Author: Nada Gordon

Poetry Project last night. Toni Simon projected her intricate & astonishing collage-drawings (I told her after I wanted them on a textile) to Nick Piombino’s Contradicta aphorisms. This one especially resonated for me:

To know having is to feel deeply when bereft.

And now for some choice lines from the second reader, Lisa Robertson:

inner Spain

If I degenerate into style, it’s because I love it very much

If females lick language/ death/ economy

One’s strange bare body needs a party dress/ tyrant body

A sort of clown of the feminine with the head of a nocturnal bird

The biggest problem with melancholy is that it is more detailed than the world

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One.

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You make me feel like a launchpad/ I just don’t know how to make it wide / I just want to be your be your maid/ I just don’t have control of my ham / though I have this cider/ I want to give it all to you/ you gotta believe in something slimy / there is a way I can be a giraffe/ it’s this liar love inside of me/ I don’t know how to make you fear/ if you give me jam/ I just wanna be your be your man

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apricot oil!

of riding in cars near snowy beaches with cliffs, a school (my old school in Japan, but not really, since in my dreams I am so often “in Japan”) where the ceilings leaked buckets of rain, and two friends sexually caressed me, one in a car, one at a party; both times it was not really appropriate, and I didn’t know what to do.

Also that I needed to do a photo project of portraits of women at these snowy beaches with cliffs; I remember thinking to try to recruit either Brenda Iijima or Marianne Shaneen. It was going to be photos with text, and I thought…how can I do this without being hokey?

I was down in the basement throwing out the recycling
and there was a guy down there getting rid of stuff
and guess what I snagged? one of those multicolored
revolving disco lights! on the very day I’m having a party.
how excellent is that?

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102

I saw a guy on the subway with a spindle.  He was spinning a mouse-gray fiber into yarn. I asked if it was dog hair.  He said no, it’s just wool.  The spindle wobbled; I watched the wool turn into yarn.  “I like to spin while moving,” he said.

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