Author: Nada Gordon

It occurs to me that I probably don’t know this “person” at all!

I imagine that there are plenty of “people” (maybe bored teenagers?) who, out of whatever chain of cruelty and abandonment they themselves may have experienced, make it their “jobs” to try to poison strangers’ psyches via their blogs. That’s one of the unfortunate side-effects of the public nature of blogging.

You know, they look for relevant little bits of personal info in your posts, and I’ve certainly got plenty of that, and then twist it to make it seem as if they know you. It’s a cheap trick.

I’m actually not terribly bothered by this. I know I have the power to simply “zap” this crazy commentator. I sort of like thinking of this “person” as a facet of my own id, though.

Someone who is only identifiable as “hb” is trying to terrorize this blog — see comments to previous post.

Who might this be? Any clues welcome.

The horror. The horror.

Suddenly, mysteriously, taken with the desire to read some poems by Lucie Brock-Broido. So I did. And now I want to barrrrrrrf. Hold out the barf bag, people. Now I’m going to look at a poem by Jorie Graham.

This book will be different from any other book. Already it is. It gains legitimacy by nines.

For one thing, it is transparent.

The hunchback straightens up, looks to the right, peers into the horizon.

Scratchy-straight: fetus found near school

spewing bile.

Mom find her 3 kids

decapitated.

Goof-proof tigers, peacable kingdoms — masks

zapped into straightness.

Broo — airwalk — swipe.

Guilty in slay, blazing through supply of slugs.

Happy banjo tunes — nab chatty.

Ponder once, better think twice about

their gentle smiles, the loving intention.

Kate Hudson’s nice set.

I’m in Manhattan.

The problem of too much beauty, specks of grime, smudges, dried-up

liquids — a floor made to camouflage everyone’s sensitive nape:

“luzca bien.”

Charged. I like charged better than heightened.

Not liking the term “heightened language” in relation to poetry at all, though I understand the need for the concept. We need a better term.

Do poems follow the same principle, and get all condensare* as a reflection of economic conditions?

Or does condensare reflect a different kind of scarcity?

*I had orignially typed “condensare ‘n’ shit” but thought that looked vulgar.

Is melancholy part of jet lag or is it just my constitution?

Trying to think of how the recessed economy was evident in Japan, besides in the stories I heard from friends about the job market…

There was a much smaller selection of shoes, for one thing, although there were still thousands to choose from. It’s just that they were all skimpy, kittenish little things. It could just be the fashion — but Japan used to make the most amazingly sculpturally clunky footwear — I longed for it.

In times of economic scarcity, manufacturers use less material. This is a commonplace. But I miss those crazy shoes.

Otherwise, people seemed to be doing nothing but going out and enjoying themselves and buying stuff. Tokyo is party city.

Fat! My Japanese friends, who last saw me when I was 15-20 pounds lighter, gave me an unendingly hard time. My Western friends were slightly kinder, or at least more tactful: “Have you been working out or something?” “Anyway, you were too skinny before.” What can I do to make myself look more like the Bettie Page pinups on the new Mikarrhea? Aside from getting my whole back tattooed or cutting bangs (which don’t suit me at all)…