From f00d869e4c0e64be6093e4980e62e3c9b9b33cc9 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Thu, 29 Jan 2015 10:36:44 -0700 Subject: Add links to Elegies; write TODO.txt --- 02-howtoread.txt | 145 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 03-howtoread.txt | 148 ------------------------------------- 08-and.txt | 31 ++++++++ 09-and.txt | 28 ------- 10-apollo11.txt | 33 +++++++++ 11-apollo11.txt | 29 -------- 11-arspoetica.txt | 41 ++++++++++ 12-arspoetica.txt | 38 ---------- 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt | 29 ++++++++ 13-boar.txt | 28 +++++++ 13-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt | 25 ------- 14-boar.txt | 24 ------ 14-deadman.txt | 26 +++++++ 15-angeltoabraham.txt | 28 +++++++ 15-deadman.txt | 22 ------ 16-angeltoabraham.txt | 25 ------- 16-feedingtheraven.txt | 38 ++++++++++ 17-feedingtheraven.txt | 34 --------- 19-onformalpoetry.txt | 25 +++++++ 20-onformalpoetry.txt | 22 ------ 21-i-am.txt | 26 +++++++ 22-howithappened.txt | 24 ++++++ 22-i-am.txt | 23 ------ 23-howithappened.txt | 21 ------ 24-lovesong.txt | 30 ++++++++ 25-lovesong.txt | 27 ------- 25-roughgloves.txt | 23 ++++++ 26-ronaldmcdonald.txt | 38 ++++++++++ 26-roughgloves.txt | 19 ----- 27-ronaldmcdonald.txt | 35 --------- 28-moongone.txt | 19 +++++ 29-moongone.txt | 16 ---- 31-mountain.txt | 29 ++++++++ 32-mountain.txt | 26 ------- 32-serengeti.txt | 22 ++++++ 33-serengeti.txt | 19 ----- 33-shipwright.txt | 26 +++++++ 34-shipwright.txt | 23 ------ 34-spittle.txt | 19 +++++ 35-spittle.txt | 16 ---- 35-squirrel.txt | 24 ++++++ 36-squirrel.txt | 21 ------ 37-swansong.txt | 24 ++++++ 38-swansong.txt | 20 ----- 38-telemarketer.txt | 77 +++++++++++++++++++ 39-telemarketer.txt | 73 ------------------ 40-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt | 29 ++++++++ 41-todaniel.txt | 24 ++++++ 41-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt | 26 ------- 42-todaniel.txt | 22 ------ 43-deathstrumpet.txt | 35 +++++++++ 44-deathstrumpet.txt | 32 -------- TODO.txt | 7 ++ index.html | 3 +- 54 files changed, 902 insertions(+), 815 deletions(-) create mode 100644 02-howtoread.txt delete mode 100644 03-howtoread.txt create mode 100644 08-and.txt delete mode 100644 09-and.txt create mode 100644 10-apollo11.txt delete mode 100644 11-apollo11.txt create mode 100644 11-arspoetica.txt delete mode 100644 12-arspoetica.txt create mode 100644 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt create mode 100644 13-boar.txt delete mode 100644 13-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt delete mode 100644 14-boar.txt create mode 100644 14-deadman.txt create mode 100644 15-angeltoabraham.txt delete mode 100644 15-deadman.txt delete mode 100644 16-angeltoabraham.txt create mode 100644 16-feedingtheraven.txt delete mode 100644 17-feedingtheraven.txt create mode 100644 19-onformalpoetry.txt delete mode 100644 20-onformalpoetry.txt create mode 100644 21-i-am.txt create mode 100644 22-howithappened.txt delete mode 100644 22-i-am.txt delete mode 100644 23-howithappened.txt create mode 100644 24-lovesong.txt delete mode 100644 25-lovesong.txt create mode 100644 25-roughgloves.txt create mode 100644 26-ronaldmcdonald.txt delete mode 100644 26-roughgloves.txt delete mode 100644 27-ronaldmcdonald.txt create mode 100644 28-moongone.txt delete mode 100644 29-moongone.txt create mode 100644 31-mountain.txt delete mode 100644 32-mountain.txt create mode 100644 32-serengeti.txt delete mode 100644 33-serengeti.txt create mode 100644 33-shipwright.txt delete mode 100644 34-shipwright.txt create mode 100644 34-spittle.txt delete mode 100644 35-spittle.txt create mode 100644 35-squirrel.txt delete mode 100644 36-squirrel.txt create mode 100644 37-swansong.txt delete mode 100644 38-swansong.txt create mode 100644 38-telemarketer.txt delete mode 100644 39-telemarketer.txt create mode 100644 40-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt create mode 100644 41-todaniel.txt delete mode 100644 41-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt delete mode 100644 42-todaniel.txt create mode 100644 43-deathstrumpet.txt delete mode 100644 44-deathstrumpet.txt create mode 100644 TODO.txt diff --git a/02-howtoread.txt b/02-howtoread.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa3cd0e --- /dev/null +++ b/02-howtoread.txt @@ -0,0 +1,145 @@ +--- +title: 'How to read this' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be +lived. Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a different +person, with his own history, culture, and emotions. True, they are all +related, but no more than any of us is related through our genetics, our +shared planet, or our yearnings. + +Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called +them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his +death over sixty have been found and catalogued. He called them heteronyms as +opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than names he wrote under. +They were truly different writing selves, concerned with different ideas and +writing with different styles: Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis +wrote more formal odes; Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque +pieces (one to Whitman himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that +are kind of similar to all the others. It seems as though Pessoa found it +inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self; rather +he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full identities, +at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of myself, but I'm less +real than the others, less substantial, less personal, and easily influenced +by them all." de Campos said of him at one point, "[Fernando Pessoa, strictly +speaking, doesn't exist.][pessoa-exist]" + +It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the +specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the ego. +Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the [same river][] twice, and +the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self twice. It's +constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the environment, from +other selves, from inside itself, and each time it forms anew into something +that's never existed before. The person I am beginning a poem is a separate +being than the one I am finishing a poem, and part of it is the poem I've +written has brought forth some other dish onto the great table that is myself. + +In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a +different person. Depending on which order you read them in, you could be any +number of possible people. If you follow the threads I've laid out for you, +there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those and go a different +way there are quite a few more. However, at the end of the journey there is +only one self that you will occupy, the others disappearing from this universe +and going maybe somewhere else, maybe nowhere at all. + +There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to find +his way out of the desert. He opens a door and finds himself in the Temple of +a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but only once someone +enters it. It is a series of rooms with six sides each and three doors: one +from the room before and two choices. In life, each of these rooms is a +moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only two doors to enter each +time, in life there can be any number of doors and we don't always choose +which to go through---in fact, I would argue that most of the time we aren't +allowed the luxury. + +What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities? Is there some +other version of the self that for whatever complexities of circumstance and +will chose a different door at an earlier moment? The answer to this, of +course, is that we can never know for sure, though this doesn't keep us from +trying through the process of regret. We go back and try that other door in +our mind, extrapolating a possible present from our own past. This is +ultimately unsatisfying, not only because whatever world is imagined is not +the one currently lived, but because it becomes obvious that the alternate +model of reality is not complete: we can only extrapolate from the original +room, absolutely without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices. This +causes a deep disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all +possible timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best +of all possible worlds) that we feel as regret. + +In this way, every moment we live is an [elegy][] to every possible future +that might have stemmed from it. Annie Dillard states this in a biological +manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every glistening egg is a +memento mori." Nature is inefficient---it spends a hundred lifetimes to get +one that barely works. The fossil record is littered with the failed +experiments of evolution, many of which failed due only to blind chance: an +asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an inefficient copulation method. Each +living person today has twenty dead standing behind him, and that only counts +the people that actually lived. How many missed opportunities stand behind +any of us? + +The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive. There's no +way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new environments. Even +when given the chance to do something again, we do it *again*, with the +reality given by our previous action. Thus we are constantly creating and +being created by the world. The self is never the same from one moment to the +next. + +A poem is like a snapshot of a self. If it's any good, it captures the +emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with +future selves, either within the same person or outside of it. Thus revision +is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another snapshot of the +future self as changed by the original poem. The page becomes a window into +the past, a particular past as experienced by one self. The poem is a +remembering of a self that no longer exists, in other words, an elegy. + +A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however. It leaves out the +background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to include +anything that isn't contained in its finite frame. In order to build a +working definition of identity, we must include all possible selves over all +possible timelines, combined into one person: identity is the combined effect +of all possible selves over time. A poem leaves much of this out: it is the +one person standing in front of twenty ghosts. + +A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet, in +their respective times and places. In this way a poem is outside of time or +place, because it changes its location each time it's read. Each time it's +two different people meeting. The problem with a poem is that it's such a +small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems, we would see +nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage stamp. It has been +argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in it, as well: Vonnegut uses +the metaphor of a subject strapped to a railroad car moving at a set pace, +with a six-foot-long metal tube placed in front of the subject's eye; the +landscape in the distance is time, and what we see is the only way in which we +interact with it. It's the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and +interact with a small kernel. This is why it's possible to write more than +one poem. + +Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to +extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to which +it has access. It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and resistant to +paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large unsayable part of +identity outside the frame of the self. It is the [kernel][] that contains a +universe, or that speaks around one that's hidden; if it's a successful poem +then it makes the smallest circuit possible. This is why the commentary on +poems is so voluminous: a poem is tightly packed meaning that commentators try +to unpack to get at that universality inside it. A fortress of dialectic is +constructed that ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes +the foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon beyond +it. + +With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period of +four years into this book. Where I can, I insert cross-references (like the +one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I think the two +resonate in some way. You can read this book in any way you'd like: you can +go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can follow the arrows around, or +you can work out a complex mathematical formula with Merseinne primes and +logarithms and the 2000 Census information, or you can go completely randomly +through like a magazine, or at least the way I flip through magazines. I +think writing is a communication of the self, and I think this is the best way +to communicate mine in all its multiversity. + +[pessoa-exist]: 20.html +[same river]: 31-mountain.html +[elegy]: 98-words-meaning.html +[kernel]: 11-arspoetica.html diff --git a/03-howtoread.txt b/03-howtoread.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4345442..0000000 --- a/03-howtoread.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,148 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'How to read this' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be -lived. Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a -different person, with his own history, culture, and emotions. True, -they are all related, but no more than any of us is related through our -genetics, our shared planet, or our yearnings. - -Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called -them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his -death over sixty have been found and catalogued. He called them -heteronyms as opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than -names he wrote under. They were truly different writing selves, -concerned with different ideas and writing with different styles: -Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis wrote more formal odes; -Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque pieces (one to Whitman -himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that are kind of -similar to all the others. It seems as though Pessoa found it -inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self; -rather he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full -identities, at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of -myself, but I'm less real than the others, less substantial, less -personal, and easily influenced by them all." de Campos said of him at -one point, "Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn't exist." - -It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the -specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the -ego. Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the same river -twice, and the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self -twice. It's constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the -environment, from other selves, from inside itself, and each time it -forms anew into something that's never existed before. The person I am -beginning a poem is a separate being than the one I am finishing a poem, -and part of it is the poem I've written has brought forth some other -dish onto the great table that is myself. - -In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a -different person. Depending on which order you read them in, you could -be any number of possible people. If you follow the threads I've laid -out for you, there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those -and go a different way there are quite a few more. However, at the end -of the journey there is only one self that you will occupy, the others -disappearing from this universe and going maybe somewhere else, maybe -nowhere at all. - -There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to -find his way out of the desert. He opens a door and finds himself in the -Temple of a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but -only once someone enters it. It is a series of rooms with six sides each -and three doors: one from the room before and two choices. In life, each -of these rooms is a moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only -two doors to enter each time, in life there can be any number of doors -and we don't always choose which to go through---in fact, I would argue -that most of the time we aren't allowed the luxury. - -What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities? Is there -some other version of the self that for whatever complexities of -circumstance and will chose a different door at an earlier moment? The -answer to this, of course, is that we can never know for sure, though -this doesn't keep us from trying through the process of regret. We go -back and try that other door in our mind, extrapolating a possible -present from our own past. This is ultimately unsatisfying, not only -because whatever world is imagined is not the one currently lived, but -because it becomes obvious that the alternate model of reality is not -complete: we can only extrapolate from the original room, absolutely -without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices. This causes a deep -disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all possible -timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best of -all possible worlds) that we feel as regret. - -In this way, every moment we live is an elegy to every possible future -that might have stemmed from it. Annie Dillard states this in a -biological manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every -glistening egg is a memento mori." Nature is inefficient---it spends a -hundred lifetimes to get one that barely works. The fossil record is -littered with the failed experiments of evolution, many of which failed -due only to blind chance: an asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an -inefficient copulation method. Each living person today has twenty dead -standing behind him, and that only counts the people that actually -lived. How many missed opportunities stand behind any of us? - -The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive. There's -no way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new -environments. Even when given the chance to do something again, we do it -*again*, with the reality given by our previous action. Thus we are -constantly creating and being created by the world. The self is never -the same from one moment to the next. - -A poem is like a snapshot of a self. If it's any good, it captures the -emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with -future selves, either within the same person or outside of it. Thus -revision is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another -snapshot of the future self as changed by the original poem. The page -becomes a window into the past, a particular past as experienced by one -self. The poem is a remembering of a self that no longer exists, in -other words, an elegy. - -A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however. It leaves out -the background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to -include anything that isn't contained in its finite frame. In order to -build a working definition of identity, we must include all possible -selves over all possible timelines, combined into one person: identity -is the combined effect of all possible selves over time. A poem leaves -much of this out: it is the one person standing in front of twenty -ghosts. - -A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet, -in their respective times and places. In this way a poem is outside of -time or place, because it changes its location each time it's read. Each -time it's two different people meeting. The problem with a poem is that -it's such a small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems, -we would see nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage -stamp. It has been argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in -it, as well: Vonnegut uses the metaphor of a subject strapped to a -railroad car moving at a set pace, with a six-foot-long metal tube -placed in front of the subject's eye; the landscape in the distance is -time, and what we see is the only way in which we interact with it. It's -the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and interact with a -small kernel. This is why it's possible to write more than one poem. - -Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to -extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to -which it has access. It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and -resistant to paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large -unsayable part of identity outside the frame of the self. It is the -kernel that contains a universe, or that speaks around one that's -hidden; if it's a successful poem then it makes the smallest circuit -possible. This is why the commentary on poems is so voluminous: a poem -is tightly packed meaning that commentators try to unpack to get at that -universality inside it. A fortress of dialectic is constructed that -ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes the -foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon -beyond it. - -With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period -of four years into this book. Where I can, I insert cross-references -(like the one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I -think the two resonate in some way. You can read this book in any way -you'd like: you can go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can -follow the arrows around, or you can work out a complex mathematical -formula with Merseinne primes and logarithms and the 2000 Census -information, or you can go completely randomly through like a magazine, -or at least the way I flip through magazines. I think writing is a -communication of the self, and I think this is the best way to -communicate mine in all its multiversity. diff --git a/08-and.txt b/08-and.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0c2bced --- /dev/null +++ b/08-and.txt @@ -0,0 +1,31 @@ +--- +title: 'And' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +epigraph: | +"What is your favorite word?" +"And. It is so hopeful." +... + +And you were there in the start of it all \ +and you folded your hands like little doves \ +that would fly away like an afterthought \ +and you turned to me the window light on your face \ +and you asked me something that I did not recognize \ +like a great throng of people who are not you \ +and I asked are we in a [church][] \ +and you answered with the look on your face \ +of someone [grieving something gone][] for years \ + but that they had been reminded of \ +by a catch in the light or in someone's voice \ +and I think maybe it could have been mine \ +and I looked away thickly my head was in jelly \ +and I didn't get an answer from you but I got one + +I looked at the man in front of us with glasses \ +he was speaking and holding a book \ +and I didn't understand him he was far away \ +and I could tell I was missing something important \ +and you nodded to yourself at something he said + +[church]: 13-boar.html +[grieving something gone]: 25-roughgloves.html diff --git a/09-and.txt b/09-and.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 09e82ca..0000000 --- a/09-and.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,28 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'And' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -epigraph: | -"What is your favorite word?" -"And. It is so hopeful." -... - -And you were there in the start of it all \ -and you folded your hands like little doves \ -that would fly away like an afterthought \ -and you turned to me the window light on your face \ -and you asked me something that I did not recognize \ -like a great throng of people who are not you \ -and I asked are we in a church \ -and you answered with the look on your face \ -of someone grieving something gone for years \ - but that they had been reminded of \ -by a catch in the light or in someone's voice \ -and I think maybe it could have been mine \ -and I looked away thickly my head was in jelly \ -and I didn't get an answer from you but I got one - -I looked at the man in front of us with glasses \ -he was speaking and holding a book \ -and I didn't understand him he was far away \ -and I could tell I was missing something important \ -and you nodded to yourself at something he said diff --git a/10-apollo11.txt b/10-apollo11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b6dc62 --- /dev/null +++ b/10-apollo11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,33 @@ +--- +title: 'On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +So it's the [fucking moon][]. Big deal. As if \ +you haven't seen it before, hanging in the sky \ +like a piece of [rotten meat][] nailed to the wall, + +a maudlin love letter (the i's dotted with [hearts][]) \ +tacked to the sky's door like ninety-eight theses. \ +Don't stare at it like it means anything. + +Don't give it the chance to collect meaning \ +from your hand like an old pigeon. Don't dare ascribe \ +it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say + +in your affairs. It's separated from your life \ +by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space, \ +the same distance you stepped away from time that night + +you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope \ +knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart, \ +had a nervous breakdown and started following you + +everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you're going. \ +You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer \ +and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove \ +that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn. + +[fucking moon]: 43-deathstrumpet.html +[rotten meat]: 25-roughgloves.html +[hearts]: 98-hez-proverbs.html diff --git a/11-apollo11.txt b/11-apollo11.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 07e9884..0000000 --- a/11-apollo11.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,29 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -So it's the fucking moon. Big deal. As if \ -you haven't seen it before, hanging in the sky \ -like a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall, - -a maudlin love letter (the i's dotted with hearts) \ -tacked to the sky's door like ninety-eight theses. \ -Don't stare at it like it means anything. - -Don't give it the chance to collect meaning \ -from your hand like an old pigeon. Don't dare ascribe \ -it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say - -in your affairs. It's separated from your life \ -by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space, \ -the same distance you stepped away from time that night - -you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope \ -knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart, \ -had a nervous breakdown and started following you - -everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you're going. \ -You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer \ -and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove \ -that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn. diff --git a/11-arspoetica.txt b/11-arspoetica.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a439ddd --- /dev/null +++ b/11-arspoetica.txt @@ -0,0 +1,41 @@ +--- +title: 'Ars poetica' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +What is poetry? [Poetry is.][is] Inasmuch as life is, so is poetry. Here is +the problem: life is very big and complex. Human beings are neither. We +are small, simple beings that don’t want to know all of the myriad +interactions happening all around us, within us, as a part of us, all +the hours of every day. We much prefer knowing only that which is just +in front of our faces, staring us back with a look of utter contempt. +This is why many people are depressed. + +Poetry is an attempt made by some to open up our field of view, to maybe +check on something else that isn’t staring us in the face so +contemptibly. Maybe something else is smiling at us, we think. So we +write poetry to force ourselves to look away from the [mirror][] of our +existence to see something else. + +This is generally painful. To make it less painful, poetry compresses +reality a lot to make it more consumable. It takes life, that seawater, +and boils it down and boils it down until only the salt remains, the +important parts that we can focus on and make some sense of the +senselessness of life. Poetry is life bouillon, and to thoroughly enjoy +a poem we must put that bouillon back into the seawater of life and make +a delicious soup out of it. To make this soup, to decompress the poem +into an emotion or life, requires a lot of brainpower. A good reader +will have this brainpower. A good poem will not require it. + +What this means is: a poem should be self-extracting. It should be a +rare vanilla in the bottle, waiting only for someone to open it and +sniff it and suddenly there they are, in the orchid that vanilla came +from, in the tropical land where it grew next to its brothers and sister +vanilla plants. They feel the pain of having their children taken from +them. A good poem leaves a feeling of loss and of intense beauty. The +reader does nothing to achieve this—they are merely the receptacle of +the feeling that the poem forces onto them. In a way, poetry is a crime. +But it is the most beautiful crime on this crime-ridden earth. + +[is]: 98-words-meaning.html +[mirror]: 28-moongone.html diff --git a/12-arspoetica.txt b/12-arspoetica.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 382378e..0000000 --- a/12-arspoetica.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,38 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Ars poetica' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -What is poetry? Poetry is. Inasmuch as life is, so is poetry. Here is -the problem: life is very big and complex. Human beings are neither. We -are small, simple beings that don’t want to know all of the myriad -interactions happening all around us, within us, as a part of us, all -the hours of every day. We much prefer knowing only that which is just -in front of our faces, staring us back with a look of utter contempt. -This is why many people are depressed. - -Poetry is an attempt made by some to open up our field of view, to maybe -check on something else that isn’t staring us in the face so -contemptibly. Maybe something else is smiling at us, we think. So we -write poetry to force ourselves to look away from the mirror of our -existence to see something else. - -This is generally painful. To make it less painful, poetry compresses -reality a lot to make it more consumable. It takes life, that seawater, -and boils it down and boils it down until only the salt remains, the -important parts that we can focus on and make some sense of the -senselessness of life. Poetry is life bouillon, and to thoroughly enjoy -a poem we must put that bouillon back into the seawater of life and make -a delicious soup out of it. To make this soup, to decompress the poem -into an emotion or life, requires a lot of brainpower. A good reader -will have this brainpower. A good poem will not require it. - -What this means is: a poem should be self-extracting. It should be a -rare vanilla in the bottle, waiting only for someone to open it and -sniff it and suddenly there they are, in the orchid that vanilla came -from, in the tropical land where it grew next to its brothers and sister -vanilla plants. They feel the pain of having their children taken from -them. A good poem leaves a feeling of loss and of intense beauty. The -reader does nothing to achieve this—they are merely the receptacle of -the feeling that the poem forces onto them. In a way, poetry is a crime. -But it is the most beautiful crime on this crime-ridden earth. diff --git a/12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt b/12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3a44ab --- /dev/null +++ b/12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +--- +title: 'The ocean overflows with camels' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +We found your [shirt][] deep in the dark water, \ +caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills. \ +Your head on the shore was streaming tears \ +like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved \ +from fire. The burning bush began crying \ +like a child who misses his mother. Traffic \ +slammed shut like an eye. God's mean [left hook][] \ +knocked us out, and we began swimming. \ +Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake. \ +Your [father][] beat your chest and screamed \ +for someone to open a window. The air \ +stopped breathing. Fish clogged its gills. \ +Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out \ +your father's cries, but all their sweetness \ +was not enough. No polite noises will be made \ +anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone. \ +He opened your heart to air again. Camels \ +flowed from you both like water from the rock. \ +God spoke up, but nobody listened to him. \ +We hung you up on the line to dry. + +[shirt]: 24-lovesong.html +[left hook]: 25-roughgloves.html +[father]: 15-angeltoabraham.html diff --git a/13-boar.txt b/13-boar.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6397bc2 --- /dev/null +++ b/13-boar.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28 @@ +--- +title: 'The Boar' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +Now the ticking clocks scare me. \ +The [empty][] rooms, clock towers, belfries; \ +I am terrified by them all. + +I really used to enjoy going to church, \ +singing in the choir, listening to the sermon. \ +Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs--- + +It was the boar that did it. \ +[Fifteen feet][] from me that night \ +in the grass, rooting for God \ +knows what, finding me instead. + +I ran, not knowing where or how, \ +not looking for his pursuit of me. \ +I ran to God's front door, found \ +it locked, found the [house][] empty + +with a note saying, "Condemned." + +[empty]: 31-mountain.html +[Fifteen feet]: 38-telemarketer.html +[house]: 21-i-am.html diff --git a/13-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt b/13-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 659fe7d..0000000 --- a/13-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,25 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'The ocean overflows with camels' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -We found your shirt deep in the dark water, \ -caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills. \ -Your head on the shore was streaming tears \ -like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved \ -from fire. The burning bush began crying \ -like a child who misses his mother. Traffic \ -slammed shut like an eye. God's mean left hook \ -knocked us out, and we began swimming. \ -Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake. \ -Your father beat your chest and screamed \ -for someone to open a window. The air \ -stopped breathing. Fish clogged its gills. \ -Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out \ -your father's cries, but all their sweetness \ -was not enough. No polite noises will be made \ -anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone. \ -He opened your heart to air again. Camels \ -flowed from you both like water from the rock. \ -God spoke up, but nobody listened to him. \ -We hung you up on the line to dry. diff --git a/14-boar.txt b/14-boar.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b5ac468..0000000 --- a/14-boar.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,24 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'The Boar' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -Now the ticking clocks scare me. \ -The empty rooms, clock towers, belfries; \ -I am terrified by them all. - -I really used to enjoy going to church, \ -singing in the choir, listening to the sermon. \ -Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs--- - -It was the boar that did it. \ -Fifteen feet from me that night \ -in the grass, rooting for God \ -knows what, finding me instead. - -I ran, not knowing where or how, \ -not looking for his pursuit of me. \ -I ran to God's front door, found \ -it locked, found the house empty - -with a note saying, "Condemned." diff --git a/14-deadman.txt b/14-deadman.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b692455 --- /dev/null +++ b/14-deadman.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26 @@ +--- +title: 'Dead man' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +A dead man finds his way into our [hearts][] \ +simply by opening the door and walking in. \ +He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly \ +about hunting or some bats he saw \ +on the way over, wheeling around each other. \ +Look how [they spin][], he says, it's like the \ +ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other \ +in the space between their bodies. \ +We mention the eels at the aquarium, how \ +their bodies [knot while mating][]. The dead man \ +was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots. \ +His favorite was the one with the rabbit \ +and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out \ +and around the tree. The dead man liked it \ +because he liked to pretend that the rabbit \ +was running from a fox, and the rabbit \ +always ended up safe, back in his hole. + +[hearts]: 98-words-meaning.html +[they spin]: 28-moongone.html +[knot while mating]: 34-spittle.html diff --git a/15-angeltoabraham.txt b/15-angeltoabraham.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..54d5dea --- /dev/null +++ b/15-angeltoabraham.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28 @@ +--- +title: 'The angel to Abraham' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear: \ +what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking \ +of your own grief, kill your son unknowing \ +of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing? + +Abraham, you must know or hope that [God][] \ +will not allow your son to die; you must know \ +that this is a test, but then why \ +are you so bent on Isaac's destruction? \ +Look at your eyes; there is more than fear \ +there. I see in your eyes desperation, \ +a manic passion to do right by your God \ +whom you are not able to see or know. + +Am I too late? I [will try][] to stay \ +your old hands, the knife clenched \ +within them, intent on ending life. + +Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking, \ +or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram? + +[God]: 13-boar.html +[will try]: 21-i-am.html diff --git a/15-deadman.txt b/15-deadman.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ced8ed0..0000000 --- a/15-deadman.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,22 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Dead man' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -A dead man finds his way into our hearts \ -simply by opening the door and walking in. \ -He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly \ -about hunting or some bats he saw \ -on the way over, wheeling around each other. \ -Look how they spin, he says, it's like the \ -ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other \ -in the space between their bodies. \ -We mention the eels at the aquarium, how \ -their bodies knot while mating. The dead man \ -was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots. \ -His favorite was the one with the rabbit \ -and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out \ -and around the tree. The dead man liked it \ -because he liked to pretend that the rabbit \ -was running from a fox, and the rabbit \ -always ended up safe, back in his hole. diff --git a/16-angeltoabraham.txt b/16-angeltoabraham.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cce80e1..0000000 --- a/16-angeltoabraham.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,25 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'The angel to Abraham' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear: \ -what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking \ -of your own grief, kill your son unknowing \ -of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing? - -Abraham, you must know or hope that God \ -will not allow your son to die; you must know \ -that this is a test, but then why \ -are you so bent on Isaac's destruction? \ -Look at your eyes; there is more than fear \ -there. I see in your eyes desperation, \ -a manic passion to do right by your God \ -whom you are not able to see or know. - -Am I too late? I will try to stay \ -your old hands, the knife clenched \ -within them, intent on ending life. - -Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking, \ -or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram? diff --git a/16-feedingtheraven.txt b/16-feedingtheraven.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8d569f --- /dev/null +++ b/16-feedingtheraven.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +--- +title: 'Feeding the raven' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +You never can tell just when Charlie Sheen will enter your life. For me, +it was last Thursday. I was reading some translation of a Japanese +translation of "The Raven" in which the Poe and the raven become +friends. At one point the raven gets very sick and Poe feeds him at his +bedside and nurses him back to health. The story was very heartwarming +and sad at the same time and my tears were welling up when suddenly I +heard a knock on my door. + +I shuffled over, sniffling but managing to keep my cheeks dry to open +it. Of course Charlie was beaming on the other side, with a bag of +flowers and a grin like a [dog][]'s. He bounded in the room without saying +hello and threw the flowers in the sink, opened the refrigerator and +started poking around. I said "It's nice to see you too" and went to my +room to get a camera, as well as a notebook for him to sign. + +When I came back he was on the floor, hunched and groaning. I looked on +the table to see a month-old half-gallon of milk---now cottage +cheese---half-empty and dripping. The remnants were on his mouth, and at +once I saw my chance to become Poe in this [translation of a translation][] +of a translation. I knelt next to Charlie, cradled his head in my lap. +He looked up at me with a stare full of terror. I returned it levelly, +making cooing noises at him until he calmed down. + +When he was calm he excused himself to be sick on my toilet. He wouldn't +let me follow but said he would sign whatever I liked when he got back. +After half an hour passed and all I'd had for company was the ticking of +the [clock][], I went to the bathroom door. I knocked carefully---once, then +twice---to no beaming face, no flowers. I opened the door. There was shit +on the floor and the window was open. There was a breeze blowing. + +[dog]: 98-hez-purpose-dogs.html +[translation of a translation]: 41-todaniel.html +[clock]: 13-boar.html diff --git a/17-feedingtheraven.txt b/17-feedingtheraven.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c9a2b8f..0000000 --- a/17-feedingtheraven.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,34 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Feeding the raven' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -You never can tell just when Charlie Sheen will enter your life. For me, -it was last Thursday. I was reading some translation of a Japanese -translation of "The Raven" in which the Poe and the raven become -friends. At one point the raven gets very sick and Poe feeds him at his -bedside and nurses him back to health. The story was very heartwarming -and sad at the same time and my tears were welling up when suddenly I -heard a knock on my door. - -I shuffled over, sniffling but managing to keep my cheeks dry to open -it. Of course Charlie was beaming on the other side, with a bag of -flowers and a grin like a dog's. He bounded in the room without saying -hello and threw the flowers in the sink, opened the refrigerator and -started poking around. I said "It's nice to see you too" and went to my -room to get a camera, as well as a notebook for him to sign. - -When I came back he was on the floor, hunched and groaning. I looked on -the table to see a month-old half-gallon of milk---now cottage -cheese---half-empty and dripping. The remnants were on his mouth, and at -once I saw my chance to become Poe in this translation of a translation -of a translation. I knelt next to Charlie, cradled his head in my lap. -He looked up at me with a stare full of terror. I returned it levelly, -making cooing noises at him until he calmed down. - -When he was calm he excused himself to be sick on my toilet. He wouldn't -let me follow but said he would sign whatever I liked when he got back. -After half an hour passed and all I'd had for company was the ticking of -the clock, I went to the bathroom door. I knocked carefully---once, then -twice---to no beaming face, no flowers. I opened the door. There was shit -on the floor and the window was open. There was a breeze blowing. diff --git a/19-onformalpoetry.txt b/19-onformalpoetry.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..46c2471 --- /dev/null +++ b/19-onformalpoetry.txt @@ -0,0 +1,25 @@ +--- +title: 'On formal poetry' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +I think that I could write formal poems \ +exclusively, or at least inclusive \ +with all the other stuff I write \ +I guess. Of course, I've already written \ +a few, this one included, though "formal" \ +is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form? \ +What is form anyway? I picture old \ +women counting [stitches on their knitting][knitting], \ +keeping iambs next to iambs in lines \ +as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock \ +is lumpy, poorly made: it's beginning \ +to unravel. Stresses don't line up. Syl- \ +lables forced to fit like [McNugget][] molds. \ +That cliché on the arrow? I'm aware. \ +My prepositions too---God, where's it stop? \ +The answer: never. I will never stop \ +writing poems, or hating what I write. + +[knitting]: 25-roughgloves.html +[McNugget]: 26-ronaldmcdonald.html diff --git a/20-onformalpoetry.txt b/20-onformalpoetry.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 746105d..0000000 --- a/20-onformalpoetry.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,22 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'On formal poetry' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -I think that I could write formal poems \ -exclusively, or at least inclusive \ -with all the other stuff I write \ -I guess. Of course, I've already written \ -a few, this one included, though "formal" \ -is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form? \ -What is form anyway? I picture old \ -women counting stitches on their knitting, \ -keeping iambs next to iambs in lines \ -as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock \ -is lumpy, poorly made: it's beginning \ -to unravel. Stresses don't line up. Syl- \ -lables forced to fit like McNugget molds. \ -That cliché on the arrow? I'm aware. \ -My prepositions too---God, where's it stop? \ -The answer: never. I will never stop \ -writing poems, or hating what I write. diff --git a/21-i-am.txt b/21-i-am.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..63843bf --- /dev/null +++ b/21-i-am.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26 @@ +--- +title: 'I am' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +I am a great pillar of [white smoke][]. \ +I am Lot's nameless wife encased in salt. \ +I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans \ +with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist. \ +I am the nail that holds my house together. \ +It is a strong house, built on a good foundation. \ +In the winter, it is warm and crawling things \ +cannot get in. This house will never burn down. \ +It is the house that I built, with my body \ +and with my strength. I am the only one who lives \ +here. I am both father and mother to a race \ +of dust motes that worship me as a god. I have \ +monuments built daily in my honor in dark \ +corners around the house. I destroy all of them \ +before I go to bed, but in the morning \ +there are still more. I don't think I know \ +where all of them are. I [don't think][not think] I can get \ +to all of them anymore. There are too many. + +[white smoke]: 43-deathstrumpet.html +[not think]: 22-howithappened.html diff --git a/22-howithappened.txt b/22-howithappened.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..89a6932 --- /dev/null +++ b/22-howithappened.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24 @@ +--- +title: 'How it happened' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +I was away on vacation when I heard--- \ +someone sat at my desk while I was away. \ +They took my pen, while I was taking \ +surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky. \ +They pre-approved the earth and the waters, \ +and all of the living things, without even \ +having the decency to text me. It was not I \ +who was behind the phrase "creeping things." \ +When I got back, of course I was pissed, \ +but it was [already written][] into the policy. \ +I'm just saying: don't blame me for Cain \ +killing Abel. That was a murder. I'm not a cop. \ +The Tower of Babel fell on its own. The ark \ +never saw a single drop of rain. I'm [the drunk][] \ +sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants, \ +holding up a sign asking where I am. + +[already written]: 33-shipwright.html +[the drunk]: 98-hez-problems.html diff --git a/22-i-am.txt b/22-i-am.txt deleted file mode 100644 index da36507..0000000 --- a/22-i-am.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,23 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'I am' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -I am a great pillar of white smoke. \ -I am Lot's nameless wife encased in salt. \ -I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans \ -with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist. \ -I am the nail that holds my house together. \ -It is a strong house, built on a good foundation. \ -In the winter, it is warm and crawling things \ -cannot get in. This house will never burn down. \ -It is the house that I built, with my body \ -and with my strength. I am the only one who lives \ -here. I am both father and mother to a race \ -of dust motes that worship me as a god. I have \ -monuments built daily in my honor in dark \ -corners around the house. I destroy all of them \ -before I go to bed, but in the morning \ -there are still more. I don't think I know \ -where all of them are. I don't think I can get \ -to all of them anymore. There are too many. diff --git a/23-howithappened.txt b/23-howithappened.txt deleted file mode 100644 index dbadb1c..0000000 --- a/23-howithappened.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'How it happened' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -I was away on vacation when I heard--- \ -someone sat at my desk while I was away. \ -They took my pen, while I was taking \ -surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky. \ -They pre-approved the earth and the waters, \ -and all of the living things, without even \ -having the decency to text me. It was not I \ -who was behind the phrase "creeping things." \ -When I got back, of course I was pissed, \ -but it was already written into the policy. \ -I'm just saying: don't blame me for Cain \ -killing Abel. That was a murder. I'm not a cop. \ -The Tower of Babel fell on its own. The ark \ -never saw a single drop of rain. I'm the drunk \ -sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants, \ -holding up a sign asking where I am. diff --git a/24-lovesong.txt b/24-lovesong.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..675ead1 --- /dev/null +++ b/24-lovesong.txt @@ -0,0 +1,30 @@ +--- +title: 'Love Song' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +Walking along in the dark is a good way to begin a song. Walking home in +the dark after a long day chasing criminals is another. Running away +from an imagined evil is no way to begin a story. + +I am telling you this because you wanted to know what it's like to tell +something so beautiful everyone will cry. I am telling you because I +want you to know what it is to keep everything inside of you. I am +telling you. + +Can you see? Can you see into me and reach in your hand and pull me +inside out, like an [old shirt][]? Will you wear me until I unravel on your +shoulders, will you cut me apart and use my skin to clean up the cola +you spill on the floor when you're drunk? + +I want you to know that I want you to know. Do you want me? To know is +to know. I, you want we. We want. That is why we're here. To want is to +be is to want and I want you. Do you also? Check yes or no. + +There is a way to end every story, [every song][]. Every criminal must be +caught. Even those who cry dry their tears. I cannot tell you all I want +because I want to tell you everything. There is no art because there is +no mirror big enough. We wake up every day. Sometimes we sleep. + +[old shirt]: 26-ronaldmcdonald.html +[every song]: 37-swansong.html diff --git a/25-lovesong.txt b/25-lovesong.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 47738e6..0000000 --- a/25-lovesong.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,27 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Love Song' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -Walking along in the dark is a good way to begin a song. Walking home in -the dark after a long day chasing criminals is another. Running away -from an imagined evil is no way to begin a story. - -I am telling you this because you wanted to know what it's like to tell -something so beautiful everyone will cry. I am telling you because I -want you to know what it is to keep everything inside of you. I am -telling you. - -Can you see? Can you see into me and reach in your hand and pull me -inside out, like an old shirt? Will you wear me until I unravel on your -shoulders, will you cut me apart and use my skin to clean up the cola -you spill on the floor when you're drunk? - -I want you to know that I want you to know. Do you want me? To know is -to know. I, you want we. We want. That is why we're here. To want is to -be is to want and I want you. Do you also? Check yes or no. - -There is a way to end every story, every song. Every criminal must be -caught. Even those who cry dry their tears. I cannot tell you all I want -because I want to tell you everything. There is no art because there is -no mirror big enough. We wake up every day. Sometimes we sleep. diff --git a/25-roughgloves.txt b/25-roughgloves.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cafd5e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/25-roughgloves.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23 @@ +--- +title: 'Rough gloves' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +I lost my hands & knit replacement ones \ +from spiders' threads, stronger than steel but soft \ +as lambs' wool. Catching as they do on nails \ +& your collarbone, you don't seem to like \ +their rough warm presence on your [cheek or thigh][]. \ +I've asked you if you minded, you've said no \ +(your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread \ +so stale it could [break a hand][]). Remember \ +your senile mother's face above that table? \ +I'd say she got the meaning of that look. \ +You'd rather not be touched by these rough gloves, \ +the only way I have to knit a love \ +against whatever winters we may enter \ +like a silkworm in a spider's blackened [maw][]. + +[cheek or thigh]: 16-feedingtheraven.html +[break a hand]: 40-weplayedthosegamestoo.html +[maw]: 32-serengeti.html diff --git a/26-ronaldmcdonald.txt b/26-ronaldmcdonald.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1094b7b --- /dev/null +++ b/26-ronaldmcdonald.txt @@ -0,0 +1,38 @@ +--- +title: 'Ronald McDonald' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +When Ronald McDonald takes off his [striped shirt][], \ +his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks \ +like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women + +in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery, \ +is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick \ +a soccer ball around with the kids in the park, + +is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries \ +he gets for his fifty percent off? I'd like to think \ +that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him + +in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk. \ +I'd like to believe that we are able to slough off selves \ +like old skin and still retain some base self. + +Of course we all know this is not what happens. \ +The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who \ +the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head. + +He is the same that hugs his children at night, \ +who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they're \ +not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding + +a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot \ +take off the facepaint or the [yellow gloves][]. They are \ +stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar + +of his everyday associations. His plight is that \ +of everyone's---we are what we do who we are. + +[striped shirt]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html +[yellow gloves]: 25-roughgloves.html diff --git a/26-roughgloves.txt b/26-roughgloves.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3824799..0000000 --- a/26-roughgloves.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Rough gloves' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -I lost my hands & knit replacement ones \ -from spiders' threads, stronger than steel but soft \ -as lambs' wool. Catching as they do on nails \ -& your collarbone, you don't seem to like \ -their rough warm presence on your cheek or thigh. \ -I've asked you if you minded, you've said no \ -(your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread \ -so stale it could break a hand). Remember \ -your senile mother's face above that table? \ -I'd say she got the meaning of that look. \ -You'd rather not be touched by these rough gloves, \ -the only way I have to knit a love \ -against whatever winters we may enter \ -like a silkworm in a spider's blackened maw. diff --git a/27-ronaldmcdonald.txt b/27-ronaldmcdonald.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 03a0858..0000000 --- a/27-ronaldmcdonald.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,35 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Ronald McDonald' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -When Ronald McDonald takes off his striped shirt, \ -his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks \ -like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women - -in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery, \ -is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick \ -a soccer ball around with the kids in the park, - -is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries \ -he gets for his fifty percent off? I'd like to think \ -that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him - -in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk. \ -I'd like to believe that we are able to slough off selves \ -like old skin and still retain some base self. - -Of course we all know this is not what happens. \ -The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who \ -the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head. - -He is the same that hugs his children at night, \ -who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they're \ -not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding - -a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot \ -take off the facepaint or the yellow gloves. They are \ -stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar - -of his everyday associations. His plight is that \ -of everyone's---we are what we do who we are. diff --git a/28-moongone.txt b/28-moongone.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d3c50c --- /dev/null +++ b/28-moongone.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19 @@ +--- +title: 'The moon is gone and in its place a mirror' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +The moon is gone and in its place a mirror. Looking at the night sky now +yields nothing but the viewer's own face as viewed from a million miles, +surrounded by the landscape he is only vaguely aware of being surrounded +by. He believes that he is [alone][], surrounded by desert and mountain, but +behind him---he now sees it---someone is sneaking up on him. He spins around +fast, but no one is there on [Earth][]. He looks back up and they are yet +closer in the night sky. Again he looks over his shoulder but there is +nothing, not even a desert mouse. As he looks up again he realizes it's +a cloud above him, which due to optics has looked like someone else. The +cloud blocks out the moon which is now a mirror, and the viewer is +completely alone. + +[alone]: 10-apollo11.html +[Earth]: 32-serengeti.html diff --git a/29-moongone.txt b/29-moongone.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4f97fff..0000000 --- a/29-moongone.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'The moon is gone and in its place a mirror' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -The moon is gone and in its place a mirror. Looking at the night sky now -yields nothing but the viewer's own face as viewed from a million miles, -surrounded by the landscape he is only vaguely aware of being surrounded -by. He believes that he is alone, surrounded by desert and mountain, but -behind him---he now sees it---someone is sneaking up on him. He spins around -fast, but no one is there on Earth. He looks back up and they are yet -closer in the night sky. Again he looks over his shoulder but there is -nothing, not even a desert mouse. As he looks up again he realizes it's -a cloud above him, which due to optics has looked like someone else. The -cloud blocks out the moon which is now a mirror, and the viewer is -completely alone. diff --git a/31-mountain.txt b/31-mountain.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa1d938 --- /dev/null +++ b/31-mountain.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +--- +title: 'Mountain' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +The other side of this mountain \ +is not the mountain. This side \ +is honey-golden, sticky-sweet, \ +full of phone conversations with mother. \ +The other side is a bell, \ +ringing in the church-steeple \ +the day mother died. + +The other side of the mountain \ +[is not a mountain. It is a dark][apollo] \ +valley crossed by a river. \ +There is a ferry at the bottom. + +This mountain is not a mountain. \ +I walked to the top, but it turned \ +and was only a shelf halfway up. \ +I felt like an unused Bible \ +sitting on a [dusty pew][]. + +A hawk soars over the mountain. \ +She is looking for home. + +[apollo]: 10-apollo11.html +[dusty pew]: 08-and.html diff --git a/32-mountain.txt b/32-mountain.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 64e15fe..0000000 --- a/32-mountain.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,26 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Mountain' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -The other side of this mountain \ -is not the mountain. This side \ -is honey-golden, sticky-sweet, \ -full of phone conversations with mother. \ -The other side is a bell, \ -ringing in the church-steeple \ -the day mother died. - -The other side of the mountain \ -is not a mountain. It is a dark \ -valley crossed by a river. \ -There is a ferry at the bottom. - -This mountain is not a mountain. \ -I walked to the top, but it turned \ -and was only a shelf halfway up. \ -I felt like an unused Bible \ -sitting on a dusty pew. - -A hawk soars over the mountain. \ -She is looking for home. diff --git a/32-serengeti.txt b/32-serengeti.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8dd4c1 --- /dev/null +++ b/32-serengeti.txt @@ -0,0 +1,22 @@ +--- +title: 'Serengeti' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +The self is a serengeti \ +a wide grassland with baobab trees \ +reaching their roots deep into earth \ +like a child into a clay pot \ +A wind blows there or seems to blow \ +if he holds it up to his ear the air shifts \ +like stones in a stream uncovering a crawfish \ +it finds another hiding place watching you \ +Its eyes are blacker than wind \ +on the serengeti they are the [eyes of a predator][formal] \ +they are coming toward you or receding \ +a storm cloud builds on the horizon \ +Are you [running][] toward the rain or away from it \ +Do you stand still and crouch hoping for silence + +[formal]: 19-onformalpoetry.html +[running]: 35-squirrel.html diff --git a/33-serengeti.txt b/33-serengeti.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7f13011..0000000 --- a/33-serengeti.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,19 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Serengeti' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -The self is a serengeti \ -a wide grassland with baobab trees \ -reaching their roots deep into earth \ -like a child into a clay pot \ -A wind blows there or seems to blow \ -if he holds it up to his ear the air shifts \ -like stones in a stream uncovering a crawfish \ -it finds another hiding place watching you \ -Its eyes are blacker than wind \ -on the serengeti they are the eyes of a predator \ -they are coming toward you or receding \ -a storm cloud builds on the horizon \ -Are you running toward the rain or away from it \ -Do you stand still and crouch hoping for silence diff --git a/33-shipwright.txt b/33-shipwright.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04a30e7 --- /dev/null +++ b/33-shipwright.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26 @@ +--- +title: 'Shipwright' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +He builds a ship as if it were the last thing \ +holding him together, as if, when he stops, \ +his body will fall onto the plate-glass water \ +and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up \ +he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles [louder][] \ +and taunts him: Your ship will build itself \ +if you throw yourself into the sea; time \ +has a way of growing your beard for you. \ +Soon, you'll find yourself on a rocking chair \ +on some porch made from your ship's timbers. \ +The window behind you is made from a sail, thick \ +canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling \ +for milk or a chamberpot. Your children \ +will have all sailed to the New World and left you. \ +But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer \ +nail after nail into timber after timber, \ +but the wind [finally blows][] him into the growling ocean \ +and the ship falls apart on its own. + +[louder]: 10-apollo11.html +[finally blows]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html diff --git a/34-shipwright.txt b/34-shipwright.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 81f5c91..0000000 --- a/34-shipwright.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,23 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Shipwright' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -He builds a ship as if it were the last thing \ -holding him together, as if, when he stops, \ -his body will fall onto the plate-glass water \ -and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up \ -he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles louder \ -and taunts him: Your ship will build itself \ -if you throw yourself into the sea; time \ -has a way of growing your beard for you. \ -Soon, you'll find yourself on a rocking chair \ -on some porch made from your ship's timbers. \ -The window behind you is made from a sail, thick \ -canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling \ -for milk or a chamberpot. Your children \ -will have all sailed to the New World and left you. \ -But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer \ -nail after nail into timber after timber, \ -but the wind finally blows him into the growling ocean \ -and the ship falls apart on its own. diff --git a/34-spittle.txt b/34-spittle.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a9d7aea --- /dev/null +++ b/34-spittle.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19 @@ +--- +title: 'Spittle' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought. \ +When you turn away from me, my thought is broken \ +and forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool. \ +Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. [God][] \ +is a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has some \ +vestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark, \ +and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyed \ +romantic, crying softly into his [shirt-sleeve][]? Is not reason \ +a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory? \ +I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to become \ +a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion. + +[God]: 22-howithappened.html +[shirt-sleeve]: 24-lovesong.html diff --git a/35-spittle.txt b/35-spittle.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 58dccf2..0000000 --- a/35-spittle.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Spittle' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought. \ -When you turn away from me, my thought is broken \ -and forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool. \ -Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. God \ -is a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has some \ -vestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark, \ -and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyed \ -romantic, crying softly into his shirt-sleeve? Is not reason \ -a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory? \ -I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to become \ -a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion. diff --git a/35-squirrel.txt b/35-squirrel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61167a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/35-squirrel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24 @@ +--- +title: 'Squirrel' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +He is so full in himself: \ +how far down the branch to run, \ +how long to jump, when to grab the air \ +and catch in it and turn, and land on branch \ +so gracefully it's like dying, alone \ +and warm in a bed next to a summer window \ +and the [birds singing][]. And on that branch there \ +is the squirrel dancing among the branches \ +and you think *What if he fell?* but he won't \ +because he's a squirrel and that's what \ +they do, [dance][] and never fall. It was erased \ +long ago from the squirrel, even \ +the possibility of falling was erased \ +from his being by the slow inexorable evolution \ +of squirrels, that is why all squirrels \ +are so full in themselves, full in who they are. + +[birds singing]: 31-mountain.html +[dance]: 98-hez-movingsideways.html diff --git a/36-squirrel.txt b/36-squirrel.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 610b40d..0000000 --- a/36-squirrel.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Squirrel' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -He is so full in himself: \ -how far down the branch to run, \ -how long to jump, when to grab the air \ -and catch in it and turn, and land on branch \ -so gracefully it's like dying, alone \ -and warm in a bed next to a summer window \ -and the birds singing. And on that branch there \ -is the squirrel dancing among the branches \ -and you think What if he fell? but he won't \ -because he's a squirrel and that's what \ -they do, dance and never fall. It was erased \ -long ago from the squirrel, even \ -the possibility of falling was erased \ -from his being by the slow inexorable evolution \ -of squirrels, that is why all squirrels \ -are so full in themselves, full in who they are. diff --git a/37-swansong.txt b/37-swansong.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eb25357 --- /dev/null +++ b/37-swansong.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24 @@ +--- +title: 'Swan song' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +Swans fly overhead singing goodbye \ +to we [walkers of the earth][ithappened]. You point \ +to them in formation, you tell me \ +you are not you. You are the air the swans \ +walk on as they journey like pilgrims \ +to a temple in the south. A curtain \ +there separates me from you, swans \ +from the air they fly through. I say \ +that you are no longer the temple, \ +that you have been through fire \ +and are now less than ash. You are \ +a [mirror][] of me, the [air without a swan][trumpet]. \ +Together, we are each other. You \ +and I have both nothing and everything \ +at once. We own the world and nothing in it. + +[ithappened]: 22-howithappened.html +[mirror]: 28-moongone.html +[trumpet]: 43-deathstrumpet.html diff --git a/38-swansong.txt b/38-swansong.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c59ec0c..0000000 --- a/38-swansong.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,20 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Swan song' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -Swans fly overhead singing goodbye \ -to we walkers of the earth. You point \ -to them in formation, you tell me \ -you are not you. You are the air the swans \ -walk on as they journey like pilgrims \ -to a temple in the south. A curtain \ -there separates me from you, swans \ -from the air they fly through. I say \ -that you are no longer the temple, \ -that you have been through fire \ -and are now less than ash. You are \ -a mirror of me, the air without a swan. \ -Together, we are each other. You \ -and I have both nothing and everything \ -at once. We own the world and nothing in it. diff --git a/38-telemarketer.txt b/38-telemarketer.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d3899e --- /dev/null +++ b/38-telemarketer.txt @@ -0,0 +1,77 @@ +--- +title: 'Telemarketer' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +It was one of those nameless gray buildings that could be seen from the +street only if Larry craned his neck to almost vertical. He never had, +of course, having heard when he first arrived in the city that only +tourists unaccustomed to tall buildings did so. He'd never thought about +it until he'd heard the social injunction against such a thing; it was +now one of the things he thought about almost every day as he rode to +and from work in gritty blue buses. + +Inside the building, the constant sound of recirculating dry air made +Larry feel as though he were at some beach in hell, listening to the +[ocean][], or more accurately at a gift shop in a landlocked state in hell +listening to the ocean as represented by the sound a conch shell makes +when he holds it up to his ear. The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs +overhead sounded like the hot sun bearing down all day in this metaphor, +a favorite of Larry's. + +His cubicle was made of that cheap, grayish-blue plywood that cubicles +are made of; inside it, his computer sat on his desk as Larry liked to +think an [eagle perched][] on a mountainous crag much like the crag that was +his desktop wallpaper. The walls were unadorned except for a few +tacked-up papers in report covers explaining his script. When Larry made +a call to a potential customer it always went the same way: + +"Hi, Mr/Mrs (customer's name). My name is Larry and I'm with (client's +name), and was just wondering if I could have a minute of your time?" + +"Oh, no, sir; I don't want whatever it is you're selling." (customer +terminates call). + +Larry had only ever read the first line of the script on the wall. +Sometimes he had an urge to read more of it, to be ready when a customer +expressed interest in whatever it was Larry was selling, but something +in him---he liked to think it was an actor's intuition that told him it +was best to improvise, though he worried it was the futility of it---kept +him from reading further into the script. So when Jane said, "Sure, I +have nothing better to do," he was thrown completely off guard. + +"Um, alright Mrs ... Mrs. Loring, I was wondering---" + +"It's Ms, not Mrs. Em ess. Miz. No ‘r,' Larry." She sounded patient, as +if she were used to correcting people about the particulars of her +title. But how often can that happen? Larry thought, and he was suddenly +deeply confused. + +"Oh, sorry, ma'am, uh, Miz Loring, but I wanted to know whether you'd +like to, ah, buy some…" Larry put his head in his hand and started +twirling his hair in his finger, a nervous habit he'd had since +childhood, and closed his eyes tightly. "Why don't you have anything +better to do?" + +Immediately he knew it was the wrong question. Even before the silence +on the other end moved past impatience and into stunned, Larry had a +mini-drama written and staged within his mind: she would call customer +service and complain loudly into the representative's ear. The rep would +send a memo to the head of telemarketing requesting disciplinary action, +and the head would delegate the action to Larry's immediate supervisor, +David. David would saunter over to Larry's cubicle sometime within the +next week, depending on when he got the memo and when he felt like +crossing fifty feet of office space, and have one of what David liked to +call "chats" but what Larry knew were lectures. After about half an hour +of "chatting" David would give Larry a warning and ask him to come in +for overtime to make up for the discretion, and walk back slowly to his +office, making small talk with the cubicled workers on the way. The +world suddenly felt too small for Larry, or he too big for it. + +Quietly, with the same patience but with a [bigger pain][], Jane said, "My +husband just left me and I thought you could take my mind off of him for +just a minute," and hung up. + +[ocean]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html +[eagle perched]: 31-mountain.html +[bigger pain]: 11-arspoetica.html diff --git a/39-telemarketer.txt b/39-telemarketer.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ef9dd27..0000000 --- a/39-telemarketer.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,73 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Telemarketer' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -It was one of those nameless gray buildings that could be seen from the -street only if Larry craned his neck to almost vertical. He never had, -of course, having heard when he first arrived in the city that only -tourists unaccustomed to tall buildings did so. He'd never thought about -it until he'd heard the social injunction against such a thing; it was -now one of the things he thought about almost every day as he rode to -and from work in gritty blue buses. - -Inside the building, the constant sound of recirculating dry air made -Larry feel as though he were at some beach in hell, listening to the -ocean, or more accurately at a gift shop in a landlocked state in hell -listening to the ocean as represented by the sound a conch shell makes -when he holds it up to his ear. The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs -overhead sounded like the hot sun bearing down all day in this metaphor, -a favorite of Larry's. - -His cubicle was made of that cheap, grayish-blue plywood that cubicles -are made of; inside it, his computer sat on his desk as Larry liked to -think an eagle perched on a mountainous crag much like the crag that was -his desktop wallpaper. The walls were unadorned except for a few -tacked-up papers in report covers explaining his script. When Larry made -a call to a potential customer it always went the same way: - -"Hi, Mr/Mrs (customer's name). My name is Larry and I'm with (client's -name), and was just wondering if I could have a minute of your time?" - -"Oh, no, sir; I don't want whatever it is you're selling." (customer -terminates call). - -Larry had only ever read the first line of the script on the wall. -Sometimes he had an urge to read more of it, to be ready when a customer -expressed interest in whatever it was Larry was selling, but something -in him---he liked to think it was an actor's intuition that told him it -was best to improvise, though he worried it was the futility of it---kept -him from reading further into the script. So when Jane said, "Sure, I -have nothing better to do," he was thrown completely off guard. - -"Um, alright Mrs…Mrs. Loring, I was wondering---" - -"It's Ms, not Mrs. em ess. Miz. No ‘r,' Larry." She sounded patient, as -if she were used to correcting people about the particulars of her -title. But how often can that happen? Larry thought, and he was suddenly -deeply confused. - -"Oh, sorry, ma'am, uh, Miz Loring, but I wanted to know whether you'd -like to, ah, buy some…" Larry put his head in his hand and started -twirling his hair in his finger, a nervous habit he'd had since -childhood, and closed his eyes tightly. "Why don't you have anything -better to do?" - -Immediately he knew it was the wrong question. Even before the silence -on the other end moved past impatience and into stunned, Larry had a -mini-drama written and staged within his mind: she would call customer -service and complain loudly into the representative's ear. The rep would -send a memo to the head of telemarketing requesting disciplinary action, -and the head would delegate the action to Larry's immediate supervisor, -David. David would saunter over to Larry's cubicle sometime within the -next week, depending on when he got the memo and when he felt like -crossing fifty feet of office space, and have one of what David liked to -call "chats" but what Larry knew were lectures. After about half an hour -of "chatting" David would give Larry a warning and ask him to come in -for overtime to make up for the discretion, and walk back slowly to his -office, making small talk with the cubicled workers on the way. The -world suddenly felt too small for Larry, or he too big for it. - -Quietly, with the same patience but with a bigger pain, Jane said, "My -husband just left me and I thought you could take my mind off of him for -just a minute," and hung up. diff --git a/40-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt b/40-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9dd274 --- /dev/null +++ b/40-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt @@ -0,0 +1,29 @@ +--- +title: 'We played those games too' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game \ +blowing on each other's' vocal chords to make music \ +on the tundra. I thought about how \ +once we played the same game \ +and the sounds blowing over the chords of our throats \ +was the same as a wind over frozen prairie. \ +We are the Eskimo girls who played \ +the game that night to keep ourselves warm. \ +I run my hands over [my daughter][]'s \ +voicebox as she hums a song \ +about a seal and about killing the seal and about \ +skinning it and rendering the blubber \ +into clear oil to light lamps. \ +I remember you are my lamp. She remembers \ +you although you left before she arrived. \ +I can never tell her about you. \ +I will never be able to express that taste of your oil \ +as we [pushed our throats together][spittle]. \ +I will never be able to say how \ +we share this blemish like conjoined twins. \ +I will fail you always to remember you. + +[my daughter]: 08-and.html +[spittle]: 34-spittle.html diff --git a/41-todaniel.txt b/41-todaniel.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcbc67d --- /dev/null +++ b/41-todaniel.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24 @@ +--- +title: 'To Daniel: an elaboration of a previous comment' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +... + +There are more modern ideals of beauty \ +than yours, young padowan. Jessica has \ +some assets, that I'll give you easily, \ +but in my women I prefer pizzazz. + +I don't want to bring you down, or make you think \ +[that your perfected woman isn't so][trumpet]. \ +It's just that, like Adam said, 2006 \ +has come and gone. What did she do + +in that year anyway? IMDB \ +has, surprisingly, none, though in '05 \ +she's in four titles. Sin City \ +I've never seen, although from many I've + +heard it's good. But it's still irrelevant--- \ +no matter how comely, she lacks talent. + +[trumpet]: 43-deathstrumpet.html diff --git a/41-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt b/41-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fef8154..0000000 --- a/41-weplayedthosegamestoo.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,26 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'We played those games too' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game \ -blowing on each other's' vocal chords to make music \ -on the tundra. I thought about how \ -once we played the same game \ -and the sounds blowing over the chords of our throats \ -was the same as a wind over frozen prairie. \ -We are the Eskimo girls who played \ -the game that night to keep ourselves warm. \ -I run my hands over my daughter's \ -voicebox as she hums a song \ -about a seal and about killing the seal and about \ -skinning it and rendering the blubber \ -into clear oil to light lamps. \ -I remember you are my lamp. She remembers \ -you although you left before she arrived. \ -I can never tell her about you. \ -I will never be able to express that taste of your oil \ -as we pushed our throats together. \ -I will never be able to say how \ -we share this blemish like conjoined twins. \ -I will fail you always to remember you. diff --git a/42-todaniel.txt b/42-todaniel.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eb33e69..0000000 --- a/42-todaniel.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,22 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'To Daniel: an elaboration of a previous comment' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -... - -There are more modern ideals of beauty \ -than yours, young padowan. Jessica has \ -some assets, that I'll give you easily, \ -but in my women I prefer pizzazz. - -I don't want to bring you down, or make you think \ -that your perfected woman isn't so. \ -It's just that, like Adam said, 2006 \ -has come and gone. What did she do - -in that year anyway? IMDB \ -has, surprisingly, none, though in '05 \ -she's in four titles. Sin City \ -I've never seen, although from many I've - -heard it's good. But it's still irrelevant--- \ -no matter how comely, she lacks talent. diff --git a/43-deathstrumpet.txt b/43-deathstrumpet.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5069904 --- /dev/null +++ b/43-deathstrumpet.txt @@ -0,0 +1,35 @@ +--- +title: 'Death's Trumpet' +project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' +epigraph: 'So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.' +epigraph-credit: 'Larry Levis' +... + +He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \ +top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \ +begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese. + +He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \ +it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized \ +it was a terrible metaphor. \ +He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do? + +Death looks at [himself in the mirror][moongone] as he plays. \ +The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules. \ +Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \ +but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough. \ +Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone. + +He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later. \ +He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy \ +since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two. \ +The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke. \ +He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there, + +there's only a [little boy][] with dead eyes. So far so good. \ +He's playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him \ +and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid's good. \ +Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand. + +[moongone]: 28-moongone.html +[little boy]: 15-angeltoabraham.html diff --git a/44-deathstrumpet.txt b/44-deathstrumpet.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c549c78..0000000 --- a/44-deathstrumpet.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,32 +0,0 @@ ---- -title: 'Death's Trumpet' -project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves' -epigraph: 'So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.' -epigraph-credit: 'Larry Levis' -... - -He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \ -top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \ -begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese. - -He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \ -it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized \ -it was a terrible metaphor. \ -He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do? - -Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays. \ -The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules. \ -Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \ -but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough. \ -Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone. - -He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later. \ -He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy \ -since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two. \ -The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke. \ -He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there, - -there's only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good. \ -He's playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him \ -and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid's good. \ -Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand. diff --git a/TODO.txt b/TODO.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0030650 --- /dev/null +++ b/TODO.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7 @@ +TODO: +----- + +* add in prose stuff from Elegies +* remove numbers from filenames & links +* add genre to YAML metadata blocks + diff --git a/index.html b/index.html index 9b86bb1..6c72ae9 100644 --- a/index.html +++ b/index.html @@ -8,6 +8,7 @@

Content goes here, natch. For example, the README of the whatever is - here. + here. And + a list of what still needs to be done.

-- cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81