Dear diary: sunday, dante, birthdays, coco

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coco, originally uploaded by Ululate.

A Sunday morning, Dante being especially cute, dashing through the apartment like he’s on a rampage, letting out little myows and ending in these crazy tumble-pounces. Gary has five Hong Kong DVDs piled up in front of the computer, he’s googling them and deciding which one to watch, I’ve eaten fried eggs with shoyu and furikake, there’s a powdered-sugar dusting of snow on everything outside. So much winter still to be got through. I don’t approve of the winter, I detest it, what’s the deal with it, make it stop.

My 45th birthday arrives next Wednesday with neither a bang nor a whimper… more like (nods to Lorraine here…) an insistent humming. Is there still time to turn the plane around? (nods to Nick here) Or to seduce the pilot? (nods to Sharon) “Don’t worry about things you can’t control.” (nods to my stockbroker)

Out in deep Astoria last night to celebrate Melissa’s 40th. Sitting on Brandon’s couch with Drew, Katie, MacGregor, & Gary watching Melissa’s home movies from her babyhood and also Brandon’s movies. I have asked Brandon if he will be my guru and teach me how to make movies like his. I liked the scenes of the crazy lady with the crazy frizzy hair. His movies make me uncomfortable to be human, and I like that. Drew said that the scenes of cable-access poetry readings made him feel depressed about being a poet and full of self-loathing. In a circle, we discussed this, Katie and Brandon and Drew and Gary and myself; they wondered how did this aberration, this poetry thing, happen, and wouldn’t it be convenient not to have fallen into it. I feel differently, and rue all the bourgeois things in my lifestyle unconnected to poetry, but perhaps that’s just my upbringing.

Delicious canolli at the party, and I don’t even like canolli. Did I spell that right? On the train home, Gary was iPhone-bowling. On the train there, with Drew and Katie, looking at the rows of passengers all with their white earbuds. Earbuds, earbuds. There’s a poem in there somewhere, having to do both with developing foetuses and postmodern alienation.

Yesterday’s reading was Carolee Schneeman and Tony Conrad. I showed up a bit late but did see most of Carolee’s film of her performance piece in which she made a giant apple pie for the audience, addressing, among other things, the theme of “the good breast.” Tony Conrad read what I guess was a video scenario that was kinky in content but so flatly told ¬– the analogy with Burroughs kept coming up, later ¬– that it was IMHO about 110% de-eroticized. Sexual descriptions not from a subject position are invariably boring.

I skipped a couple of diary days, didn’t I, well, it’s not my resolution, I’m only piggybacking. Gary can tell you about the lovely dinner at Rob & Kim & Coco’s. I only want to add how fun it was to be on their couch with all of them AND their hound dog Walter AND their cat Fella. How cozy! And is there anything on the planet COOLER than Coco and her sitar? I think not.

One thought on “Dear diary: sunday, dante, birthdays, coco

  1. i will return the favor–cannoli also, it is said so often that korea is where japan was 10-15 years ago that perhaps with a picture of the boots you miss, they may still yet be made.happy birthday

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