Author: Nada Gordon

A Drama Queen

The Pipsqueak had another of those screaming terror crying jags (I think he keeps reliving his circumcision, heretofore known as That Horrid Medical Procedure). I massaged him and sang to him, and he finally calmed down. All in all, we had a nice dinner.

He’s been having really strange crying jags recently. About every other night, out of the blue, he cries really hard for 4 or 5 seconds, then it goes away. Bizarre. I’m curious what it means.

Of course, he’s just as much a drama queen as me, and has never been shy about his emotions. He reminds me of R. Kelly, mixing soft-porn come-ons with crying jags about his mother, ex-girlfriends and professional failures.

I did a google search of his symptoms and I think he’s pregnant.

Sorrow Without a Cause

Krishnamurti asks:

Is there a relationship between sorrow and passion? Is there such a thing as sorrow without a cause? We know the sorrow which is cause and effect. My son dies; in that is involved my identification with my son: my wanting him to be something which I am not, my seeking continuity through him. When he dies all that is denied, and I find myself completely emptied of all hope. In that there is self-pity, fear; in that there is pain which is the cause of sorrow. This is the lot of everyone. This is what we mean by sorrow.

Then there is also the sorrow of time, the sorrow of ignorance, the ignorance of one’s own destructive conditioning; the sorrow of not knowing oneself, the sorrow of not knowing the beauty that lies at the depth of one’s being and the going beyond.

Do we see that when we escape from sorrow through various forms of explanation, we are really frittering away an extraordinary happening?

….

When there is no movement of escape from sorrow, then love is. Passion is the flame of sorrow, and that flame can only be awakened when there is no escape, no resistance — which means, sorrow has in it no quality of division.

“Do you ever get tired of being yourself?”

“Of course. That’s when I stop.”

SILK FLOWERS (for Drew)

pierce windless ivy

cloud of dew through which its mate

bends, and then fades frail

music-panting bliss

till some new strain of feeling

is anemone

That climbs and wanders

another swinging blossom

blown anew; from high

those depths Is curtained

interwoven bowers aught

along earth-creeping

melody The sweet

weak wings And all the woods are

Sick through mossy air

Down streams made strong awe

lake-surrounded listener’s

brain So sweet, that joy

echoes impels them

eddies talk sucked fatal flute

soft emotion grew

Nor sun, nor moon

sadness fails voluptuous

cedar, pine, and yew,

SILK FLOWERS (for Bernadette)

faint for lack of food

Cold! cold! My thread is small, it

gleamed like odorous

fire She ceased her spin-

ning heavy and uniform

sore with the frost cheek

with her prey She Bear

is gone O Stranger, strain! be

She beheld and laugh’d

She heart-reviving

arrow-plumes were iced The song

I thank thee, thank thee

Arose, commixt with

flush bright thread The youth sate low

and sweet the silkworm’s

Sister! Sister! hear

A lock of his raven hair

And yet her hair ask’d

grey. his languid limbs

took the quiver from his neck

The woman answer’d

wondrously thin ob-

served thy strength By magic hands

binding in the chain

Brenda Iijima writes in:

yo!

waz up dah down side gal or girl?

yr marguez waz affected or effecting someting ’cause this nucleic blog stuf is rocked with hardSHIPPING. Did this fellow Curtis prepare the dinner or somthin’? Kick him in his papaya asszzzz.

get on that orange girl

don’t hate yorsellllf, it’s bad for the curls!

B

really now!

If the blog world were a commune, who would be cooking tonight? Who would be doing the dishes?

My guess:

Cooking: Joshua. Fast food metaphors for his students but fancy recipes for friends. No, maybe it ought to be someone with a stronger sense of equality. This is, after all, a commune. Katie to the rescue.

Dishes: Jim.He’s much sweeter than he lets on.

Eileen is also onto the Language Poets’ lack of artifice.

Rereading

Here is a stanza that I find myself rereading:

Oh never weep for love that’s dead

Since love is seldom true

But changes his fashion from blue to red,

From brightest red to blue,

And love was born to an early death

And is so seldom true.

If we’re true to fashion, it doesn’t matter whether red flare bright or blue turn all. I wonder, though, if I am true to fashion or true to color?

“I can love you for your blue and red, for your seasonal change, and find each color true to me, and never weep for love that’s dead.”

“I can weep for your colors and love each one in turn.”

Oh Love was born and is so seldom, truly. But never weep for love that’s dead, only love that’s born.

SILK FLOWERS (for Nick)

Give to gold its weight

Regent of dewy night, Fawn-

spotted cooling stream

Unite, impel, di-

late th’ effulgent whole he

sparkling daughters crown’d

of stern Eluding

mortal sight, He fades; he dis-

appears And silence

lulls the sky we court

nor sings nor many-tinted

rays concoct, refine,

And hymn, concentrick

orbs struggling to impair bless’d

quaffing nectar Rob’d

Till twitter moving

lancer of the golden keen

by green-hair’d Ocean’s

gem-bespangled shore

charm’d Gocul’s od’rous cleft head

sandal-breathing flow’r

attesting secret

deeds, skirts, robes, charm, form, and stain

load the tortoise bore

Art is a non-profit foundation. Art is blush. Art should be organic, to assist us in overcoming the organic in appearance.

Art should be biodegradable.

I used to want to write the body, but now I want to write the Body Shop.