Otohime

cheese & all veggies OK
but I don’t like roasted red
peppers although
I’ll eat them. so that’s not
really a “restriction.”

I also eat most normal
i.e. to westerners — “non-organ”
meats — from
the approved normal list of
edible animals although I am well
aware of the ethical and health
compromises of doing so.

I do not order
hamburgers anymore
because I do not want
to be paralyzed from the
waist down

I bought a little tartlet
for us for dessert: it looks so
good. if there’s a store near you

let’s get some whipping cream for it…

the only other foods I really don’t like
are capers (but I will eat
them) and certain Japanese foods (sea
urchin, and something called
shiokara) that are really
blecch I won’t eat

// don’t go to too much
trouble. I’m fine with
simple stuff, often just
have salad
for dinner.

oh, so great!

http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=14063091&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=1&color=&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0

Red/Green Colorblind Madness: Jennifer L. Knox from jordan stempleman on Vimeo.

This morning’s a perfectly illogical isosceles triangle that wracks my body with palpitations. For a moment I forgive everyone, then I take it back. Shedding mustard, dawn of time twinkles tm. Jailed for or jailed in ideas? Dowry (downy) isosceles. People: devices, decorations, distractions. I don’t know, I just loved… meat eating tool user, tool usee? painted wrath. Painted mouth. Someone with my name. O, dear Future corpses, why must we suffer so. Pain like a name or mane. I try to do nothing inside the wire fencing. Crumble. I’m seeing it all crumbling, bye civilization, it was nice to meet you. Squib. Run screaming from room… when the doll of perception is cleansed… I don’t know.. but your wrath… is boring to me, like being caught in a Swiss chalet with no TV and no car. Her socks have text on them, my pen has text o it, his pants have text on them, text everywhere so frontal like a lobotomy. Mighty purr – wonder bird – hasty snow — hating dollar menus. Just outgrow “salvation” already. Put your pants back up on your ass. [singing] “Your email is a wonderland.” I have to enclose the light. No one is going to do it for you. Sometimes you just have to put your hands on your hips Ladies frocks, hairpin turns. Financial panties, wormlike caves, silvery encrustations. “Liberated” from the details of our costumes, we sail forth to work harder. Bead muse, or rather, dead mouse on the sidewalk, but I don’t wanna be all I see this I see this I see this, I don’t like that kind of filmic.

If you cannot be kind, at least have the decenty to be vague, said the spam comment I just rejected. I actually enjoyed the proberb, I think there’s some wisdom in it, although I’m not sure I want to transfer it to aesthetics. The social code amounts to little boilde pieces of theticic in the clown’s; commune around the corner. People come here with their large families, they push the stroller down the halting lanes and streets of kneescoks, and oh what a large family. Lately I have taken to lying on the floow to try to ease my back pain, it helps somewhat, but then I get bored. SOmetimes I listen to a poem talk or something from penn sound, yes, and then other times, or sometimes simultaneously, I will take photos of myself lying on the floor. One of these photos was very fetching, Suzanne noticed it. So I thought to take more and more photos like that. It is really important not to confuse my fascination with my own image as ccabity. It is not canity exactly, it is a fascination. And I think in some sense it keeps me company. What I mean to say is that I both is and is not an autre. Most of my life spent along, I don’t know if that is commonly or runcommonly so, but the head gets very noisy inside in this state of alonepness. People don’t seem to like it when I am not cague with them. But then I can’t always be cagye. Am I destructive? My feelings are strong, my houghs are loud, I don’t mean this as an excuse. The turtles turn away in a kind of slow mourning. Goodbye turtles. I don’t know why it is that people expect me not to be sensitive somhooooooooooow, and then they are more sensititve than e, or no, that is not what I mean, I mean that they are less able to absorv extremities of statement and feeling than I am, that might be more like it. SO I seem to leave a trail of these strange,,, I don’t know. The white animals are lumpy blobs. They just sit on the road. As blobs. I work and work and work and work. I think again and again about what I have. “have” The phsyciality of doing this. I don’t are about this one’s well[wrought prose, I don’t care about that one’s tidy summation. I have something else to do. Jsst to manage the day and its discontents.

The day in sputters with behind furbelows, sweat in summer spice as pre-recognized algebraic smithereens. This is willing something to happen, it’s entropy that scares me. The words find themselves on the screen and look at each other in vemazement. hyere we are. Here I am again, another morning, trying to figure out why I don’t have a very positive attitude although fundamentally all is presrserving a kind of balance. Every day there is this sqyurm, exploited like a child does its loose tooth. I don’t have any goals, all I want to do is write poems. That’s it. Or if I could just sit like this every day with my eyes closed typing I think I would be perfectly happy, although I would prefer a correspondence, and I would prefer is if it didn’t hurt y spine, but there’s something about this feeling of language flowing through my body ind making my fingers dance that is like no other. For this I have sacrificed many bourgeois niceties and bodily comfort and even the ability to form other sorts of goals: just this feeling, it’s like a sheaf of perfectly ripe millet swaing in slow motion on the back of a truumpant worker, I can see every little grain head flower moving in the hot wind. If it’s not about this feeling, I don’t know what it’s about. A container with a peacock engraved on it, the peacock wants to talk. The book wants to turn into some kind of millet. I don’t want to go to work today, I want to just sit here with my gingers moving. Are you with me? My poems are heavy with this feeling, or light with it, or anyway animated by it. It has never beem for me, about distance, or about working to change anything except the entrop no that’s ot what I mean. Bo, not wuite it, suddenly I am thinking of stew, why, on such a hot day, stew? Biij as stew. Many things kill. Racism kills, we have notived, recently. Also, life kills itself so that it an generate more life.e This is a very interesting principle that is at once heartbreaking and als a soncolation. Do you not think every day about how extraordinary this is? Time lapse photography. Now I almost can’t open my eyes. My body is covered with sweat. The book is filled now with little cupid chimerae. I love this book, it’s a stir in some kind of cauldron. Poecrawl their way up out of the steamy abyss somehow, and I should have eaten something, at least some yoguyr or a piece of toast. I don’t know, some people didn’t behave well, I haven’t always behaved well, but them it was like the mother on the train yesterday, the abusive mother, who lifted up her tuny beautiful daughter practieclly by the armpiut saying SIT DOWN, geto your hands out of YOUR MOUTH, and the little girl swuirmed, put her hands between her knees to keep herself from putting her hands in her mough I gazed guriously at the mom, buat what can one say. That poor little shoulder. I don’t remember what my analogy was here but I suppose I feel, in relation to these poems, that I am a little bit like that daughter, although that could just be a cover to deny my agency. What is agency? Someone told me it ws debunked. I never know who to believe. So mny of my friends have these well formed sort of edifieces of opinioen and theories, we enjoy complaining, we feed off of a kind of solidarity of complaining. And we rory a lot, this is something we discussed, but to me anxiety is just another mode of that crawling up the sides of abyss…

Home keys. Cats seem to have a lot to say today. Things I don’t like include public language, sludge, pimeiento anything. Rooted in work, the work that spends the day for me and then the rest of the day is what, a revoery habit, all aching in the fast crown iof its soul delivery system. Cats. Hve messages. I am thinking today of how the habits are like a swarm, to the extent I don’t even recofize them as a habit, just as a swarm. I want to move. I want to have a slow: hey did you read that thing? Not taking advantage of what New York has to offer because it is too hotL yesterday’s wet tong;ue. Afore mentioned wet tongue. It ype with my eyes closed and I ask myself what’s next? Life always keeps a surpruse in its cheek for emergencies. I suppose I should stop doing things to myself that hurt me. Clove cigarettes, for example, seem to decimate my singing voice. Typing int o computers hurts me terribly. I ahv been sacro iliac belt. I wonder if I ever go blind, and become mute, will I be able to commumicate by means of a keyboard, like this. The cats are bad, getting into things. I do
t npw how I feel about “the literary” I sometimes want it and other times I’m just thinking why bother, exist in some duller scrub state. Outside there’s a hot farden. That’s all I mean, precisely that. What’s the next change? There has got to be change and perhaps it will be a season. I don’t know how people van museter up the will to be acticists, don’t you just sort of want it to be over, the human adventure of plnder? Sometimes I think there’s something wring with me that I don’t think life is “sacred.” I understand that it is in the interests of our own survival and also of species survical to tell ourselfe that it is so, bit is it so? We are lthese bepedalian leeches with machines just sucing out the planet, it’s disgusting, all of our little legal systems and stupid pieces of legislation and ideas about right and wrong that include among some of us throwing rocks at women, I don’t know, it all seems so… beyond hope. Let’s take for example the fuys who went on a rampage in Connecticut, or the mother who slit the throats of her four children then set her house on fire. What kind of nerve fif it take for these people to do these things, what kind of final desperation? I won’t say I’ amoral that’s not strictly true. but in a system with only a very little bit of energy in it and a limited time, I mean I am thinking of mself as a system I’m not thinking about how to improve things really because it’s too late, Improviement is a fantasy. I wprl the coals into statuettes. Horses are mamas. Big zap tooth is pepperming, and the sudden frreesom odf typos riding me further into time that also mean humans sucking the planet. Don’t think I’m ever for a moment not thinking,. There you see someone has done it again, spoken to me in that way that makes me rebel. It’s when they offer a certain kind of advice, I mean it’s well meaning, but it’s condescending, like it has something to do with peaceful and well[meaning behavior, and I’m just thinking, no, that wasn’t ahy I voived my copmplaint or my sorrow, it was just to say it and maybe fo you to say I know what you mean but certainly not to offer me a solution or some more virtuous form of behavior. I want to change to happen down inte forest under the needles where the loam is. I want to be in that forest, too, by the way. Something’s off in this life. Stach, Gasping. Jwvteure.

Unerring contracts that slur the speech of dumb animals. To think that one’s own constellation is not anything like another’s, and also that where one imagines oneself in constellations is just illusory. Days get a little shorter until they waddle, and the air lays hot and heavy on the skin like a giant tongue. The reptiles get friendly. I wanted you to have a piece of my mind, huddling in the corner, the pink and white birdcaps like sprinkles on what was normal and cold. Eating a witch. But not out of a sense of travesty. I and you both perpetrate… but no promise that we will or will not die soothes this endless restiveness…. I say this with bones, because it is only bones that… not looking… green pen, law of waiting… I have a nickel, is a nickel enough, and the day continues in order to numb you. Heavy sparkle on the wind machine. Everyone I know is fancy, there’s some kind of blind recognition to the way we do things around here, but I’m not looking, I don’t want to look anymore. Life is too painful and those who can’t see the zebras, well, it’s their own damn fault, am I supposed to help them? So I need to calculate combinations, as if that would help with the… basically wistful… fronting I keep encountering as a woman in the wild. I don’t know quite what to make of this, except that small seas are pooling somewhere in my left calf muscle, and with them whole ecosystems of waving kelp and monkey’s uncles, little knobs on heads, I want that comic book, that one comic book I will never see again. For that I have a more profound longing than almost anything else, as if that comic book were the stand in for all of the other things I long for. Not that I really care anymore because the shortness of everything has made me catch my breath since I am also short of breath. I am trying to think and feel generously of everyone, and with that I feel a kind of photoshop filter of the mind: diffuse glow… if people would just take a minute, to understand me, then they would better be able to contextualize the strange actions, in the office, my head down to stretch my back, unfairness, power, mingling with an onscreen silence as a hydrating factor on the weather I already said is exactly like a tongue. But I don’t mind because I am as simple as a firefly, which is to say not even remotely simple, and not condensed. I shall never ever be condensed, and when I think of abuse it makes me think of bowler hats and their little grosgrain ribbons, and the people who cut the grosgrain ribbons to size in factories with beige machines honorably following the day’s work until its conclusion, and then feeling like star anise on a hobo’s tongue. Do we still say hobo or is that one of those words we banished for some reason? Like it is too idealizing? I don’t know. Chestnut hair. Mordern.[stet] Satellite.

Felix Bernstein is major. I will be able to say I knew him when…

Watch in HD.

i’m wilting, who are you?

Now and then my mother gets it into her head to send me poetry I wrote when I was little. I have posted at least one of these before, but she just sent me these a moment ago, so I post her email in its entirety

(Early Works, age 11 or 12)

3.95

a number

a poem in itself

a mathematical complication, a 3 digital figure

or

Love – Beauty – Virtue – And other corny junk

Or

Chinese Noodles and fried asparagus noses

Or
Bleep

But all it really is – is 3.95.

***********************

What is a thought?

A being –

A state of consciousness –

Or even a butterfly?

The wind is a thought –

A thought from the creatures above

The rain is a thought (a soggy thought)

Even lifeless boogars are a thought

But – what is not a thought?

Stay tuned tomorrow for the next episode of Philosophical nonsense

Same time

Same station

1974 –

For one thing, I’ve always enjoyed photography and I love drawing and plants. I’ve always wanted to be a writer (I always have been anyway!)

I love flowers and birds, live beautiful bursts of color and energy, believe it or not, I think that even flowers have a personality.

I also like to read a lot. I started reading when I was about two, and I could read “Charlotte’s Web” when I was 3 and 1/2 . When I tell my friends this, they don’t believe me, but it’s the naked truth.

One thing that drives me crazy is slugs. I don’t mind snails, but slugs! Yuk!

P.s. This is only of the corniest things I’ve ever wrote.

Love from Mama