandex.

Gross. I can’t believe you let that
thing touch you.

He’s my friend.

Barry returns the bucket to the shelf and rubs his fingers against the glass.

You need to get out more.

What’s up, Flynt?

I’m about to go on. I just came over
to tell you that the monkey chick,
Penelope, is over by the snake pit.


So now’s your chance!

Barry gives no response. He rubs his fingers against the glass, and on the other side of it, Babe swishes his tentacles appreciatively.

If you don’t act now, Raoul is going
to get her.

Barry sighs.

Then that’s just the way it is. I’m not
going to scramble after her like some

Oh, she should come to me, right? Look,
this is a circus. Everybody is doing
everybody. It’s a free for all for
freaks. You’re the only one who’s not
getting any action.

Flynt fingers the silver fringe on the side of his pants.

You used to try. Man, you used to be
inspirational. I used to wonder, how
can that guy stand to get shot down
over and over?

I used to be like Babe. Babe has three
hearts, did you know that? He can afford
to get a couple of them trampled on. But
I can’t.

No, you just need to think more like
Babe! Have some guts! Get out there.
Now you don’t even try.

Barry ignores him and strokes the glass.

I guess that’s the way you want it.
Faint Heart never won Fair Lady.

Get blown.

Coming right up!

Flynt whooshes out of the room with a flourish.

Well, Babe, I gotta go, too.

Barry goes to the closet in the corner of the room, opens it, and retrieves a mop and a mop bucket from its depths.

He turns and closes the door and leaves the room with his stuff.

Babe settles back down onto the floor of his tank.

Close up on Babe’s eyes and his gills moving in and out.

INT. CIRCUS – Octopus Display Room – Night

Close up on Babe’s tank, which appears to be empty.

Suddenly, part of Babe pokes through the little hole in the glass partition.

More of him squeezes through the hole until he is completely through to the other side, where he rushes to the top of the tank.

PENELOPE, a pretty woman in her early 30s, dressed in s flashy and skimpy, red and gold, showgirl type outfit, and RITA, a pretty, tall, bearded lady in a muumuu, are standing outside the tank, watching Babe.

Wow! He really does fit through there!

I know; he’s really cool, isn’t he?

Give him the fish!

I am.

Penelope grabs the bucket from the shelf, opens it, and shakes some shrimp into the water.

Several shrimp morsels drift down through the water.

I think you put too many.

Well, I didn’t want to touch these
stinky things!

Babe rushes around, grabbing them with his eight arms and pushing the shrimp into his mouth.

His mouth is weird.

I know. Barry says it’s really sharp.

So, what’s going on with Barry? I need
to know about this.

There’s nothing to know. Yet. We’re
going on a date this Tuesday.

Where are you going to go?

The movies.

Rita rolls her eyes.


That’s such a first date mistake.
There’s no chance to get to know one

And dinner.

Are you paying?

Don’t be an ass, Rita. He makes
plenty of money. Probably more
than you.

I doubt it. You think this is my
only job?

This shuts Penelope up. She looks away from Rita’s direct gaze, a little prudishly.

Rita flips her very long and thick braid over her shoulder.

You don’t have to be coy with me.

Penelope is silent. She puts the bucket back under the aquarium.

Hey, don’t go all quiet on me. Go
ahead, give him some more.

Penelope reaches for the bucket, but then stops.

I don’t want to overdo it.

That’s my girl! See, this is what I
am talking about. Don’t overdo
things. Don’t come on too strong.
For God’s sake, Penelope, don’t
sleep with him on the first date.

Penelope blushes.

You really think I would do that?

Oh, Honey, I know you would do it!
Don’t you think things get around?
Raoul? The old lion tamer?

Penelope is blushing really hard now, and her head is ducked far into her chest.

Then there’s that. That fake innocent
stuff. Don’t pull that on him. Guys
don’t like a woman that’s so delicate,
she will break.

Do you think I should give him some
more after all?

No! My God! Look, you need to just
think about this, okay? Barry’s a
nice guy, and he’s kind of cute. All
I’m saying is don’t mess it up.

How will I know if I’m messing it up?

Just don’t do anything you would
normally do. Don’t call him the next
day. Don’t ask him a hundred questions.
Don’t cling. Don’t count your chickens
before they hatch.

I’m not that bad. Besides, he’s not
my only prospect. I could get plenty
of guys.

I think we’ve been though them all.

Not here, I mean. Other places. I
sort of have one of those guy’s
fantasy jobs, don’t I?


Like a stewardess? A nurse?

No. Maybe Johanna. Any of the trapeze
girls. But not you. You’re the Monkey

I’m not, like, related to monkeys!

We all are. Why do you think I have
this hair on my face?

I just bring the monkeys out! I wear
a cute outfit.

You let them crawl all over you.
That’s my point.

Hey, do you think he’s all right?
He looks kind of pale.

I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to
blend into his surroundings. Fat
chance in this place.

Let’s go. I don’t want Barry to know
that I fed Babe too much.

They leave.

Close up on Babe again. He moves across his tank to a brown teddy bear toy.

He curls around the bear and begins to get darker, like the bear.

INT. CIRCUS – Octopus Display Room – Day

Close up on the teddy bear toy, alone in a corner of the tank.

Babe moves over to the toy and grabs it. He drags it over to a nest of several other brightly colored toys. He settles into the nest and pulls the teddy bear on top of himself.

Barry walks into the room, accompanied by a GUY who works at AQUAWORLD in slacks and a bright blue polo shirt with Aquaworld embroidered on chest, over the heart.

They stop in front on the tank.

Babe pops the bear toy off his head and swims up to the surface.

There he is. Hey, Babe! How’re you

Barry rubs the glass with his fingers.

Babe flips over and over in his tank.

Barry reaches for the bucket.

What else can he do?

Barry pauses, holding the bucket in his hands.

He can do these flips and spins,
flick water out of the tank, change
colors, and, if I wait and don’t
give him some snacks for a while,
he’ll squeeze himself through that
little hole to the other side of the

I’ve seen that before.

He also squirts ink, of course, but
he doesn’t like to do that a lot.
He’s not afraid of anything. He’s happy.

Babe rushes up the side of the tank and splashes water out of the top, like before.

Barry and the Aquaworld guy stand back and wait.

Babe squats down on the floor of his tank and changes color.

He’s good, isn’t he?

Your octopus is female.

Barry looks at Babe with a puzzled face.

Babe continues to sit on the tank floor, blushing red to purple to lilac.

Yeah, she’s pretty good. Go ahead
and give her the treats.

Barry happily holds a few morsels at the top of the tank.

Babe swishes up and takes them from his hand with her beak.

Babe’s really gentle.

Can anybody feed her like that?

No, just me.

Well, you’ve got a pretty nice pet
here, but you don’t know dick about

I know they have three hearts.

We could use her at Aquaworld. I’m
willing to take her off your hands.

She’s not going anywhere.

Who are you kidding? This place is
going to close in a week. Everything
is going. What are you going to do,
keep her?

Yeah, I’ll keep her.

She needs lots of attention. She is
used to big crowds. What are you going
to do, keep her at your apartment?


Fine. Suit yourself.

He doesn’t leave. They stand there in silence. Barry rubs his fingers across the glass, and Babe reciprocates.

We’ll give you $500.



Is that the best you can do?

It’s beyond the best we can do! What
do you say?

I say forget it. She’s mine.

Fine! Keep your freaking octopus!

The Aquaworld guy storms out.

Barry rubs the side of the tank.


This room is crowded with a big entertainment center covering one wall, a huge, overstuffed couch opposite that on another, and a massive aquarium on the third wall, almost blocking the hallway leading to the rest of the apartment.

Barry and Penelope are entwined on the couch, fully clothed, but making out heavily, with lots of SLURPING noises.

Penelope stops kissing and pushes Barry away with her hands.

I can’t do this. Not with that thing
looking at us.

They look over at the tank.

Babe is sitting on the bottom of the tank.

She doesn’t have very good eyes. I
bet she can’t even see us.

Barry stands up and looks at Babe.

Babe twirls in the tank, flipping over and over.

She can see us now!

Okay. Let’s go to my room.

Barry and Penelope get up and walk in front of the tank and around it down the hallway.

While they pass, Babe flips madly in her tank.

She stops. Then squats on the bottom and begins to change color.

Close up on Babe, changing color from red to pale lilac.

INT. BARRY’S APARTMENT – Living Room - Day

Barry and Penelope are sitting on the couch.

Penelope is wearing a blue Wal-Mart vest. Barry, wearing sweat pants, is flipping through the channels with a remote control.

Babe is sitting in the tank across the room.

There’s nothing on.

She struggles out of her vest.

Barry turns off the TV.

We could do something else?

No. I’m tired. I’m going home.

Penelope, come on! I’ve been waiting
up all day for you to get off work,
and now you want to leave?

Don’t bad mouth my job! At least
it’s respectable! At least I’m not
working at a strip club!

I’m a bartender. There’s nothing
wrong with that.

And you’re complaining about my hours—
at least I work during the day! Like
a normal job!

We didn’t used to work during the day.

That was at the circus—a freak job!
I don’t want to hear about that.

Barry is quiet.

Who was that girl that called the
other night?

Who? Amanda?

What did she want?

She just wanted to talk, that’s all.
She calls from time to time.

Is she a stripper?

Yeah. So what?

And she calls you at home? So what?
A stripper calls you at home? What
am I supposed to think?

She just has problems, that’s all.

I need to feel like I can trust you,
Barry. You’re not making me feel that
way by letting strippers call you at

I didn’t let her, she just got my
number from work.

Barry pauses and studies Penelope’s face.

Okay, I’ll tell her not to call
anymore, if that’s what you want.
Whatever will make you happy.

You’re going to talk to her again!

No! I mean, I’ll get one of the guys
to tell her.

Tell her what? That you have a psycho
girlfriend who can’t stand to have her
call you at home?

Something like that.

Don’t tell her that, Barry! God!

Okay, Okay, calm down! I was just

You’re going to joke about something
like this? I don’t believe you, Barry!

I take you seriously. I do. If you’re
upset, I’m upset. Can’t we just forget
about it?

Barry gathers her into his arms and kisses her check, which is turned away from him.

Penelope softens and sniffs a little.

Barry, do you love me?

Of course I do. I tell you all the

Good. Then let’s move in together.

They fall back into the depths of the couch, kissing.

Close up on Babe, sitting on the floor of the tank, changing color.

Babe stops changing color and swims to the middle of the tank, where she begins to squeeze herself through the opening in the partition.

When she has squeezed all the way through, the tank appears empty.

INT. BARRY’S APARTMENT – Living Room – Night

Close up on the empty tank.

Slowly, Babe comes into view, squeezing herself through the little hole from the opposite side of the tank.

Barry, who is wearing a stylish black mock turtleneck shirt and black slacks, chases Penelope, wearing a slinky nightie, in front of the tank, trying to pinch her butt.

Penelope squeals and laughs.

Stop it!

Babe flips in her tank.

They run in front of the tank again, and Babe swooshes up and splashes water at them.

Ahhh! The octopus got me!

And I’m going to get you now!

They run out of the room and down the hall toward the bedroom.

Close up on Babe squatting on the bottom of her tank and squirting out a stream of black ink.

The water fills with clouds of ink, obscuring Babe and blackening everything in sight.

INT. BARRY’S APARTMENT – Living Room – Day

The living room is the same as before, expect it’s a little messier, and Babe’s aquarium is nowhere to be seen.

Penelope, wearing a blue Wal-Mart vest, rushes in through the outside door, carrying a paper bag full of groceries.

She walks straight through the living room without putting the bag down and disappears down the hallway.

You’re still sleeping?

Whaa . . .?

I can’t believe you’re still in bed!
I’ve been at work all day . . .

Penelope continues to yell and Barry to protest, but their words are hard to make out as . . .

The camera moves through the living room and down the hall, but instead of following their voices, it turns to the left and into another room, the guest room.


Babe’s tank is at the far corner of this room, otherwise empty except for a day bed covered in denim.

Babe is sitting in the corner of her tank. Her toys are scattered around the tank.

She is very pale and still.

Would you get off my back? I’m really
tired! I got in late last night.

At the sound of Barry’s voice, Babe flips and twirls in her tank.

Like you do every other night . . .

Camera zooms in close to Babe’s tank and then enters it.


Lights are bright and watery.

Pale purple Babe is flipping over and over, tentacles streaming, and underwater, muffled, BLOOP noises are heard.

Underwater yelling human voices are also heard, but are indiscernible.

Babe is flipping and twirling frantically.

INT. BARRY’S APARTMENT – Guest Room – Night

Babe is sitting at the bottom of the tank.

There is the sound of a door being unlocked and opened.

Barry is heard rushing through the hallway.

Baby, I’m home!

At the sound of Barry’s voice, Babe flips frantically in her tank, her movements through the water more beautiful than ever.

Barry appears briefly at the guest room doorway and then shuts the door.

Close up on Babe, who stops spinning and stabs herself in the heart with her sharp, pointy beak.

Blood fills the water and pillows around the dying Babe, finally obscuring her from view completely.



Stasis blooms in darkness, then the blooms refuse their aperture, an ear untuned to sentiment burns its core to ash in the library, to ambergris. The library requests the absence of speech & music, yet without the score, the tension might unravel, deconstruction of the overseer’s argument. There are places in the half-life like the library where we ask to be apart from artifice, to uncoil from the anxiety of music & her half-hidden unfulfillment throbbing to catch up to the longing created when a song is interrupted in middle-morphosis. If music is attention to artifice, then dialogue can rupture the subterfuge, the brilliant hoax of firecracker gunshot to the 10th exponent.

Indian eggplant! Who knew? So round, so tiny--so luminous and full-bodied. Perhaps this blog should be retitled Adventures in Produce. Remember the hype about the Juan Carlos Melon? It turns out that it is actually called the Juan Canary Melon. But I'll be waiting for it come summer.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Ooo, Chris, you are teasing me, aren't you?

The poem you are looking for that belongs to that line of January 18th is Sylvia Plath's "Daddy."

You know that NPR thing where they get those music nerds to guess the tune in the style of some famous composer? ("Mary Had a Little Lamb" a la Chopin.)Well, I can handle the demo tune, but not the style--I am so musically naive that I would never even imagine being able to guess the tunes and styles of the real contests. Where do they get these guys? And why don't they host these contests for poetry nerds? Maybe I could do that. Like Frost in the style of Sexton?

That's my new gig. Next time I'll write one. I still haven't thought this through.

So I went to the post office satellite by my old house today (the main post office is distant and crowded), and the grumpy man behind the counter didn't even acknowledge our pre-existing relationship. As he weighed my bundles of poetry submissions, he grunted in response to my question of how many stamps come in a set of stamps and shook his hands in impatience when I asked if he had any special, pretty stamps. Then I noticed the signs around his transom, which read:

We DO NOT provide packaging--your packages MUST be complete before we will accept them. We don't have any TAPE.

There is NO TAPE available--you must bring your own.

NO CREDIT CARDS accepted after 4:00 PM.


United States postal packing is ONLY to be used for its express purpose.

DO NOT set CHILDREN on this counter.

Your taxes are NOT PAYING for this location. This operation is NOT FUNDED by TAX DOLLARS.

I am used to his hostility, but this last one is a new one. His New Year's resolution must be to anticipate every possible question a customer might ask, then instead of answering, he can just point to the sign and thus avoid any human interaction. But you didn't need that explained to you.

I can't belief I was ever inspired by stamps. But they do have some cool ones; my favorites are the Chinese New Year ones.

[Special Effects]

Where is the distinction between fantasy & reality,
between ocean dweller & otherworldly?
Some mark their genius where it stands or floats
or slices through atmosphere. O benign tonnage
of unspecified mass, of intellect unmastered, uninvented.
Vestigial webbings & virginities, a wholesome intellect,
the dolphins's knees homologous to our wrists,
to turn clown upside down is to transcribe backwards
a denatured element: shark stripped of instinct
& hairless skin, all rows & rows of white sharpened,
serrated cogs to churn the real molecules of water
in its dense remote machinery. A cautionary tale
told by the postmodern animal, artistic in his intent,
in his emotions, amphibious.

Monday, January 19, 2004
"Huffing!" I knew there was a word . . .

Work it, Sylvia, work it.

[Film Editing]

There is the pause that measures the perfect balance
of a real life dedication to consequence: Does she love him?
Will she abort or not? She just told him she is pregnant
he just said I have brain cancer or that’s lovely or again?
or it’s not mine or goody! let’s have sex again. 1001
cinematic responses to her declaration & this is # 607.
Silence. His response is surgically removed & replaced
by just the right measure of surrogate silence. Then moment.
That onscreen kiss—the perfect one that happens when he is wet
& waiting in the rain—we must wait w/him, too, the precise
amount of time, anxious in our seats, twitching with bitterness—
then she appears & she is on his chest & then their lips meet
& they are kissing they kiss just long enough for longing then
the scene shifts. That is the joke that is not outlasted. The buildup
of romance is the ratio of mundane & magnificent. The scissors
& the finer instruments must clip, clip, snip away
the soured moments & the outlong series of explosion
not succumbing to censor or to sentiment.

Sunday, January 18, 2004
It ain't too good, is it, Baby?

When is Zhaan comming back I'm starting to itch.

Lars is such a pushy dog. He thinks it's okay to scratch at my butt while I'm typing.

Why am I never listed as a FRESH BLOG--even when I know I just published it a microt ago?

I watched a movie yesterday called Citizen Ruth, starring Laura Dern as a goofy and theatrical mother of 4, who is addicted to inhalant and who is the subject of a tug-of-war between opposite factions of the abortion war (I think I just recreated the Dish Network teaser). It reminded me and Lance of Best in Show--it was great! I love TiVo.

I had a dream last night that Lucy left Lars for another dog--a long-legged, scrappy mutt. Poor Lars. This dog was, as they say, "intact," no neuticals or replesticals in sight.


These eyes are not like our eyes wanting to accept
that which fits our perspectives & prejudices.
These eyes, too, offer judgments & correlatives
but the kind that we cannot turn from but to turn
off the set. Walk off the set & witness a world far
more real but the less focused that doesn't offer
the choices arranged in such a way that only one
answer is correct--the hero is always benevolent.
Accept that sometimes the world allows us not
to think, not to make choices, but sometimes
a movie--a good movie--forces us to think--
we can't escape it--the power of the plot & symbols
& characters--the power of beauty is to make you like
it--or hate it--depending on the angle of the camera--
depending on the focus--how closely we are forced
to see the contents of a square--of a close up--very close--
& it is this separate attention that makes us get it
or miss the point or disagree or discover the human heart
or the mystery of the great apes--the screen is centered
on an eyebrow--we can see--the hair that bristles there.

Saturday, January 17, 2004
[Art Direction]

You bemuse us with your salad bowls perched atop fingertips,
your hoary cradle of the mother of that muddy river of Sawyer & Osiris.
Answer the question that has been on our minds all this time:
what does an alien ship stuck on the ocean floor look like?
What shape plays the dull gray funnels of our brains: Labyrinth?
There too is the question of what other worlds look like—
not just the cars they drive, the foods they eat, and the languages,
but the colors & textures of their domiciles—Gaudi’s wombs or Shinto?
Or have they any domiciles at all. The others give you peace
and set the scenes on spaceships & this world—the known—nothing’s
too fantastic, but there is no peace, is there? Art knows know peace
when confined by the limits of our own taxonomy, same as when you draw
a fantastic animal & resort to the same dull amalgamation:

Friday, January 16, 2004
Outside the light is greasy from an afternoon rain. I am sending out piles of submissions, the way I do it all at once because rejection--or the threat of rejection--pisses me off. I have some clusters of encouraging rejection notes:

1. Not quite right for us at this time but please try again!


3. Thanks for letting us see these fine poems. "Mares Eat Oats" made it to the final editorial meeting, but unfortunately didn't garner enough votes to make it into the issue. We'd be happy to see others. Thanks again for thinking of - -, and good luck in the future.

(I like the idea of my poems working for me . . . but couldn't this one have worked a little harder?

(my fave:)

4. Ms. Patillo (sic.)-- Your envelope (SASE) was sealed when we received it!
Thanks for submitting!
The Editors

But seriously, I am such a dunce. I tend to take any rejection like a rejection and squirrel away my hopeful notes, with full intentions of responding with more and better poems, but the four month waiting period is excruciating. And the four months works its way into six, then eight, then a full year of months. And by that time I have too little confidence or a run of mean streaks and couldn't possibly submit to anything. And by that time they have probably forgotten all about me.

But enough of this bunk!

I resolve to quit feeling sorry for myself. Wait, I can't give that up!

I resolve to write on this blog every day for 11 days. There are 11 poems in my American Filmmaking Series, so I should be able to shirk this and yet still fulfill the obligation if I post one poem a day. These come from those pretty stamps issued last year. Here's the first one, and I can get back to my submissions:


Whether a work of art has its meaning in its being
or whether its worthiness is tied up in its construction
as being an orchestra of creation?—one hopeful moment?—
one capsized intent?—one homage, cacophony?—just so many cooks,
or whether it takes a break from all this buggery of motive
& checkpoints of bliss & for its own sake persists
despite the angling submissives, the epistolary, the bill of sale,
the functional tyrant & the fatal actress. Whether these
assimilated elements undergo a chemical transformation
& are born from fractured efforts of a big death
& enter a second age, amphibious, flawless, deft?—
all surfaces & the suggestion of shadows, hint of symbols
& thematic climax?—they make it look so easy. This second life
is lived like you might take a lover of either sex, shrugged
dimensions, genderless, if it all comes together, how seamless,
how irrespective of place & time & subject. How magnificent.

Friday, January 09, 2004
I was Rimbaud. It would have been so easy to fake Plath, but I can't stomach mornings and want to pull a Lady Macbeth on my Dad, but not write about him. Unless it's in prose.
Oh . . . my goodness. The love. I have actually been thinking of names that go with Alice. So far, I have Rhiannon Alice and Fabulous Alice and Alice Francis. My only living blood grandparent's middle name is Alice, so you'd have to share that with her. I'm probably going to get pregnant this year. Maybe that's why I am shirking my duties and have run away to Houston this short weekend before school starts--I just can't stand my vision of the future.

That postcard is fabulous! And let me tell you how Catherine and I are living parallel lives:

I first heard of the buff Marilyn visual yesterday at our insipid division meeting where we had to listen to other faculty do show and tell of things like "What I Did at the Communications Conference in Miami Beach" and "Why I Want to Go to China on a Fulbright." This one lady who is always trying to get the faculty members to join our new wellness center was telling us about this image of Marilyn that she always wanted to make public but that her publicists always wanted to keep under wraps. She was trying to show us that Marilyn used free weights, so we should use free weights. She thought we would make the connection because, like Marilyn, we have such glamorous jobs and beautiful hair and breathy, little-girls voices. She didn't realize that our collective self-esteems were at an historic low. She didn't realize that we were already half dead. Or maybe she did; she usually lays it on pretty thick: 20 minutes of how exercise changed her life, how she used to weigh 160 lbs.

It would have been a lot better if she had used a power point. It would have been a lot better if she had had the postcard to show us. So I have been meaning to find it, so thanks for that! (smily face)

Also, Catherine and I have read some of the same books and seen some of the same movies this past year; it's freaky: The Wind Up Bird chronicle (okay, she recommended that one); Nickel and Dimed; Meet the Friedman's; 21 Grams. There's more, but I can't remember them. This should be enough to prove the parallel lives thing.

I want Catherine to go to Japan with me.

Choad or Taint? You decide.
Friday, January 02, 2004
I resolve . . . not to skim through the blogs I have neglected these past months, looking for mention of my name.

Powered by Blogger