This poem is incredible. The notion of suffering takes an unexpected turn, something Buddhist, when linked to desire.

sorrows
by Lucille Clifton

who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be

beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin

sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking

their bony fingers
they have heard me beseeching

as i whispered into my own
cupped hands enough not me again

but who can distinguish
one human voice

amid such choruses
of desire.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Media Snark

This had me giggling:



Is it just me, or is that little donut tidbit strategically placed? Mwahaha!

Irony

Ok. So I saw the link on Yahoo's news page. It's regarding a Canadian teen who won the World Beatbox Championship online. Very fun stuff given that she is good...but what amused me was this banner at the bottom of the list of winners on the contest's official website:

Can someone tell me why an ad for Ann Coulter is featured on a Beatbox Competition website?? Or was this some mistake, as in what they really meant to say is that their website's "Ann Coulter Free?"

As John Lennon would say, "Strange days indeed..."

Poetry

Late, but still heartfelt.

This poem reminds me of the awe of being before something meaningful, in her case, of something that anchors a story, a legend of some kind. I remember that while I was in Florence, I went to the Museo di Storia della Scienza, a repository for various tools and equipment used by sailors and budding astronomers, alchemists, physicians, etc. The ancient astrolabes impressed me tremendously and evidenced a desire and tenacity I occasionally wonder if we've lost. I remember the captain of a cruise ship once telling me that part of their test as sailors was knowing how to navigate without all the modern-day technology. What really moved me and helped me relate to this poem, was coming across one of Galileo's telescopes. Here I was before an instrument used by someone whose ability to interpret what he saw in the sky made history. How many hours did he spend gazing at the stars? What went through his mind? What joys, what disappointments? I remember bending and contorting around so I could have the privilege of staring out the same eyepiece as Galileo, even though the telescope was cocked upwards and secured behind a glass display. Some people recall meeting a famous actor, a singer, perhaps a politician.
I looked through Galileo's telescope.

Diving into the Wreck
by Adrienne Rich

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

Have a good week, everyone.

Ergo...

Last night while the household peacefully slept, Minxie, the fastidious groomer, coughed up a hairball. While making breakfast, I was interrupted by Snicky who was tugging my arm and asking machine gun style, "What is THAT?" Minxie has the occasional hairball and ALWAYS coughs it up on one of the rugs. Always. We have hardwood floors, but she will seek out the rug to do her dastardly deed.

"That's a hairball," I explained.
"Do we need to take Minxie to the cat doctor?"
"Noooo...Sometimes cats get too much fur in their bellies and they cough it up."
I did not add, "On my freaking rugs."
"Oooh."

And that was that.

As we were getting ready to hop into the car, I started coughing a bit because my throat was so dry. Snicky looked up at me warily and asked:

"Mom, do you have a hairball?"

Poetry Friday


Orfeo
by Jack Spicer

Sharp as an arrow Orpheus
Points his music downward.
Hell is there
At the bottom of the seacliff.
Heal
Nothing by this music.
Eurydice
Is a frigate bird or a rock or some seaweed.
Hail nothing
The infernal
Is a slippering wetness out at the horizon.
Hell is this:
The lack of anything but the eternal to look at
The expansiveness of salt
The lack of any bed but one’s
Music to sleep in.

Have a peaceful Friday, everyone.

Glory Days

When I was a kid in Brazil (*cues epic-sounding music*) anytime an international pop or rock star came into town, we had already been informed of it, ad nauseam, weeks and weeks before thanks to endless radio and TV promos. That's because big names usually were still few and far-between. There was no way you could not know that Tina Turner and even more alternative folks like Siouxie and the Banshees were coming to town.

When I moved to Paris, I remember going to the area where they sold concert tickets at Virgin Megastore and slapping my forehead in disbelief when I saw all the big names that had been scheduled to play there- slapping my forehead because there were so many and there were no endless TV and radio promos making a big deal about it.

Same thing happened to me in Boston. I always felt I was the last one to know when a big name sauntered into town, which meant I never managed to get tickets (yes, U2, I'm talking to you!). Never a big concert-goer, I did manage to catch a few random concerts- usually with my good college friend Maarten, aka "Mr. Dutch Treat," who always knew what the haps in town were and ended up dragging me to the Steve Miller Band and Lenny Kravitz. Yes, kinda mellow, but the boy was from Amsterdam, so give me a break.

I decided that needs to change. There is great pleasure and joy in watching someone whose music you enjoy perform live. That's why last night I found myself with a bunch of fans at the Bruce Springsteen concert in Boston.

It was awesome. Patty wasn't there, though. But Stevie and his do-rag made up for it.
Here's the set list and a summary of the show from Backstreets.com :

April 21 / Boston, MA / TD Banknorth Garden
Notes: From the West coast last week now back to the East, Bruce and the E Street Band are bad, they're nationwide. And that was the clear highlight for this first night in Boston, a cover of ZZ Top's "I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide"—which Bruce seemed to think was an E Street Band premiere: "They don't know this one." Somewhat legendarily among aficianados, though, this one celebrated/poked fun at newfound superstar status in Philly on the Born in the U.S.A. tour, on 9/15/84. But okay, just once, 25 years ago... we'll let it slide. And his memory wasn't all hazy: "I think I used to play this in the bars." A well-made sign for the song included lyrics and chord changes, but it was still a challenge to rise to. Bruce: "Can they do it? Fuck yeah, they're the E Street Band!" And they did, it kicked ass, with a postscript: "Don't try to stump the E Street Band!"

Otherwise, a setlist very similar to night one in L.A. Also played by request were the directionally contradictory "I'm Goin' Down" and "Growin' Up." The sign for the latter included an addendum: "...and a story to tell." But no such luck. It was the guitar that talked tonight, Bruce playing searing leads on "Adam Raised a Cain," "Seeds," and "The Ghost of Tom Joad"—Nils smoked on that one, too. And speaking of smoke: the Superbowl LCD screens were gone, with some new smoke-machine action providing a different effect in their place.

Patti was again absent, not "home with the kids" as with last week's L.A. shows, but this time because of an accident: she "took a spill" while horse riding on Saturday, Bruce told the crowd. "She wasn't riding with Madonna—it wasn't a Madonna-like spill," he joked, but the spill itself sounds like no fun at all. Springsteen described multiple contusions and bruised ribs, "and whiplash, from me driving her to the hospital." He said she'd be back after a few shows, and in the meantime, "she asked me to play this for you," going into "Kingdom of Days."

Jay Weinberg was behind the kit for the final four songs of the main set, "Radio Nowhere" through "Born to Run." And more offspring were in the house as "Hard Times" was sent out "to my handsome son Evan and my lovely daughter Jessie." Patti, hope you're feeling better soon.

Setlist:
Badlands
Adam Raised a Cain
Outlaw Pete
Out in the Street
Working on a Dream
Seeds
Johnny 99
The Ghost of Tom Joad
I'm Goin' Down
Raise Your Hand
I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide
I'm Goin' Down
Growin' Up
Waitin' on a Sunny Day
The Promised Land
The Wrestler
Kingdom of Days
Radio Nowhere (w/ Jay Weinberg)
Lonesome Day (w/ Jay Weinberg)
The Rising (w/ Jay Weinberg)
Born to Run (w/ Jay Weinberg)
* * *
Hard Times
Tenth Avenue Freeze-out
Land of Hope and Dreams
American Land
Rosalita

And here's some of my very own footage, courtesy of my iPhone. I'd like to say that the "Zippo" application on it was very handy during ballads, even as McGyva and Doctor F. rolled eyes at my geekitude...

Although we arrived fairly on time, people were only starting to trickle in. I blame Nathan's Famous for that as it seemed everyone was going for hot dogs.


BRUUUUUUUCE!

Next on the agenda: getting tickets to U2 in September...

Feeding the Habit

Because I have been going into the office more these days, I am required to stay on top of things on the weekdays I am not there. And because I am not perpetually tied to a computer when I am not at work, I may need to access e-mail/phone/the internetzzzz whilst on the go.

So, courtesy of work, I am now the grinning user of an iPhone.
Let me just say this: It's. So. FUN!

The applications rock the Casbah and now my obnoxiousness is more ubiquitous than EVER! I can update my Facebook and Twitter on the go (I think I have two followers- one doing it probably just out of politeness. Why wouldn't you want to know I am having a bologna sandwich??)! And in case some kind soul felt the need to remind me that this a work phone, I'd like you all to know that my boss was the one telling me to jot down the name of all the cool applications I just HAD to have, such as this essential one...

This is technological crack for the gadget grrl...

Poetry Friday


I Am Not Yours
by Sara Teasdale

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Have a peaceful Friday, everyone.

Come to Think of It, I've Never Been in the Same Room with the AP or The Onion...

I'd find it VERY hard to resist making these kinds of puns too. But then I know better than become a journalist with access to the public's minds.

Ok... straight from the Associated Press: "Diners can 'have a ball' at testicle festival."

Wait! Wait! It gets better!

"OAKDALE, Calif. – The fundraising idea may seem a little nuts "

Love it. Bravo! Finally, a journalist with...cojones.

Poetry Friday

Love Worn
by Lita Hooper

In a tavern on the Southside of Chicago
a man sits with his wife. From their corner booth
each stares at strangers just beyond the other's shoulder,
nodding to the songs of their youth. Tonight they will not fight.

Thirty years of marriage sits between them
like a bomb. The woman shifts
then rubs her right wrist as the man recalls the day
when they sat on the porch of her parents' home.

Even then he could feel the absence of something
desired or planned. There was the smell
of a freshly tarred driveway, the slow heat,
him offering his future to folks he did not know.

And there was the blooming magnolia tree in the distance—
its oversized petals like those on the woman's dress,
making her belly even larger, her hands
disappearing into the folds.

When the last neighbor or friend leaves their booth
he stares at her hands, which are now closer to his,
remembers that there had always been some joy. Leaning
closer, he believes he can see their daughter in her eyes.

Peace, everyone.

Sweet Dreams Are Not Made of These

I decided recently that I wanted to change our bed's comforter for something of a similar shade.
Forget about it.
The color du jour is blue.
Anything else is plain ugly.
Or doesn't go with the rest of the room, which is a very light green.

Who knew this would be such a time-sucking horrid experience? I did not want to spend so much time of my life hunting for the right bedding set.

Care to see how I wasted precious minutes of my life?
Allow me to cut to the cream filling:



Do people really buy bedding like this? I mean, there are leopards hiding in the bushes. Nothing yells "comfort" and "rest," like sleeping in the jungle and being stared at by leopards. Especially when wearing Bambi pajamas.

Bed crowns. Someday, when my bedroom ceiling soars over its current 6 ft and a little bit height (we live in a Cape), I will have one and I shall roll around in my luxurious bed as I sleepily cackle, "Let them eat cake! HA!"

Bluebeard Special. 'Nuff said. I mean, goes well with brushed steel walls.


Ok, this is called the "The Peri" set. I think they should change it to "The Pipi" set. Seriously. Look at those colors and hope you can hold it in all night. The description of this set read, "The Peri bedding set flirts with fashion." Flirts with fashion and gets nowhere, not even a phone number.

I am so doomed.
I hate this. I hate this.

Poetry Friday

Beautiful and devastating. I love the image of all the birds acting as messengers, scattering like rain drops. You can see it in your mind's eye.

I Love You
by Sara Teasdale

When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.

When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.

Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.

O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep.

Peace, everyone.

Not Such a Dull Place After All

Sometimes I am surprised that I don't feel like arguing with Mellencamp anytime I hear him belt out: "Oh yeah, life goes on...Long after the thrill of living is gone." Before you gingerly ask me if everything is OK, let me answer that all I mean by that is: I am less apt to argue with people who have that point of view, who feel that ho-hum about life. Who am I to preach about these things? Besides, I believe in showing rather than saying.

Every once in a while, though, something unexpected fills me with wonder and I can't help thinking, "life is fascinating, and I have only scratched the surface.

The two following things have really amazed me. How fascinating. I believe it was Jungian scholar Robertson who wrote something like we dream a world into being that in turn dreams us into being.

Synesthesia is a neurological phenomenon in which people may perceive numbers as having specific colors, or sounds as having particular textures...Basically, the senses color outside their lines and fuse themselves into an incredible experience.

Oneirology may have been around in different guises since dreams have existed(oneiromancy). I think of ancient Oracles interpreting dreams, or biblical figures like Joseph deciphering messages in dreams told him...But oneirology is not fortune-telling. It's the scientific study of dreams and how the body is affected by them.

Interesting.

Ruh-Roh

One of the earliest cartoons I remember watching is Scooby-Doo. In Portuguese. I can't, to this day, get used to Scooby in English. It turns out that admiration for all things Scooby is hereditary because Snicky has loved him since she was tinier. We watch certain episodes again and again- so much so that recently, when I got all arts and crafty and decided to make t-shirts for her, she specifically requested I make her a Scooby-Doo one.

While Googling images for the shirt, I came across some very fun art of those meddling kids:



The original gang, circa 1969. Perfection.



Some fan art found at Japanator.com
Apparently it's by someone called "Osy." Very cool! I have a crush on this Shaggy.




Scooby meets Anime. This found at Deviant Art. It's by someone called Daekazu.



And because these are dark times, someone thought it would be great to revamp Scooby for the new generation: it seems that there is a show called "Get a Clue, Scooby-Doo," which features mostly Shaggy and Scooby with occasional cameos by the rest of the gang. What the...?

Poetry Friday

Hand Shadows
by Mary Cornish

My father put his hands in the white light
of the lantern, and his palms became a horse
that flicked its ears and bucked; an alligator
feigning sleep along the canvas wall leapt up
and snapped its jaws in silhouette, or else
a swan would turn its perfect neck and drop
a fingered beak toward that shadowed head
to lightly preen my father's feathered hair.
Outside our tent, skunks shuffled in the woods
beneath a star that died a little every day,
and from a nebula of light diffused
inside Orion's sword, new stars were born.
My father's hands became two birds, linked
by a thumb, they flew one following the other.

Have a peaceful Friday, everyone.