Gazelle smoking a cigarette wearing a monocle

Long time, no post

2011-07-25T23:01:00.000-07:00

Today - after a wonderful weekend in a dry climate at a high altitude I returned home. I unpacked. I prepared dinner. I also did a Google search - "how long into the nosebleed should I begin to worry." No helpful information was returned. I believe my searches are a tiny bit too well spelled and existential. I kind of like them for this though I may die due to my love of a well phrased query. I would not totally regret this.

Poets will kill us with perfection - we should just give up now.

2010-04-07T22:07:00.000-07:00

The Underground

There we were in the vaulted tunnel running,
You in your going-away coat speeding ahead
And me, me then like a fleet god gaining
Upon you before you turned to a reed

Or some new white flower japped with crimson
As the coat flapped wild and button after button
Sprang off and fell in a trail
Between the Underground and the Albert Hall.

Honeymooning, moonlighting, late for the Proms,
Our echoes die in that corridor and now
I come as Hansel came on the moonlit stones
Retracing the path back, lifting the buttons

To end up in a draughty lamplit station
After the trains have gone, the wet track
Bared and tense as I am, all attention
For your step following and damned if I look back.

- Seamus Heaney

My translation of a Russian poem

2010-03-17T20:30:00.000-07:00

Love

A tickling of lips and the cool nip of teeth
fire wanders in the shadows of our bodies,
sweat between breasts…and this is love?
And this is what you so wanted?

Yes! Passion such that my eyes darken!
But night passes light as a bird…
and I thought that love was a wine
on which I could be forever drunk.

Dmitry Kedrin - translated by me.

How do you spend your Wednesday nights? (And if you say doing it rather than writing about it I don't want to hear it!)

This might just be the worst book ever written (but maybe also the best)

2010-01-08T11:47:00.001-08:00

http://pixiestixkidspix.wordpress.com/awesome-resources-for-reading-and-kid-lit/latawnya-the-naughty-horse-learns-to-say-no-to-drugs/

A cautionary tale about African American horses who get drugs and alcohol from Caucasian horses. This book is marketed towards children but deals with terrifying issues that will make it relevant for adult readers such as horses playing drinking games, horses overdosing, and horse-to-horse kissing.
Readers who enjoy this book may also like: The House That Crack Built, Sometimes Mommy Gets Angry and Who Cares About Disabled People?

New shoes

2009-12-21T21:52:00.001-08:00

My feet are freaking out. They are warm. They have enough room. I bought real shoes today. I am not sure if I have ever had real shoes before but oh my god - trust the Germans, by way of Italy. My ankles are currently smug. Why do we bother with all of this shit...I ask you? I want to buy twelve outfits and wear them. Mix and match. Clean, perfect, meticulous garments. I want to be done with all of this foolishness.

startled into life like fire

2009-10-20T21:46:00.000-07:00

in grievous deity my cat
walks around
he walks around and around
with
electric tail and
push-button
eyes

he is
alive and
plush and
final as a plum tree

neither of us understands
cathedrals or
the man outside
watering his
lawn

if I were all the man
that he is
cat -
if there were men
like this
the world could
begin

he leaps up on the couch
and walks through
porticoes of my
admiration.

~ Charles Bukowski from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame

This poem: The title – “startled” – awakened, ignited. Wonderful.
Anyone who owns a cat will relate to the description here, especially the “grievous deity.” I could not love “final as a plum tree” any more than I do. Of course, all things are final in and of themselves but this seems to express that in some essential way that I cannot begin to express. Then he shares with his cat the lack of understanding about not only cathedrals but the guy next door – essential mysteries and distances. But then…oh the killer stanza for me.. “if I were all the man/ that he is/ cat -/ if there were men/ like this/ the world could/ begin” This says something very real and when I first read it, very new to me. If we could be as genuine in ourselves as animals, well - imagine. I cannot unsee this now for, at its best, writing of any kind explains or illuminates for me something about this experience of being alive – this did that for me.
I also love that his admiration has porticoes – I had not thought to imagine the architecture of my esteem.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

2009-10-12T20:27:00.000-07:00

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e.e. cummings

This is one of my favorite poems in life. Not only for the strong impressionistic imagery, the jamming of the punctuation but for the triumph of softness over hardness. Look: frail, gesture, slightest, petal, heart, flower, snow, rain, small – these things are the undoing of unclose, closed, close, and shut – they get in. He has never been here before, it is beyond anything he has ever known and it is good. I love the specificity of the line “as when the heart of this flower imagines/ the snow carefully everywhere descending” – the specific flower of Spring imagining not only Winter but a careful everywhere of snow (how can it be careful? Yet it is somehow, that silent falling). The combinations of words that he uses such as: “intense fragility” really capture something for me - a precious, breathless, don’t move, don’t touch, momentary, heartbreaking snowflake perfection – all of these things. I could go on and on.

I think of this poem every time I am in a car and it starts to rain. Those first few drops on the windscreen, when they hit and break, I always say “cat-paws,” because that is what they look like to me - the small hands of the rain.

Poetry, oh sweet

2009-09-23T19:58:00.000-07:00

Ample make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.

Emily Dickinson

This poem is so gorgeous to me. It speaks of love and sex and death. The use of “ample” in the first line – this word is not used enough any more but makes me think of bosoms and bottoms and plenty and comfort. Then the repeat of “make this bed” followed this time with “awe” in the second line elevates it, denotes that something special is happening, something worthy of respect. Emily (like e.e. cummings) is wonderful at putting words together to play off of each other – which I have read referred to as “thought rhyme.” The next two lines are playful, yet also scary and serious – the combination of “judgment” and “break” combines judgment day with dawn but one that is “excellent and fair.” So within this context the bed could now possibly be a grave.

This grave analogy continues in the second stanza yet again it resides next to the cozy imagery of a well-made bed – straight mattress, round pillow. If it is a grave it is a comfortable one. The repetition of the “Be its” of the first two lines also give the sense of prayer, of invocation. I love the “yellow noise” of sunrise – I think this is one of the best descriptions of dawn in the history of writing, and that it is achieved with only two words is what I love most about poetry. The reference to “ground” at the end of that sentence again seems to refer to hallowed ground and the grave. There is something in this poem though that is intensely private and personal – the ample bed wanting no interruptions is so vibrant with sex and life that it seems impossible the poem could also be about death. I am always amazed at how much Emily could pack into eight lines and 34 words.

I encountered this poem for the first time reading William Styron’s “Sophie’s choice” at the age of 13 (my parent’s let me roam the bookshelves of our home at will). In the book Sophie learns of Emily Dickinson in her English language class and it is her search for more of the poetry that introduces her to Nathan, who will become her lover and with whom she will ultimately commit suicide. The poem re-appears throughout the book – not only as the source of the introduction of two of the main characters who will have noisy sex and even noisier fights throughout the novel, but it also serves as a benediction over their suicide (also in bed). The metaphor of bed as grave is intrinsic to this story and I am fascinated by the way that something as spare as this poem could be rich enough to inspire the motifs of an entire novel. The emotional temperature that she so delicately placed into those few words and lines, Styron was able to unpack into a novel of sweeping breadth and tragedy. Even the last devastating lines of the book are taken from this poem, lines in which the narrator Stingo, after having spent the night wandering New York after the suicide of Nathan and Sophie, witnesses daybreak and observes, “This was not judgment day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.”

Before you go, remember to come home.

2009-06-01T19:44:00.000-07:00

This is about as perfect as it gets here. A long heat hazed evening and the sweet green smell of Spring. I walk along the railroad tracks wearing the perfect amount of clothes. The air is smooth and golden, the grass is high and there are birds and weeds pretending to be flowers. Hot skin, dirty feet, pollen fingers and vitamins.

The beauty of the banal

2008-09-04T22:10:00.000-07:00

This picture makes me very happy. The colours and Jodi's facial expression and the crappiness of the goods. A small moment in time taken seriously and photographed to look important.

You deserve a break today

2008-08-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

A sense of entitlement is often all you need to get every little thing you ever wanted. In Kerrisdale evidence of this is everywhere from the ample free parking, to the flocks of Lululemon encased teenagers with more money than fashion sense. If you find yourself in the mood to eat McNuggets and not confront any thorny social issues choose the Kerrisdale location of McDonalds located at the corner of West 41st Avenue and East Boulevard.

This tony location caters to an entirely different demographic and the evidence is everywhere. The lovely post and beam construction is more reminiscent of Disneyland California Adventure than the usual utilitarian box crouching at every other intersection.
The first floor contains a discrete ordering counter placed off to one side of the main dining area and is angled back so as to not intrude upon intimate dinner conversation. You will find the full McDonalds menu on offer here including all of their most reactionary dietary options. A further nice touch that the experienced McDonalds diner will enjoy is the considerate turning down of the annoying food preparation timer beeps.

If you are seeking a cosier dining experience, playful neon signs direct you upstairs to enjoy the heated exterior patio or a table in front of the gas fireplace. Throughout both dining rooms you will find that the tables and chairs are not affixed to the floor allowing you all the freedom you need to get really close to your fries.

The pleasant ambiance continues with many coherent design touches. Hand coloured artist’s renderings of the character buildings of Kerrisdale grace the walls. The interior lighting is, for the most part, soft and flattering. The clean, pleasant smelling bathroom features fragile dropped light fixtures that have not been torn out by the roots. Expensive stone tile flooring that is not gummy with grease is featured throughout. Drug deals may go on here but they are transacted between people who don’t really need the drugs or the money.

Parents should however take note: there is no playground at this location. It is my suspicion that little Ethan and Brittany’s parents may just be a little bit more litigious than is the cultural norm should their children fall and brain themselves on a plastic statue of the Hamburgler or get a nasty staph infection from a pee contaminated ball room. The children who eat here are properly grateful just to get the delicious food without the usual yucky nutritional concerns – for them it is the exception after all and not the rule.

The servers at this location look marginally less oppressed than most. They are cheerful and careless in a way that is appropriate for a kid with an after school job. The usual underemployed immigrants, exhausted looking pensioners and mentally challenged “team members” are conspicuous only in their absence. The social balancing act that we have come to expect from McDonalds seems apparently to have been exchanged here for something a little easier on the eyes.

Given the usual customer, this may be the only McDonalds in Vancouver where an insistence upon hot french fries will be greeted with resigned compliance rather than incredulity. If you can project the proper local attitude of imperious entitlement and scorn you may well get the best Big Mac you have ever had. You have to really own the part though - they can smell a fraud like they can spot a fake Fendi, like zombies can sense your emotions.

The only real disappointment with this location is the drive-thru. It is very unreliable, especially after midnight when the ability of the staff to speak any language at all abruptly disappears and you will never, ever get what you order, your change will be wrong and you will be laughed at. For take-out go to another location.

(Posted by request - for Kevin)

The Hazards of Oversharing – A Cautionary Tale

2008-07-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

Setting personal goals is all very well, but be careful who you share them with. Once you share them, people will start expecting you to follow through. This can be a serious drag.

Last year I apparently forgot who I was for a day or two (pro-am bather, unapologetic sitter-outer, lover of the nap) and decided that I wanted to do the Grouse Grind at some point in the future. Emphasis on future, that mythical day which never arrives. I compounded this error by sharing this “goal” with others.

My friend has recently become a totally different person – he has gone from being a lovely sedentary soul who could always be relied upon to not suggest anything overly strenuous, to being this highly active person who does things like jogging. Jogging - I even dislike the word. He now calls me up and describes the things he has already accomplished with his day while I am still in my bathrobe eating toast. After years of knowing him, the phrase I most often find myself saying to him lately is, “Who are you and what have you done with Kevin?” I realized that the exercise and increased oxygen uptake had also clearly improved his famously bad memory when he suddenly remembered my words about the Grouse Grind from last year. Shit.

I could have gotten out of it by going on and on about what the Grouse Grind represents from an anthropological perspective as pertains to Vancouver – this exercise obsessed, it’s ok to wear yoga pants to fine dining establishments city; a city where it is easier to buy rain gear for your maltepoo, moodle, malti-doodle whatever - than it is to find a decent bookstore. I could have done that, but it would have been bullshit. All I knew about it was what I had heard, and I had heard that it was scary hard – like vertical. I also knew that friends who are in incredible shape boasted about doing it in what sounded to me like a terrifyingly long 45 minutes. This did not bode well for me.

Kevin has also become annoyingly persistent as his ability to do reps has increased, but I did manage to dodge it for a few weeks – excuses like “Oh, It’s too hot” and “I don’t want to do it after work” and “No, no you go on. I don’t want to slow you guys down.” He called me on a cool Sunday and said everyone else had bailed and did I want to go with him – he called my bluff basically.

I had a tiny personal crisis in that moment. I didn’t want to do it, but I also didn’t want to not do it. I have other things on my list of personal goals that are hard and scary, and I didn’t want to not do this thing as it seemed to imply that I might never follow through on those others, and some of them actually matter to me.

I have not exercised in so long I could not find my sports bra, I had to go to London Drugs to buy the right socks but I did get ready and we did drive and we did arrive.

The Grouse Grind is basically a woodland stairmaster. The trail is very steep, no two steps are the same height or depth, there are rocks and dust and pine needles, I had a really great view of all of these things because I did not lift my head the entire time. Sometimes the rocks and dust are slippery because there is so much sweat on them from the million people going up at the same time as you. If you are like me all of these million people will also pass you. You will become aware of this. If you are like me you will make a list of the people who pass you and your list will look something like this:

- the diabetic doing it for the first time
- the girl in flip-flops
- the girl in ballet slippers with rainbows and cherries on them
- the Sikh family in jeans
- the 50 year old man carrying a 6 year old on his back
- the 8 year old with a snoopy purse
- the guy carrying a ghetto blaster the size of a portable generator

Kevin was wonderful and patient and encouraging and I managed not to hate him as he bounded on ahead of me. Alone with the million people I set little goals for myself: I will not panic when my heartbeat renders me deaf for minutes at a time, I will not mind that I have pine pitch all up my back from leaning against trees to rest, I will not whine or throw up, I will not sit down once during this whole hellish experience and I will beat that guy with the pink water bottle. I finished that fucker in 1 hour and 44 minutes, I beat the guy with the pink water bottle and when I regained the ability to feel anything other than pain I was really quite proud of myself. After 20 years of living in this strange city I was at the top of Grouse Mountain for the first time and I got there on my own two aching, wobbly legs. For me, this was kind of a big deal.

I am a person who has said out loud “The only way I’m running on the seawall is if someone is chasing me with a knife.” I am also a person who has decided to do the Grouse Grind again. Who am I?

Why didn't anyone tell me?

2008-05-07T22:34:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me last night that I might be a bit of a bummer.

I was feeling unusually bleak over the past few days and, as usual, went to my books for solace. I have a lot of books. When I approach my bookcase it is always the question “How do I want to feel?” that informs my choice. What I wanted to feel this time was happy, or at least happier. What I found was row after row of variously important books that all seem to have in common a central theme which I have heard termed as “the bummer epiphany.” I looked at my shelf of favorite novels to see, with some distress, that they are all very sad books. After 30 odd years of reading and book collecting I was noticing this for the first time. Weird.

I have never really thought of myself as more than averagely negative. Sarcastic, occasionally caustic, lover of scathingly observed irony, and given to enjoying the odd bit of schadenfreude? You betcha. But to see this manifest proof that I somehow witlessly sought out, purchased and read, and then later re-read, these beautifully written sad stories was, to say the least, sobering.

The thing is I openly disapprove of negative people and have even come up with a name for them – they are, in my lexicon, the Negadons. I imagine them as an oddly prehistoric creature, sort of a cross between a brontosaurus and Eeyore. They are large and they mope. They are difficult to escape and although not dangerous they stand too close to you which kind of freaks you out, they follow you around and just kind of sigh and look at you a lot.

I sat down in the middle of my library and I couldn’t believe it. I looked through my strange organizing system to find rows of bleak crime noir, J.D. Salinger, Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, William Styron and Steinbeck (in the American and sad section). Milan Kundera, Marguerite Duras, Tolstoy and Dickens (European and sad). Lots of Updike (in the relationships never work and now I’m old section). There was a cheerful, but meaningless in this context, children’s book selection – which only made me more depressed as, at least at some point in my life, I was clearly more carefree though oddly fascinated with stories about mice. There was 3’6” of Louis L’Amour but even these were representative of the Lonesome Dove, Cormac McCarthy, we can apparently even be sad in the old west phase. Jesus.

Tucked down low and wedged between editions of Granta and Italo Calvino there was a tiny lonely volume of David Sedaris called “Holidays on Ice.” Needless to say this book was a gift from someone who clearly knew what I needed years before I did. It says on the back that the book can be used as a coaster or an ice scraper and contains essays with titles like “Dinah, the Christmas Whore.” This was the perfect book that I needed. Thank you forgotten gift giver! I will build a happy section in your honour.

Nothing against Nebraska

2008-04-22T19:25:00.000-07:00

There are days when you feel like you want to punch everyone in the ear. I sat in the middle of the foolishness that was my day and thought about escape, and road trips and the time I accidentally went to Nebraska. Despite an adeptness with maps I got turned around and ended up driving witlessly on dirt roads on the Lakota Sioux reservation. There were many wild horses but very few road signs. I ended up in Nebraska, which is a strange feeling when you have no desire to actually be in Nebraska. I found a hotel room on the interstate with a view of the interstate. My room came with a complimentary fly swatter - which is debatably not the best complimentary gift ever.

I drove around the town that night and took photographs of semi trucks, old signs, a deserted post office and the corn shucks that were tied around all of the lamp posts. The absence of people and the presence of corn shucks was decidedly eerie. I went back to my room and clutched my fly swatter, watched HBO and found that my proximity to the interstate was suddenly comforting.

In the middle of my stupid day all I wanted was to be in the presence of corn shucks, and I started fixating on my suddenly precious fly swatter. I came home and found it and I you can bet I am taking that fucker to work tomorrow.

Not your typical

2008-04-21T16:11:00.000-07:00

And like a miracle this morning I got on the number 10 Hastings bus and it smelled like fresh laundry. Everyone was healthy, well dressed and awake. I listened to music with my eyes closed and felt cosy.

Stolen Excellence

2007-06-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

(or, A Childhood Cheat Repents At Leisure)

At the age of twelve I committed my first wilfully dishonest act. I do not mean to suggest that up until that point I had been a shining example of childlike virtue and purity because this was certainly not the case – I had lied to stay out of trouble, perfected an innocent “who me?” look and learned to carefully replace my step-fathers orange jockey shorts back in the drawer after putting them on the dog for the afternoon. What I did that year, however, was deliberate premeditated fraud for personal gain – I cheated during the Canada Fitness Award testing to win the Award of Excellence.

Grade 7 was a weird year all around. We were the oldest kids at the school and we had the best teacher most of us would ever have. Mr. Reese was fun and relaxed and he somehow managed to make us fit together as a group as we never had before. The carefully established pecking order my classmates and I had been working on for six years was suddenly suspended. Further evidence that hell had frozen over was the fact that I joined every single sports team. I have never been a joiner and to my recollection at that age I did not really excel at anything other than reading. This demented joining of teams found me playing basketball and volleyball, running track and long distance and executing a diffident triple jump. My performance in these activities can only be described as consistently inconsistent – some days I drew on a sort of magnificent mania and found I could run and score with ease, other days I was floppy and actually kind of spastic.

At some point that strange year we performed the then annual rite of all Canadian children - the Canada Fitness Award testing. We trooped down to the gym day after day during “Fitness Week” to confront again the activity stations with their humiliating companion posters that specified, with nifty graphics and statistics, what was normal and what was exceptional. Marching in orderly lines in our gym strip to be timed and measured seems to me now to be the misplaced memory of some Soviet child. I remember the events in strange flash memories like after a car accident: the murderous Flexed Arm Hang that was the downfall of many a fat child, the Standing Long Jump that unintentionally prepared me for the large puddles caused by the eternally leaf-clogged Vancouver drains, the Shuttle Run performed with little home made bean bags that smelled compellingly of floor dust, hellish feeble bum-sagging attempts at Push-ups, the Endurance Run with its lap after lap of the gym dodging classmates and old Christmas decorations, the 50 Metre Dash in the rain in the playground, and that exercise that pains and eludes into adulthood - the Sit-up. And just in case fitness was not reward enough in itself there were the awards – the humiliating participation pin, the badges of bronze, silver, and gold and that holiest of holies – the AWARD OF EXCELLENCE. By Grade 7 I had at least one of each except the elusive Award of Excellence with its distinguishing extra crest on top of the ordinary circular badge that, in my memory at least, had stars and spelled out the name of the award in embroidered letters.

I was twelve, in the last gasps of childhood, in the last days of that manic age of collecting trading cards, stickers, badges and pins. As a non-joiner I had missed out on Brownies and Girl Guides. Badges representing achievement outside of those clubs were hard to come by and this one represented achievement in a universally experienced hell. I wanted to sew the whole progression from Bronze to Excellence on the sleeve of my satin roller skating jacket to demonstrate my manifest athletic prowess to the world. I wanted it very badly.

Grade 7 was my last chance and when all of the stars aligned and I took advantage. Our wonderful, trusting teacher foolishly put my classmates and me on a sort of honour system to keep each other’s scores. I practically killed myself with subterfuge and childish intrigue to get the scores I needed. When necessary I repeated events over and over. I worked so hard that in the end I felt no guilt at all - I felt my efforts alone were worthy of the award. And I reassured myself that as I was on every team it was the first and only year where it might potentially be believable that I could be “excellent” enough to actually merit the award. I cheated my ass off and was granted the Award of Excellence.

In retrospect I cannot fully explain this lapse of ethics, my parents certainly taught me better, but I learned then that whatever your parents do not manage to drum into you the universe inevitably will. The year I cheated was the year they changed the award. At the presentation ceremony in front of the whole school I was handed something that I did not recognize. My coveted Award of Excellence looked like exactly like a gold and was distinguished only by a different background colour– no more crest, no more stars, no more embroidered writing. I had my first experience of karma before I knew the word. I learned the lesson early and well and have taken it to heart. I no longer try to mess with fate because I have learned that fate messes back.

Happy Canada Day

579

2007-05-29T01:26:00.000-07:00

I don’t think about my fingernails. I type for a living so beyond keeping them clean and keeping them short they just don’t signify for me unless I have a hangnail.
I am clearly in the minority.
There are 579 nail salons listed for Vancouver. That seems like a lot to me. And I guess because there are 579 it gets hard after a while to come up with a unique name when you are setting up shop. Vancouver is a big multicultural city, which means lots of variety in food, lots of potential for misunderstanding and apparently really great nail salon names.

My favorite for its abrupt simplicity is Steve Nail. I drive by Steve Nail quite often and have developed a rather elaborate fiction about the place that I do not ever intend to destroy by actually setting foot inside. I picture a Filipino version of Vernon Hardapple (from the movie Wonder Boys) answering the phone with an emphatic and heavily accented “Steve Nail!” In my imagination Steve is a horrible boss but he makes all his “ladies” feel special, which keeps them coming back. Steve sings along in a showy way to 3 cd’s (Milli Vanilli, Ricky Martin,the original London soundtrack to Cats) played over and over, except on the days that he is sad and then he plays Air Supply and doesn’t sing, and no-one talks and the “ladies” pat him and are worried.
So Steve Nail got me thinking and a fast read through all 579 names led to this list – in less than five minutes. Really, I was spoiled for choice.

Grotte Nail Spa Inc – this is not a good name – grotty, grout. Also “grotte” comes from the Greek meaning crypt – all very yuck associations.
Sassy Nail – this is just annoying.
Professionail – They put two words together, wow.
Twenty Two Nails – this must be the salon for people with congenital deformities and yet for some reason also has a sort of ominous crucifixion type vibe.
Chrysalis Your Urban Refuge for Nailz – you know its urban because of the “z” because everyone knows if you put a “z” on anything it becomes really street, though this message is somewhat undermined by the inclusion of the words “chrysalis” and “refuge”.
Tips and Toes – this is the salon with dried flowers in white wicker baskets and a wallpaper border running around the room with ducks in bonnets, I fucking hate ducks in bonnets.
White Angel Nail’s – what do the nails possess? Now I am really curious.
Best Top Nail – this has an awesome ESL thing going on. Also saying it fast out loud is really fun.
Nail FX – they drive fast, jump through widows, blow up and yet…stay shiny.
Phansastic Nails – why ph? Seriously, why?
Nails Care – they do, don’t they. They really, really do.
Frieda’s Nail Garage – I simply cannot picture the nail garage, unless it is actually attached to Frieda’s house.

Despite the desperate creativity going into the naming of these businesses, nowhere in my scan of the listings did the words clean, healthy or natural appear, which I think is kind of scary and also a strange sort of testament to just how weird the whole nail thing really is.
The bizarre store names go beyond nail salons. Other favorites of mine are Golden Spray clothing store – which is just unfortunate, and Emotional Rescue Hair, Etc. All I can say about that last one is the owner better be a licensed therapist or a huge Stones fan or this is one hell of a guarantee to put on a haircut. And really, after already promising emotional rescue, doesn’t the Etc. seem somehow excessive? It makes them look finally like they are just showing off.

Game trails

2007-05-13T00:05:00.000-07:00

I have recently become obsessed with shortcuts. I have started noticing them and taking pictures of them. And when you start looking you see them everywhere, lines between anywhere and somewhere else. They cut across weedy vacant lots, school fields, run parallel to roads, and mostly connect two places I don’t go. We use them so often when are children but when we grow up we seem to just get out of the habit – or maybe we just start caring about our shoes.
The thing I love about shortcuts now is how very winding they are. By definition they should be the shortest cut – as the crow flies at the very least. But they aren’t - they wander. We proudly live our lives in boxes and straight lines and yet here, in this moment when we are trying to save time and distance, we meander. I love that all of the feet it took to create the path were responding to the same subtle dips, to roots and bunches of grass. It reminds me, in the middle of the city, that we are animals. I love this evidence of the freedom and mess we allow ourselves when we are unselfconscious – like during sex and laughter.

For one day only!

2007-05-02T20:06:00.000-07:00

Now, lest this whole thing become altogether too pretty and maudlin I should confess my love of mess, sleaze and sideshows. I love cheap motels and roller coasters. I am sure I was a carnie in a former life. I am convinced I have been a series of cruel men. I have no patience with people who claim to have been Catherine the Great or Napoleon. If I lived before I was a large breasted cockney bar wench with six bastards clinging to my skirts, I was a cowboy, a sailor and a thief.
In this life I love things which are orderly, smooth and clean. But there is a part of me, a not so secret part of me that adores the tawdry. I take pictures at carnivals, the more cheap and Mexican the better. I am fascinated by conjoined twins, gypsies, dirt roads and things held together with twine. Impermanence has its own architecture; a meandering, transient perfection.

No place for poetry

2007-04-25T20:33:00.000-07:00

I make the critical error of talking about poetry at work with Melissa and them I’m fucked, surrounded as I am by paper clips, message pads, minutia and my own ennui. Talking about poetry and art and ideas at work can actually hurt when you aren’t a poet or an artist or a scholar – they make you forget your place, or maybe put you in it.
From about the age of 11 I used to meet my mother in the kitchen at 3:00 am (I come from a long line of practiced insomniacs) and sometimes we would trade poems. We would read each other our favorite passages and thrill at the sharing of the words and the cadence and that perfect truth expressed by another human that made us feel somehow finally understood. This was wonderful. I would go back to bed and think, “I never need to sleep again.” I would be full of racing thoughts and images and fleeting snatches of perfect understanding that I would never, ever, be able to communicate later.
The time for poetry is Saturday afternoon - when the house is clean, when you can make a long-distance phone call that inadvertently lasts 6 hours, when you can drink too much and say too much and then apologize and sleep it off. Poetry is a distilled and spare and heady truth that may cause me to quit my job or never, ever, sleep again.

In no order other than that which comes from my fingers now: Yeats, Emily Dickinson (and for being a shut-in), e.e. cummings (and for using all lower case), Michael Ondaatje, Charles Bukowski (and for staying lucid long enough to write any of it down, for not losing the scraps of paper under the sofa and for the title “Play the piano drunk like a percussion instrument until the fingers begin to bleed a bit”), and all the others - recited to me haltingly by impassioned others, or read to me by my mother at 3:00 am. Thank you.

Today this photo

2007-04-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

This woman sat opposite me on the bus. She was very carefully dressed in a stained yet oddly jaunty nautical ensemble. She had dyed hair and painted fingers and a carefully tied hat. This all distracts from the fact that she is also very old. I have seen her since but I have never heard her speak. She is a wearer of outfits.
She blends with the bus and puts her feet up.
I love her.
The graffiti beside her reads "latino lover".
The whole thing pleases me more than I can say.

Blackbird

2007-04-18T19:37:00.000-07:00

I think I need more red winged blackbirds. I need grackles and starlings. I need the thrill of birdsong. I grew up in a desert. In a desert filled with orchards and it was all birds. As I child I measured the seasons by their comings and goings.
In the spring I sat on the chilly front steps in warm sunlight and listened to the blackbirds liquid exalted trills as they clung sideways to the bullrushes. All black and red boldness. They arrived with the robins and the finches and everything was a shouting at the thaw, and the sweet, sweet dirt.
In summer, in the dry dusty heat under willow trees, I sat with no skin touching other skin and heard the tired flap of crows. At dusk the peewits burst from the tall grass and landed and my long brown-skinned, bare-footed dusk was full of the short sound that named them.
The fall was filled with gatherings. The small dark birds would line up on the power lines for days. They would gather and chatter and wheel away as one and return and then suddenly they would be gone and the air would be empty except for the smells of burning and sound of chainsaws and dry stalks clattering. Then, weeks later, on the day we put up the storm windows the geese would go and those long forlorn v’s would point away from where I lived.
I live now in a place filled with the endless sound of crows and seagulls, the same lack of variety and pace as the endless green and alien wetness.
I miss the blackbirds. I miss the measure.

Too early for all this

2007-04-13T20:50:00.000-07:00

On the bus listening to the new Modest Mouse and so, so happy. I love a new album from a favorite band, book from favorite author, movie from favorite director. I listen with my heart outsized in my chest and I want to paint huge canvases filled with flowers and tiny horses and the kind of details that restore people’s faith in goodness. I can’t paint so I think I will write a poem about a specific upper lip. I want to say aloud the word “balalaika”, whisper to myself the word “wasps”, just for the sensual pleasure of their utterance. I want to learn to play the autoharp, banjo and squeezebox – to be the singer of countrified sea-shanties. I want to act on my urge to get a tiny tattoo of an anchor at the base of the thumb on my right hand. All this before 9:00 AM.

Pronk

2007-04-11T19:48:00.000-07:00

I started thinking about what my sister said about her blog – that she gets more hits from her post that included a picture of a mountain goat than anything else, she says that goat should be her mascot.
So I thought I should put a picture of a gazelle here. And not just any gazelle, but a tiny little gazelle that marks its territory by poking sticks into its eye glands – I mean, of course!
The other thing I love about gazelles, or really I guess what I love about the English language, is that someone came up with a word to specifically describe that springy bit of locomotion we have all seen on a million documentaries about Africa. You know what I mean, that bouncy, high jumping, wild-eyed thing that gazelles do when the lion attacks.
This specific thing is not called anything as pedestrian as running. No, this needs its own word, this is called pronking.
Pronking – just spend a minute with that.

All good

2007-04-08T15:14:00.000-07:00

I kiss my dog and it is all there – his perfect smell of grass and fabric softener from sleeping in my bed and just that little hint of nacho chip from the paw area. I kiss him and he endures me, he knows the drill.
Let it be known – I am a sniffer. Or rather, I am a nuzzler. That’s what Kevin always said my superhero name should be “The Nuzzler.” Fighting crime with spontaneous displays of affection.
I nuzzle people and things I love. I need to know that perfect personal smell of them. With my cats it has always been that dry dust, long grass, sun basking fur smell that gets me. A hollow smell that you get for one moment and then pass through. You have to back off and then come back at it. With Kevin it was his right eyebrow, never the left.

Rain on hot blacktop, resinous pine needles fallen in drifts and sun baked, fresh dirt, clean sheets, clean skin, fresh sawdust, new concrete, drugstores, bakeries, and my dog’s paws.

That which makes no sense delights me

2007-02-17T02:10:00.000-08:00