Sometimes I can really feel my eyeballs jiggle in their sockets.
Most of what I do is close-up (threading needles. blogging).
My ex-quasi-stepfather, an optometrist and iridologist, used to scold me for that.
Well, I’m largely an indoor animal.
I don’t have a lot of opportunities to put down my spear and gaze across the savannah.
I really don’t agree that poetry is a debt we pay to the world.
I don’t feel that “debt” is an apt metaphor for my relationship to the world or to poetry.
And I don’t agree that poetry is designed (necessarily) to slow us down.
Like any drug, or consciousness-changer, it can have any number of effects, some slowing and some quickening, some stretching sideways and some corkscrewing into.
I don’t agree that its useful to make any kind of generalization about what kind of poetry is worth reading.
If you go to poetry to slow you down it only means that you desire a particular kind of sensory transformation
which in my mind is no more or less valuable than any other kind of transformation.
It just so happens that I very like poetry that I feel I can tumble into and that tumbles me faster faster faster.
And that is not the only effect of poetry I like.
Just now though, entering into poetic activity feels like the neurotic worrying of a chronic verbal tic. I almost feel I’m holding up a vampire cross against it. Just not in the mood to enter into that expectancy of certain rhythms and stay porous to semantic sways… And then there’s all the baggage, its heavy locks and pretentious logos… and to what use?
The burrowing will stop soon, I guess. Thick patches of purple crocuses today = sure formula for that sharp lachyrmal release of attenuated anxiety.
Finished the purple linen gored skirt with the taupe embroidered organza (organza!) godets. Now hard at work at the fitted dress of forget-me-not birds.
It’s silly wanting everything to change, because naturally it does anyway. But when life is quiet I sometimes worry that there is a shock around the corner.
I missed the elephants the other night, although I stood at 34th and 6th Ave. until 12:45. Oh well. I did want to see the elephants on 34th st.
The animal rights protesters, 3 of them — all under five feet tall, with little munchkin voices.
I watched a big fish being killed today at SEA DRAGON — the local fish shop run by a Chinese guy for the benefit of the Bangladeshi community. Actually I didn’t watch, I averted my eyes. While buying my own slab of dead fish.
I went in there once and asked for a pound of sea dragon. The owner looked shocked before it occurred to him to laugh.
Last weekend with G. in Queens I tried PAAN for the first time. That was life-changing. I don’t have the language to describe the ingredients, so here’s a list of their names instead, from the website I linked to just now:
The common ingredients used in all the varieties of Paan:
Green Gold Chutney
OK let me try. It’s like if you took mincemeat and mixed it with cardamom and coconut, drizzled it with fragrant syrups, and wrapped it in a very leafy-tasting leaf. The teeth go down with a juicy crunch into the differently crunchy syrupy filling. I want to try paan again very soon.
Finished the unit on weird science. Now writing on dating in the modern world.
(salad dressing — any light oil + seasoned rice vinegar + toasted sesame oil (little bit) + soy sauce + maybe a little bit of white pepper. you will not be disappointed.)