Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
For the clowns
Spoke the Hub is now offering a clowning workshop! I wish I had the time and/or money to partake.
Bargello
I went to Florence in October, after visiting my brother in Milan. “Florence: We’re More than Just the Renaissance” seemed to be the city slogan. Still, I wanted to see the museums. I took a trip to the Bargello, which houses Donatello’s David, skipping Michaelangelo’s masterpiece all together.
As I looked at him—beautiful, sensuous, conceited—I listened to a British woman (sleek, silver bobbed hair) discuss the piece with her messy redhead granddaughter, freckled and bespectacled, 11 or 12 at most.
“What do you think?” the elder asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how does it make you feel?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“If he were to talk to you, what would he say?”
A pause.
“Would it help if I told you what I think?”
Silence.
“Well,” the grandmother continued, “I think he’s very sexy.” The girl snickered. “And look at how his hand is on his hip. Isn’t it effeminate? I think he’s quite satisfied with himself. And who’s he standing on? What is that?”
“A body. No. A head.”
“Whose head?”
“Another king’s?”
“What’s in his hand?”
“A rock.”
“And what did David use his slingshot for?”
“Oh! Goliath.”
“Right. And look at how he’s standing. I think it says ‘don’t fuck with me.’”
As I looked at him—beautiful, sensuous, conceited—I listened to a British woman (sleek, silver bobbed hair) discuss the piece with her messy redhead granddaughter, freckled and bespectacled, 11 or 12 at most.
“What do you think?” the elder asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how does it make you feel?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“If he were to talk to you, what would he say?”
A pause.
“Would it help if I told you what I think?”
Silence.
“Well,” the grandmother continued, “I think he’s very sexy.” The girl snickered. “And look at how his hand is on his hip. Isn’t it effeminate? I think he’s quite satisfied with himself. And who’s he standing on? What is that?”
“A body. No. A head.”
“Whose head?”
“Another king’s?”
“What’s in his hand?”
“A rock.”
“And what did David use his slingshot for?”
“Oh! Goliath.”
“Right. And look at how he’s standing. I think it says ‘don’t fuck with me.’”
Friday, March 24, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Diseased Articles
In Grammar class last night we were talking about articles and why certain proper nouns take the definite article and others don't. One reason is shared situational-cultural knowlege. We use "the" when all members of the discourse know about the noun, as in the sun, the moon, the diner, etc. A lengthy discussion ensued regarding diseases.
Why do we say the mumps, the measles, and the plague but not the AIDS or the cancer? What's so strange and silly about saying "I've got the cancer"? (One person pointed out that Forrest Gump said his mother had the cancer.)
One hypothesis was related to historical linguistics. At some point in time many people got measles, mumps, and black plague, so it became shared cultural knowledge and thus took on the definite article. Perhaps, then, as AIDS and cancer become even more embedded in society, they will also take on "the."
Do I smell a research project?
Why do we say the mumps, the measles, and the plague but not the AIDS or the cancer? What's so strange and silly about saying "I've got the cancer"? (One person pointed out that Forrest Gump said his mother had the cancer.)
One hypothesis was related to historical linguistics. At some point in time many people got measles, mumps, and black plague, so it became shared cultural knowledge and thus took on the definite article. Perhaps, then, as AIDS and cancer become even more embedded in society, they will also take on "the."
Do I smell a research project?
Modern Life of the Soul
Overheard at the Munch retrospective at MoMA:
Mother: What’s wrong?
Teenage Son: [Eyes blank, shrugging] I just wouldn’t put any of these paintings in my house, that’s all I’m saying.
Oh c’mon, what’s a home without a little melancholy, despair, and sexual humiliation?
(Another hopefully-beefier overheard in the works for next week.)
Mother: What’s wrong?
Teenage Son: [Eyes blank, shrugging] I just wouldn’t put any of these paintings in my house, that’s all I’m saying.
Oh c’mon, what’s a home without a little melancholy, despair, and sexual humiliation?
(Another hopefully-beefier overheard in the works for next week.)
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
55birds
Rosemary, of Bird and Moon fame, has posted two of my 55-word stories on her journal, 55birds. It's a project devoted to stories of 55 words--no more, no less. The form is great fun. Try it sometime.
snippet: The Anniversary
Luda smoothed the shirt on the hanger and hung it in the closet. Her eyes lingered on no particular spot there, just her family’s clothing bunched together, a row of hangers clutching a pole: her husband’s good suit, her good dress, and little Mia’s weekend outfit and alternate school uniform, all hanging limp. It was early afternoon but the clouds outside were so dense and full with rain that it felt much later. She sighed and closed the door.
The sounds of the youngest school children began wafting up through the large concrete yard, through the open window in the kitchen. Luda put the kettle on and cut a slice of bread, spread goose fat on it and waited for Mia. She had started first grade a week ago and no longer required her mother’s company.
Luda adjusted the pins in her hair and wiped her hands on her apron. The door unlatched and there was Mia, her red hair wild and bow askew, red-cheeked and breathless.
“Hello little devil,” Luda said. She resisted the urge to scoop her up and give her kisses. “Come here and have a snack.”
Mia shut the door and went to the table. Luda poured her some tea and Mia swung her legs as she chewed on the black bread. She chattered about her day between bites and Luda reminded her to swallow before opening her mouth to speak. Mia finished her snack in silence (still swinging her legs) and Luda adjusted her bow.
A few hours later Matei came home. Matei was a tailor. He shared a shop with another tailor and he often brought home his work, which Luda helped with. Usually they would exchange a kiss and have a quiet dinner before setting down to work. They would sit side-by-side, mending and altering, taking turns at their major investment, the Singer.
Today, however, was the fifth anniversary. Luda could not look at Matei. She looked above him, beside him, at his forehead, his nose (growing a hump beneath his square glasses), at his ears. She looked at the corners of the kitchen, her fork, her spoon, her soup, the table. She wondered if he noticed this behavior, and its steady yearly recurrence. If he did, he had the tact not to say anything. The tact or the fear. She wasn’t sure. She worried that he knew and did not say, but perhaps he knew that she thought he knew.
After dinner Luda checked on Mia’s homework and put her to bed on the cot in the living room. Then she went into the bedroom and lay down. She stared into the darkness and listened to the stuttering of the Singer. She listened to the rhythm of Matei’s work, as well as the silences, and wondered if in those pauses, he was looking up, staring at no particular point on the wall and thinking of her. She smiled at this image, then put her hands on her belly and cried.
The sounds of the youngest school children began wafting up through the large concrete yard, through the open window in the kitchen. Luda put the kettle on and cut a slice of bread, spread goose fat on it and waited for Mia. She had started first grade a week ago and no longer required her mother’s company.
Luda adjusted the pins in her hair and wiped her hands on her apron. The door unlatched and there was Mia, her red hair wild and bow askew, red-cheeked and breathless.
“Hello little devil,” Luda said. She resisted the urge to scoop her up and give her kisses. “Come here and have a snack.”
Mia shut the door and went to the table. Luda poured her some tea and Mia swung her legs as she chewed on the black bread. She chattered about her day between bites and Luda reminded her to swallow before opening her mouth to speak. Mia finished her snack in silence (still swinging her legs) and Luda adjusted her bow.
A few hours later Matei came home. Matei was a tailor. He shared a shop with another tailor and he often brought home his work, which Luda helped with. Usually they would exchange a kiss and have a quiet dinner before setting down to work. They would sit side-by-side, mending and altering, taking turns at their major investment, the Singer.
Today, however, was the fifth anniversary. Luda could not look at Matei. She looked above him, beside him, at his forehead, his nose (growing a hump beneath his square glasses), at his ears. She looked at the corners of the kitchen, her fork, her spoon, her soup, the table. She wondered if he noticed this behavior, and its steady yearly recurrence. If he did, he had the tact not to say anything. The tact or the fear. She wasn’t sure. She worried that he knew and did not say, but perhaps he knew that she thought he knew.
After dinner Luda checked on Mia’s homework and put her to bed on the cot in the living room. Then she went into the bedroom and lay down. She stared into the darkness and listened to the stuttering of the Singer. She listened to the rhythm of Matei’s work, as well as the silences, and wondered if in those pauses, he was looking up, staring at no particular point on the wall and thinking of her. She smiled at this image, then put her hands on her belly and cried.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
scheduling
Just to impose some order in the chaos, MLP will be updated once a week, on Thursdays. Perhaps with extra tidbits to chew on as I encounter them.
Friday, March 10, 2006
snippet: Luda
In the narrow, sherbet room there is one wall with floor-to-ceiling shelving. The shelves are filled not with books but yarns, threads, ribbons, and lace, in descending order of frequency. The colors cooled by the light bouncing off the walls. A painting of Luda hangs on the opposite wall, above the twin bed. The faint blue and purple shadows in the folds of her flesh.
“If it tastes good, it's kosher,” was her motto. And this was manifested in her, and the portrait continues to manifest it.
In her final years, the seamstress lived in this sewing room, though she didn’t do much sewing anymore. She simply beamed at the wall of threads and admired the woolen yarn and the half-completed rug on the loom by the window. Her daughter had tried weaving in her unemployed days, but was now too busy at IBM to have “productive leisure time.”
Luda would sit on the bed with her hands on her knees and listen to the son-in-law mend curtains on the sewing machine, or do other odds and ends. What a handy boy.
Few people came to the funeral. They’d either died or were stuck in Romania. A few letters of condolence arrived in thin airmail envelopes. They had a short service at the cemetery and the rabbi gave a generic speech based on the five minute pre-funeral interview. A flock of honking geese flew up as rocks were strewn in the grave and the small party (daughter, with baby on hip, her husband, and me, the neighbor) got into the Subaru and drove back to Brooklyn.
Her daughter Mia invited me in after the service. I had made a pot of cholent before the funeral. I lived next door and occasionally swapped stories with Luda in her better days. She’d told me about her life, her sewing and her cooking. She made cholent with bacon fat. So I finally tried the sacrilegious recipe in her honor. It worked well with the meat and the beans, added a smoky flavor.
Mia was sitting on the floor of Luda’s old room when I arrived. The baby was waddling around, banging at the loom and babbling to it. Her husband was in the dining/living room, arranging flowers.
“That’s it, then,” Mia said, as I stood in the doorway.
“She’s in a better place,” I said, dreading all the clichés and wishing for something better. I barely knew Mia. “I’m so sorry.”
Mia grabbed at her boy and swung him into her lap. He squeaked with joy.
“I wish she had come over more, I so enjoyed her stories,” I said. “We always talked of knitting together. I didn’t realize how much yarn she had!”
“She used to make beautiful things.”
“I can imagine.”
The afternoon light threw a muted orange triangle on half of Mia’s face. She had her mother’s roundness and hearty build, but her eyes were darker and stronger. Her hair was red but I’d only known Luda’s stark white.
“Sit down,” said Mia.
Her husband brought in some plates of cholent. I started for the bed, hesitated, then opted for the floor, beside Mia. Luda looked on, above us. The cholent was thick and not very hot, just the right warmth. We ate in silence.
(Maybe part of a larger work. Then again, maybe not.)
“If it tastes good, it's kosher,” was her motto. And this was manifested in her, and the portrait continues to manifest it.
In her final years, the seamstress lived in this sewing room, though she didn’t do much sewing anymore. She simply beamed at the wall of threads and admired the woolen yarn and the half-completed rug on the loom by the window. Her daughter had tried weaving in her unemployed days, but was now too busy at IBM to have “productive leisure time.”
Luda would sit on the bed with her hands on her knees and listen to the son-in-law mend curtains on the sewing machine, or do other odds and ends. What a handy boy.
Few people came to the funeral. They’d either died or were stuck in Romania. A few letters of condolence arrived in thin airmail envelopes. They had a short service at the cemetery and the rabbi gave a generic speech based on the five minute pre-funeral interview. A flock of honking geese flew up as rocks were strewn in the grave and the small party (daughter, with baby on hip, her husband, and me, the neighbor) got into the Subaru and drove back to Brooklyn.
Her daughter Mia invited me in after the service. I had made a pot of cholent before the funeral. I lived next door and occasionally swapped stories with Luda in her better days. She’d told me about her life, her sewing and her cooking. She made cholent with bacon fat. So I finally tried the sacrilegious recipe in her honor. It worked well with the meat and the beans, added a smoky flavor.
Mia was sitting on the floor of Luda’s old room when I arrived. The baby was waddling around, banging at the loom and babbling to it. Her husband was in the dining/living room, arranging flowers.
“That’s it, then,” Mia said, as I stood in the doorway.
“She’s in a better place,” I said, dreading all the clichés and wishing for something better. I barely knew Mia. “I’m so sorry.”
Mia grabbed at her boy and swung him into her lap. He squeaked with joy.
“I wish she had come over more, I so enjoyed her stories,” I said. “We always talked of knitting together. I didn’t realize how much yarn she had!”
“She used to make beautiful things.”
“I can imagine.”
The afternoon light threw a muted orange triangle on half of Mia’s face. She had her mother’s roundness and hearty build, but her eyes were darker and stronger. Her hair was red but I’d only known Luda’s stark white.
“Sit down,” said Mia.
Her husband brought in some plates of cholent. I started for the bed, hesitated, then opted for the floor, beside Mia. Luda looked on, above us. The cholent was thick and not very hot, just the right warmth. We ate in silence.
(Maybe part of a larger work. Then again, maybe not.)
Thursday, March 09, 2006
word coinage: Clogosphere
Clogosphere:
N. The thousands (millions?) of blogs of no consequence, "clogging" the internet.
I thought I was a genius, making this word up (see Anca's ego; see Anca's ego puff). Then I googled it and realized it already existed, with varying defintions (see Anca's ego deflate). I hope that if I'm a clogger it is in the more innocuous sense, that is, of no consequence. The other sense being corporate with nefarious intentions. To my knowledge, I am not secretly an evil corporation.
But I do so enjoy the growing lexicon, which *sounds* like an evil corporation.
N. The thousands (millions?) of blogs of no consequence, "clogging" the internet.
I thought I was a genius, making this word up (see Anca's ego; see Anca's ego puff). Then I googled it and realized it already existed, with varying defintions (see Anca's ego deflate). I hope that if I'm a clogger it is in the more innocuous sense, that is, of no consequence. The other sense being corporate with nefarious intentions. To my knowledge, I am not secretly an evil corporation.
But I do so enjoy the growing lexicon, which *sounds* like an evil corporation.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
My Mom Says I'm Cool
Last night was the Collectanea launch, at Mo Pitkins' House of Satisfaction. It started at 7 on the dot and ended at 8 on the dot, and was heaving with happy drinking people.
Like a dope, I missed most of it. I was finishing a presentation at school on the UWS, teaching Cantonese using Mr. Potato Head for a body parts game, and couldn't leave until 10 past. Apparently Lizzy read my story first, so I'd missed that before I even got on the 1 train. My mother was there, and assured me whistles and stomps were had.
They didn't record the event, but Lizzy's radioplay is available on the website, and on their Limited Edition CD, which includes a .pdf version of the magazine, the radioplay, and extra interviews and music. And it's only $5! (*cough*)
My friend Sean at Said the Gramophone was so kind to put a link up to Collectanea. Thanks, Sean.
In other news, I have a grammar quiz to cram for. Deontic, Epistemic, Dynamic. Go modals go!
Like a dope, I missed most of it. I was finishing a presentation at school on the UWS, teaching Cantonese using Mr. Potato Head for a body parts game, and couldn't leave until 10 past. Apparently Lizzy read my story first, so I'd missed that before I even got on the 1 train. My mother was there, and assured me whistles and stomps were had.
They didn't record the event, but Lizzy's radioplay is available on the website, and on their Limited Edition CD, which includes a .pdf version of the magazine, the radioplay, and extra interviews and music. And it's only $5! (*cough*)
My friend Sean at Said the Gramophone was so kind to put a link up to Collectanea. Thanks, Sean.
In other news, I have a grammar quiz to cram for. Deontic, Epistemic, Dynamic. Go modals go!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Launched!
Collectanea has launched its inaugural issue, which includes my story "Bastille Day."
The neat thing about Collectanea is its cross-pollination of media. In addition to straight fiction and non-fiction, there is an illustrated story and a podcast. The podcast in this issue has an audio piece inspired by my story, performed and produced by Lizzy Cooper Davis. She did a fabulous job, and it was fun collaborating on the music and French with her.
Tonight's the launch party and actors from the New York Collective will read selections of the stories. There will also be some multi-media art presentations.
In short, wahoo!
The neat thing about Collectanea is its cross-pollination of media. In addition to straight fiction and non-fiction, there is an illustrated story and a podcast. The podcast in this issue has an audio piece inspired by my story, performed and produced by Lizzy Cooper Davis. She did a fabulous job, and it was fun collaborating on the music and French with her.
Tonight's the launch party and actors from the New York Collective will read selections of the stories. There will also be some multi-media art presentations.
In short, wahoo!
Saturday, March 04, 2006
short short: Thoughts in the Library
I am an aural irritant. I wear corduroys to the library. I swish-swish-fpp-fpp through the oppressive silence and decaying bodies, bringing both life and irritation to those still gasping for air. I disrupt the smooth sound of pen-to-paper, rasping pages mid-trun, I fpp-swish-fpp amidst the pernicious threat of paper-cuts. I carry books as my ticket inside but my subversive mission is clear: to pierce the silence with incessant swish-fpp-fpp-swish-swish. I only wish I could mimic the muted crunch of boots on snow, pebbles, and salt, to harmonize with my corduroy, and realize- yes! And I run outside and do just that, books forgotten, mummified corpses left behind, breathing, stomping, swish-swish-fpp-fpping. Truly, the cloth of kings.
(Written in Montreal, no doubt during term paper season, when I should've been writing about Ancient Egypt or Neolithic China or some such thing.)
(Written in Montreal, no doubt during term paper season, when I should've been writing about Ancient Egypt or Neolithic China or some such thing.)
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Aks the aminals about pasghetti
Neat thing I learned this week:
"Bird" and "first" used to be "brid" and "frist" in Old English. So the switching of sounds within a word (called metathesis if you must know) eventually solidified, changing the standard of English we use today.
"Bird" and "first" used to be "brid" and "frist" in Old English. So the switching of sounds within a word (called metathesis if you must know) eventually solidified, changing the standard of English we use today.
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