Category: Uncategorized

Does anyone else count stairs as you are ascending or descending them?

Also when I lived in Japan I developed this weird habit. When sitting myself on the toilet to pee, I would count to five in Japanese, like this:

ichi

ni

san

shi

go {pee}

I still find myself doing this sometimes.

Another weird thing:

Sometimes I hum the old “Banana Splitz” theme song as I brush my teeth.

WeIRD PeRSOnal SuperSTITIONS

I would like to know people’s weird personal superstitions. Gary and I are talking about doing a comic book based on such superstitions. I have a lot of them and worry I may be either obsessive-compulsive or ruled by “primitive mind.” Here are five:

When I am deciding which turnstile to walk through at the subway station I look at who is going before me and decide on the basis of “the person in whose footsteps I would most like to follow.”

When I am crossing the street I endeavor to get to the curb before the light turns red. I fear that if it does it bodes ill for my relationship.

I hold my breath in most tunnels, while putting my hand to the car ceiling and making a wish. After emerging from the tunnel, I count to eight before I exhale.

I consider eight my lucky number, mainly because it is infinity sideways. It is also a pictogram of a woman. It turns out that eight is a very important number in oriental dance rhythms.

I say “rabbit rabbit” first thing when I wake up on the first day of a month. If I forget to do this, I can be “absolved” by kissing my crossed fingers and holding them up to the sky for the count of eight.

88888888

I do not consider anything having to do with cats unlucky, even if they are black cats that cross my path from left to right.

This is not to deny the overweaning spookiness of a cat, though. They just sit and watch, weird little gargoyles!

Please send me your weird superstitions! If you so indicate, I will post them here.

Thinking just now, doing errands in my unglamourous but startlingly diverse neighborhood of Kensington, Brooklyn, looking around at a thousand cases of not-too-much-privilege-given-the-larger-middle-class-standards-of-the-larger-culture, that maybe identity is not a costume. That it’s wrong to say that.

And then I thought again. Yes, identity is a costume. All the other stuff (the givens) is a curse. That’s the spirit, right?!

I feel blessed not to be a part of any kind of traditional community.

And lost.

Beauty is truth — truth, bewilderment.

A giant pile of polished rice.

It’s not about the furtherance of the art.

It’s not about positioning with or against.

It’s not about “good” or “bad” or even “indifferent.”

It’s about the corkscrew twisting into space.

And if you don’t agree with that, well, no one is MAKING you hang around in this hothouse.

Another kind of hothouse:

A metaphor for a poem or a book might be a hothouse.

Enclosed, fecund, allergenic, exotic, artificed, arranged, out of control, otherworldly, dimly lit, musky, inhabitable for a period of time, protected, preserved, gathering together things that would not appear in nature together, organic but formal and deliberate, stuffy, hazy.