Wednesday, December 17, 2003
APPARENTLY, THE PROCESS NOW BUTTON ISN'T GOING TO HELP
(or, as I will refer to it, PRESSING BUTTONS)
The last thing I remember
is the weight of my head
forcing my neck to bend forward
into the soft electric glow
of my computer monitor–like
some bloom drooping
into an errant ray of sun.
I hung there, flowerlike,
dreaming of the buttons
I pressed all morning and
would press all afternoon
until the nuisance of ringing phones
and gathering drool promted me
into consciousness. Then I resumed
pressing the buttons
which, I'm told, make a man
that I don't know at all
very rich.
(or, as I will refer to it, PRESSING BUTTONS)
The last thing I remember
is the weight of my head
forcing my neck to bend forward
into the soft electric glow
of my computer monitor–like
some bloom drooping
into an errant ray of sun.
I hung there, flowerlike,
dreaming of the buttons
I pressed all morning and
would press all afternoon
until the nuisance of ringing phones
and gathering drool promted me
into consciousness. Then I resumed
pressing the buttons
which, I'm told, make a man
that I don't know at all
very rich.
dear mr. dolling,
i call for a poem title recall.
would it be possible for you to provide an alternate title for your comrades to work off of, please?
the title you have provided has become my nemesis. i just want to move on with my life.
sincerely,
garance clavel
i call for a poem title recall.
would it be possible for you to provide an alternate title for your comrades to work off of, please?
the title you have provided has become my nemesis. i just want to move on with my life.
sincerely,
garance clavel
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
apparently, the process now button isn't going to help
apparently, i can't come up with anything to go with this title.
apparently, i've already written two full blurbs and have deleted both.
apparently, i have very definite ideas about how i want to connect to this title but i can't seem to do so in any even semi-satisfactory way.
apparently, i feel more inept in my writing abilities than usual.
apparently, i have chosen to give up on this particular exercise.
apparently, i can't come up with anything to go with this title.
apparently, i've already written two full blurbs and have deleted both.
apparently, i have very definite ideas about how i want to connect to this title but i can't seem to do so in any even semi-satisfactory way.
apparently, i feel more inept in my writing abilities than usual.
apparently, i have chosen to give up on this particular exercise.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Sunday, December 14, 2003
another snowy morning. when i looked out the window, i immediately thought of this passage and then thought i'd like to share it with you:
"the air of the room chilled his shoulders. he stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down besides his wife. one by one they were all becoming shades. better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. he thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live...
...a few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. it had begun to snow again. he watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. the time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over ireland. it was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous shannon waves. it was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where michael furey lay buried. it lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. his soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
~james joyce... from "the dead"
"the air of the room chilled his shoulders. he stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down besides his wife. one by one they were all becoming shades. better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. he thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live...
...a few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. it had begun to snow again. he watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. the time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over ireland. it was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous shannon waves. it was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where michael furey lay buried. it lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. his soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
~james joyce... from "the dead"
Saturday, December 13, 2003
"i could take risks...my attitude toward art is most open. it is totally unconservative - just freedom and willingness to work. i really walk on the edge...art and work and life are very connected and my whole life has been absurd...absurdity is the key word...it has to do with contradictions and oppositions. in the forms i use in my work the contradictions are certainly there. i was always aware that i should take order versus chaos, stringy versus mass, huge versus small, and i would try to find the most absurd opposites or extreme opposites...it was always more interesting than making something average, normal, right size, right proportion..."
~eva hesse
~eva hesse
Friday, December 12, 2003
DON'T FORGET TO TURN OUT THE LIGHTS
It was something I said
to God at the end
of the day—a cosmic in-joke,
an irreverant prayer.
I'd sometimes add an eclipse
of an A-men
to these words
and imagine God smiling
and winking at me
with his twilight eye.
It was something I said
to God at the end
of the day—a cosmic in-joke,
an irreverant prayer.
I'd sometimes add an eclipse
of an A-men
to these words
and imagine God smiling
and winking at me
with his twilight eye.
Don't Forget to Turn the Lights Out
Because your eyes won't see. They
won't want to see what I am about
to do.
I wouldn't want to offend you, no
not you.
Please shut those baby-blues and close
those tremulous cancers of brown.
I promise, you won't want to
see what I am about
to do.
Though you tremble and
though you fear
there's no need to see what
I hear.
Your tinted greens won't want
to see
a cadmium loss of wanton delight.
There is no need to know what I am about
to do.
There'll be no mistaking the
piercing of intent. For, How can you miss
what I am saying, do really want to see
what it is that I am about
to do
I promise, I won't offend your decrepit
hues
A knife in the gut, Me
I disembowel you
It's no different then
you killing me and Me
killing you.
I never meant for you to see,
just what it is that
I do
Because your eyes won't see. They
won't want to see what I am about
to do.
I wouldn't want to offend you, no
not you.
Please shut those baby-blues and close
those tremulous cancers of brown.
I promise, you won't want to
see what I am about
to do.
Though you tremble and
though you fear
there's no need to see what
I hear.
Your tinted greens won't want
to see
a cadmium loss of wanton delight.
There is no need to know what I am about
to do.
There'll be no mistaking the
piercing of intent. For, How can you miss
what I am saying, do really want to see
what it is that I am about
to do
I promise, I won't offend your decrepit
hues
A knife in the gut, Me
I disembowel you
It's no different then
you killing me and Me
killing you.
I never meant for you to see,
just what it is that
I do
today, the divorce becomes final.
after thirteen years, i've decided that it's time to say goodbye.
all paperwork will have been signed and by the time i return home tonight, we'll be apart.
forever.
it certainly wasn't for a lack of love or affection.
it was just that i needed a change. i needed something new. i need to begin a new chapter.
we've all been there.
and certainly, no one can accuse me of being unwilling to commit.
so i look toward my new relationship with hopeful eyes. where will you take me? what will i experience with you? will i change, somehow?
yes...i'm ready to begin my new journey with my new love.
they say that you never quite get over your first love. and that no loves after that will ever quite compare with the first. and i believe them.
goodbye, my beloved honda. i will miss you.
after thirteen years, i've decided that it's time to say goodbye.
all paperwork will have been signed and by the time i return home tonight, we'll be apart.
forever.
it certainly wasn't for a lack of love or affection.
it was just that i needed a change. i needed something new. i need to begin a new chapter.
we've all been there.
and certainly, no one can accuse me of being unwilling to commit.
so i look toward my new relationship with hopeful eyes. where will you take me? what will i experience with you? will i change, somehow?
yes...i'm ready to begin my new journey with my new love.
they say that you never quite get over your first love. and that no loves after that will ever quite compare with the first. and i believe them.
goodbye, my beloved honda. i will miss you.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
mr. clarence oddbody:
i believe that we have, indeed, risen to the occasion and provided you with ample proof that we are committed to satisfying your poetic whims [perhaps one more than the other but that's subjective, anyway].
as i'm next in line for providing a title from which to skirt around, i've decided to do not only just that but to also give you a one day deadline of friday at 5pm to cough up some brilliance [or idiocy...whichever you prefer].
the title which you are to work from is as follows:
don't forget to turn out the lights
i trust that i will be able to bask in the glow of your collective works by 5pm tomorrow. god speed.
bonne chance,
garance clavel
i believe that we have, indeed, risen to the occasion and provided you with ample proof that we are committed to satisfying your poetic whims [perhaps one more than the other but that's subjective, anyway].
as i'm next in line for providing a title from which to skirt around, i've decided to do not only just that but to also give you a one day deadline of friday at 5pm to cough up some brilliance [or idiocy...whichever you prefer].
the title which you are to work from is as follows:
don't forget to turn out the lights
i trust that i will be able to bask in the glow of your collective works by 5pm tomorrow. god speed.
bonne chance,
garance clavel
Before I Build My Castle
Devise and rise I shall
with a most lovely of a loving
iron fist. Adore me my pretties,
your King loves you. Your King
needs you. Your servitude shines.
you there, my serfs. The old and the
new. Has beens and have nots, those that are
yet to be. The neophytes too, are precious in the
King's eyes. Do not fret, your King loves you and
would not burden your backs beyond what
benefits me. Till and toil, you'll work in the
soil. Toil and till, through the metallic
rill. Open your homely hearts to the
graces of the kingdom. It starts
with you, your words. From start
to finish, cover to cover, from
A to Z. And verbs in between.
On color cloth-boarded backs.
My walls of fallated wisom.
Built by you, my pretties
Devise and rise I shall
with a most lovely of a loving
iron fist. Adore me my pretties,
your King loves you. Your King
needs you. Your servitude shines.
you there, my serfs. The old and the
new. Has beens and have nots, those that are
yet to be. The neophytes too, are precious in the
King's eyes. Do not fret, your King loves you and
would not burden your backs beyond what
benefits me. Till and toil, you'll work in the
soil. Toil and till, through the metallic
rill. Open your homely hearts to the
graces of the kingdom. It starts
with you, your words. From start
to finish, cover to cover, from
A to Z. And verbs in between.
On color cloth-boarded backs.
My walls of fallated wisom.
Built by you, my pretties
