Standing barefoot on loamy bank,facing east, toes baptized in silt,
I watch the flames lick the sky,
a frenetic tarantella of ember and ash.
A house, once coveted,
longing to seduce me in the in blue lightof flickering tv screens.
Abandoned desires for kindling,
a blistering new tenant to replace the old.
I hold the match.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
chain letter
Here's how you play:"Once you have been tagged, you have to write a blog w/ 10 weird, random things, facts, habits or goals about yourself. At the end choose 10 people to be tagged, listing their names and why you chose them. Don't forget to leave them a comment ("You're It") and to read your blog. You can't tag the person who tagged you. Since you can't tag me back, let me know when you've posted your blog so I can see your answers!"
10 THINGS YOU NEVER WANTED TO KNOW
1. I like my cereal room temperature, and soggy, sometimes letting it sit for up to an hour before eating it.
2. I have a crush on Anderson Cooper.
3. I own over 200 pairs of underwear.
4. I own over 30 pairs of jeans.
5. I cry every time I watch Forrest Gump.
6. I have seen RENT seven times in five cities across the country.
7. I have seen Madonna five times in four cities across the country.
8. My favorite meal of all time is a tray of Swanson Salisbury Steaks and reconstituted mashed potato flakes with a glass of milk.
9. I brush my teeth three times a day, especially after eating Swanson Salisbury Steaks and reconstituted mashed potato flakes.
10. My worst fears include snakes and heights.... but not at the same time.
Who am I sending this to...
1) Nobody. The chain letter stops here. I will now have bad luck for the next 15 years, but at least I wont incur the wrath of my true friends.
Exeunt.
10 THINGS YOU NEVER WANTED TO KNOW
1. I like my cereal room temperature, and soggy, sometimes letting it sit for up to an hour before eating it.
2. I have a crush on Anderson Cooper.
3. I own over 200 pairs of underwear.
4. I own over 30 pairs of jeans.
5. I cry every time I watch Forrest Gump.
6. I have seen RENT seven times in five cities across the country.
7. I have seen Madonna five times in four cities across the country.
8. My favorite meal of all time is a tray of Swanson Salisbury Steaks and reconstituted mashed potato flakes with a glass of milk.
9. I brush my teeth three times a day, especially after eating Swanson Salisbury Steaks and reconstituted mashed potato flakes.
10. My worst fears include snakes and heights.... but not at the same time.
Who am I sending this to...
1) Nobody. The chain letter stops here. I will now have bad luck for the next 15 years, but at least I wont incur the wrath of my true friends.
Exeunt.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
acquainted with the night
Evenings descend earlier now along the banks of Tannehill Creek gingerly, on cat's paws, so that by the time I arrive home from work I can barely make out the trusses of the new house framed against the twilight. There, on the back deck perched amongst arthritic oaks, I find myself drinking a beer and pondering what life will be like after the shingles are laid, the drywall floated, and the Nelson lamps hung just so.
Nights like this, months hence, will most assuredly bring the glow of tv screens from veiled windows to illuminate the landscape an incandescent blue. I inhale the cedar-tinged air and watch the fireflies alight. I have been one acquainted with the night.
Acquainted With the Night
By Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Nights like this, months hence, will most assuredly bring the glow of tv screens from veiled windows to illuminate the landscape an incandescent blue. I inhale the cedar-tinged air and watch the fireflies alight. I have been one acquainted with the night.
Acquainted With the Night
By Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain--and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
a remark was passed
I recently overheard someone off-handedly mentioning my penchant for reading the obituaries every morning, obsessively scanning the pages for a friend, colleague, past dalliance, or perhaps my own self. Then it dawned on me that I am searching for something that defies being uncovered. All of those pages of vacant smiles taunting me from beyond, with knowing looks of journeys ended, or maybe even begun. I found myself recently beginning to feed my habit by reading the profiles on mydeathspace.com to see how it all ends for those of us here exposing our souls 14 kilobytes at a time in comments and messages that will long outlive our bodies.
My mother used to go through shoeboxes full of old photos, and highlight the relatives that I would never meet; people who are holding me as a baby, or drinking a cocktail (or both!), or posing in front of an irreplaceable landmark long since gone. Funny, how one of my first memories of death was when my grandmother would point to a black-and-white photo of my grandfather under her glass-topped dresser and tell me how he died 8 years before I was born and was now "six feet under." In the picture, he is seated at his desk, smiling and holding a pen in what can best be described as a posed candid. For years, I assumed that everyone who died, went off to go work in underground offices without windows, never to return.
Of course, nowadays these shoeboxes of memories reside on hard drives and servers in Burbank, CA. But they do serve the same purpose of a collective memory source nonetheless.These photos (which I am so definitely not fond of participating in) are the testament to a life lived. To holidays with friends, and tortured family vacations. To lovers departed, and documentation of delight and despair.
No matter what else is happening in our lives aside from the one nanosecond that the camera lens captures, we are able to muster a smile, and see into the future for a fleeting moment.
I am obliged to take pause, and stare back.
My mother used to go through shoeboxes full of old photos, and highlight the relatives that I would never meet; people who are holding me as a baby, or drinking a cocktail (or both!), or posing in front of an irreplaceable landmark long since gone. Funny, how one of my first memories of death was when my grandmother would point to a black-and-white photo of my grandfather under her glass-topped dresser and tell me how he died 8 years before I was born and was now "six feet under." In the picture, he is seated at his desk, smiling and holding a pen in what can best be described as a posed candid. For years, I assumed that everyone who died, went off to go work in underground offices without windows, never to return.
Of course, nowadays these shoeboxes of memories reside on hard drives and servers in Burbank, CA. But they do serve the same purpose of a collective memory source nonetheless.These photos (which I am so definitely not fond of participating in) are the testament to a life lived. To holidays with friends, and tortured family vacations. To lovers departed, and documentation of delight and despair.
No matter what else is happening in our lives aside from the one nanosecond that the camera lens captures, we are able to muster a smile, and see into the future for a fleeting moment.
I am obliged to take pause, and stare back.
Monday, September 24, 2007
dusk before fashion
....8:15pm to be precise. Forget Milan, New York, or Tokyo. Last Friday night, the fashion capital of the world was most definitely relocated to MLK Boulevard in the Blanton Museum.Tribeza Magazine hosted a world-class event replete with all the beautiful people in Austin, plus a few tourists that wandered in by mistake.Why is it that a stiff cocktail adds 4 inches to those svelte runway models as they careened down the runway like wayward jets coming in to land at La Guardia?
The music, the crowds, and the pret-a-porter collection came hot off the racks from Estilo, Garden Room, The Girl Next Door, Keepers, and one more -- I forget who. All that fashion gave me temporary amnesia, the swirling dervishes of cotton, silk, and suede clouded my thoughts. Thank god someone had the foresight to remove the tags.
Front row seats allowed us a close up view of the very hems which were graced by these beautiful gazelles, as well as the scuffed shoes of the male models -- something that was not lost on those of us at sole level.In the end, despite one technical hiccup that resulted in one retailer being confused for another -- similar to Nordstrom's being mistaken for Wal-Mart -- the evening ended on a high C.
Drinks, laughter, and gaiety ensued at the Belmont, and then the rest is documented in some binder down at central booking.
The music, the crowds, and the pret-a-porter collection came hot off the racks from Estilo, Garden Room, The Girl Next Door, Keepers, and one more -- I forget who. All that fashion gave me temporary amnesia, the swirling dervishes of cotton, silk, and suede clouded my thoughts. Thank god someone had the foresight to remove the tags.
Front row seats allowed us a close up view of the very hems which were graced by these beautiful gazelles, as well as the scuffed shoes of the male models -- something that was not lost on those of us at sole level.In the end, despite one technical hiccup that resulted in one retailer being confused for another -- similar to Nordstrom's being mistaken for Wal-Mart -- the evening ended on a high C.
Drinks, laughter, and gaiety ensued at the Belmont, and then the rest is documented in some binder down at central booking.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
hash and eggs
I cannot tell a lie. I must tell several, in quick succession. And why not? What else am I supposed to do when faced with this... "assignment," for lack of a better term. ("Dilemma" was already being used.) I was given the task to go into my literary closet and resurrect the dead. Poems and prose alike, just hanging there lifeless on wire hangers no less. Outfits once destined for the Salvation Army had to be stitched into a passable frock for daytime wear -- and cocktails at 11am. Hemline above the knee, if you please.
How was I to bring new meaning to these works that had found themselves couched comfortably in the confines of a dark 3x5 cell awaiting word from my executors for the date and time of my estate sale? These are the items that would be placed in -- what do they call them? LOTS, oh yes. A fancy catch-all term for "everything in this box $1."
Anyways, this whole ordeal got me to thinking about my own mortality. And the fact that I'm half past due for a Manhattan. They say that when you have a photograph taken, that it takes away a part of your soul. Personally, I think they are getting "soul" and "salary" mixed up, but that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that we writers pour so much of ourselves onto the printed page, certainly we must sacrifice a little bit of our life energy to the written word. Believe you me, there's a small charge to be paid the Reaper for every split infinitive and dangling participle. A short story is all good and well. But, a novel will just about fuck you up in the worst way. Hell, cigarettes only chop 7 minutes off your life, but a serialized book will top that by a good half hour.
The way I see it, there really is no use in going back to revisit the past and find it inadequate to the memory of the present. You can't unscramble an egg. The stories are still there, in the shoebox of my mind... but the shoes are missing. There, I've gone and done it. I've ruined the assignment. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts and punish myself with a thirst-quenching cocktail.
How was I to bring new meaning to these works that had found themselves couched comfortably in the confines of a dark 3x5 cell awaiting word from my executors for the date and time of my estate sale? These are the items that would be placed in -- what do they call them? LOTS, oh yes. A fancy catch-all term for "everything in this box $1."
Anyways, this whole ordeal got me to thinking about my own mortality. And the fact that I'm half past due for a Manhattan. They say that when you have a photograph taken, that it takes away a part of your soul. Personally, I think they are getting "soul" and "salary" mixed up, but that's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that we writers pour so much of ourselves onto the printed page, certainly we must sacrifice a little bit of our life energy to the written word. Believe you me, there's a small charge to be paid the Reaper for every split infinitive and dangling participle. A short story is all good and well. But, a novel will just about fuck you up in the worst way. Hell, cigarettes only chop 7 minutes off your life, but a serialized book will top that by a good half hour.
The way I see it, there really is no use in going back to revisit the past and find it inadequate to the memory of the present. You can't unscramble an egg. The stories are still there, in the shoebox of my mind... but the shoes are missing. There, I've gone and done it. I've ruined the assignment. Allow me a moment to collect my thoughts and punish myself with a thirst-quenching cocktail.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
snapshots of a lesser Hilton
I flew 2,228 miles to Portland last week, and took exactly three pictures with my digital camera.Not to say that the lush greenery and mountainous terrain didn't lend itself to being photographed, it's just that I was never so inclined to view the world through a lens finder.I have always lamented being placed in front of famous landmarks and such just to provide photographic evidence that I was there. Somehow, the thought of posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, or Mayo Clinic is just about as appealing as a round of chemotherapy.
Looking back, this disdain most likely stems from growing up with a mother who always carried a Kodak Insta-Matic in her purse to document even the drollest events. Forever, a blinding flash will be connected to that split second before blowing out the candles, or waiting to ride the next roller coaster, or hurrying to catch the Grey Line tour bus. Lifus interruptus, as it were; that momentary pause necessary to position subjects just so to create the perfect shot -- with another one taken just for good measure.
Most of these trifles have been replaced by the advent of digital cameras which allow you to compose a perfect photograph after the fact. The Alamo or Sphinx can always be added to the background later on in the comfort of your home office.But back to my original point, and I do have one. On my way to downtown Portland on the Red Line, I passed Mt. Hood. I passed daring and bold architectural statements. I crossed the Willamette River, and exited at the beautiful courthouse in Pioneer Square camera firmly packed in my messenger bag next to the Rolaids, gum and bottled water. I visited the world famous Chinese Garden, and took a tram 500ft. up the side of a mountain overlooking the city, and not one photograph.
So what did I take pictures of you may ask?
Why the fabulous sliding barn door to the bathroom in my hotel room, of course.
Looking back, this disdain most likely stems from growing up with a mother who always carried a Kodak Insta-Matic in her purse to document even the drollest events. Forever, a blinding flash will be connected to that split second before blowing out the candles, or waiting to ride the next roller coaster, or hurrying to catch the Grey Line tour bus. Lifus interruptus, as it were; that momentary pause necessary to position subjects just so to create the perfect shot -- with another one taken just for good measure.
Most of these trifles have been replaced by the advent of digital cameras which allow you to compose a perfect photograph after the fact. The Alamo or Sphinx can always be added to the background later on in the comfort of your home office.But back to my original point, and I do have one. On my way to downtown Portland on the Red Line, I passed Mt. Hood. I passed daring and bold architectural statements. I crossed the Willamette River, and exited at the beautiful courthouse in Pioneer Square camera firmly packed in my messenger bag next to the Rolaids, gum and bottled water. I visited the world famous Chinese Garden, and took a tram 500ft. up the side of a mountain overlooking the city, and not one photograph.
So what did I take pictures of you may ask?
Why the fabulous sliding barn door to the bathroom in my hotel room, of course.
Friday, June 1, 2007
cocktails on 95
The room seemed auspicious enough, smelling of gumbo; a jumble of cities and continents imported on the skin and clothing of tourists happy to be illuminated in the glowing half-light of the Chicago skyline at sunset.I inwardly imagined that if one is forced to drink a cocktail before dinner, then it should most definitely be done on the top floor of the Hancock Tower. Here we were entombed in a steel monolith overlooking Lake Michigan and the teeming streets below whose dust still covered the soles of our shoes.My fear of heights -- thankfully dulled by the Sidecar which sat in front of me -- was discarded somewhere between the 75th and 82nd floors as we had been quickly propelled to this very spot by one of the fastest elevators in North America, according to the building's website. Not to take credit from the wonderful company that alternately enveloped and preoccupied me in conversation while volunteering to catch me if I faltered and needed physical support.
Politics, love life, and Lindsay Lohan were all topics du jour, as Julia, Doug and I deftly danced through the minefields of popular culture, failing to detonate anything more explosive than an equal condemnation of the Bush regime. My mind wandered to the spiders who made their webs outside the windows up here on the 95th floor, logically questioning their survival up here among the clouds. Of course, then I started thinking about the window washers, and was transported in my own mind outside the confines of our glass enclosed space, billowing against the high winds only to be blown to my death below.
My vertigo suddenly returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and the brave face that I had put forth crumbled like the pyramids of Giza.
The fastest elevator in the world indeed.
Politics, love life, and Lindsay Lohan were all topics du jour, as Julia, Doug and I deftly danced through the minefields of popular culture, failing to detonate anything more explosive than an equal condemnation of the Bush regime. My mind wandered to the spiders who made their webs outside the windows up here on the 95th floor, logically questioning their survival up here among the clouds. Of course, then I started thinking about the window washers, and was transported in my own mind outside the confines of our glass enclosed space, billowing against the high winds only to be blown to my death below.
My vertigo suddenly returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and the brave face that I had put forth crumbled like the pyramids of Giza.
The fastest elevator in the world indeed.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
"i didn't ought to have went."
I have no idea what was running through Robert Benchley's mind back in 1925 when he wrote the sentence immortalized in my subject header, but let me take a stab at it anyway.
1) If Golden Corral had existed, he may have been referring to that ubiquitous third trip through the buffet line. However, the advent of Alka Seltzer around the same time would most likely preclude any proclamation of gustatory guilt. [Note to readers: Start at the end of the chow line and work your way forward, as buffets are notorious for front-loading with leafy green vegetables, pudding and such so that you don't have any room for the roast beef au jus, Manwich, or what have you.]
2) Benchley could possibly be admonishing one specific trip to the Algonquin the night before a particularly important editorial deadline. But seeing as I know a little something about neither bars nor deadlines, I cannot suppose.3) Dorothy Parker, long noted as an insufferable companion -- and a sufferer, could prove to be a likely source for the above-mentioned quote for she was known to be a steadily bad influence on the writer. "Tontant Dwinker," I believe is the acronym.
4) A trip to anywhere in New Jersey. Enough said.
5) My final guess would have to include something to do with the workplace. Oh, how Benchley hated toiling in the confines of an office, as do most proletariats. But seeing as our present occupations enable our spouses to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed, work has become a necessary evil. Although, the thought of abruptly quitting to go live off of the free salad bar at Golden Corral can't be altogether discarded.
1) If Golden Corral had existed, he may have been referring to that ubiquitous third trip through the buffet line. However, the advent of Alka Seltzer around the same time would most likely preclude any proclamation of gustatory guilt. [Note to readers: Start at the end of the chow line and work your way forward, as buffets are notorious for front-loading with leafy green vegetables, pudding and such so that you don't have any room for the roast beef au jus, Manwich, or what have you.]
2) Benchley could possibly be admonishing one specific trip to the Algonquin the night before a particularly important editorial deadline. But seeing as I know a little something about neither bars nor deadlines, I cannot suppose.3) Dorothy Parker, long noted as an insufferable companion -- and a sufferer, could prove to be a likely source for the above-mentioned quote for she was known to be a steadily bad influence on the writer. "Tontant Dwinker," I believe is the acronym.
4) A trip to anywhere in New Jersey. Enough said.
5) My final guess would have to include something to do with the workplace. Oh, how Benchley hated toiling in the confines of an office, as do most proletariats. But seeing as our present occupations enable our spouses to live in the manner to which they have become accustomed, work has become a necessary evil. Although, the thought of abruptly quitting to go live off of the free salad bar at Golden Corral can't be altogether discarded.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
mail carrier's tabernacle of the divine serendipity
I made my annual pilgrimage to the Northeast Station Post Office at 900 Blackson this afternoon -- a sort of Hajj, if you will seeing as I normally like to avoid the lines, lay back and enjoy my taxpayer-subsidized delivery service. However, in this case I was summoned to pick up a package that would neither fit in my mailbox, nor be safely placed on the front porch away from prying eyes and pedophiles.
I had ordered a Calvin Klein tuxedo online against the wishes of co-workers and soothsayers alike. But, my inner muse directed me to throw caution to the wind, and hit the submit button so that the suit would arrive well in time before the HRC Gala dinner in mid-March. Hence, the above mentioned trip to the post office five days after the fact.I walked inside and was greeted by a line of 20 people in various stages of exasperation (not to be confused with perspiration, mind you as this was an extremely clean crowd based on attire alone.)
Normally, I am not one to grouse about such things as the price of tea in Mexico, or the high ratio of customers to employees. But, I'd like to make an exception this time around. Where were my federal workers?
To compound matters, a cd player behind the counter was blasting what could best be described as a compilation of the Greatest Church Tent Revivals Hymns of 1987, forcing me to consider looking for funeral home fans in the back of the pews alongside the self-adhesive stamps and Priority Mail envelopes.Didn't separation of church and state specifically prohibit this type of proselytizing on government property? I was ready to speak in tongues, none too friendly.The lady next to me was obviously of the same agnostic mindset as we both smiled knowingly at each other and bobbed our head in time to the rhythmic chants of "praise him, praise him."A man's voice boomed from the speakers... "raise your hand if you are here to worship Jesus!"
Not surprisingly, everyone stood still in sheepish silence. Perhaps he should have asked if anyone was just there to pick up a package.
I had ordered a Calvin Klein tuxedo online against the wishes of co-workers and soothsayers alike. But, my inner muse directed me to throw caution to the wind, and hit the submit button so that the suit would arrive well in time before the HRC Gala dinner in mid-March. Hence, the above mentioned trip to the post office five days after the fact.I walked inside and was greeted by a line of 20 people in various stages of exasperation (not to be confused with perspiration, mind you as this was an extremely clean crowd based on attire alone.)
Normally, I am not one to grouse about such things as the price of tea in Mexico, or the high ratio of customers to employees. But, I'd like to make an exception this time around. Where were my federal workers?
To compound matters, a cd player behind the counter was blasting what could best be described as a compilation of the Greatest Church Tent Revivals Hymns of 1987, forcing me to consider looking for funeral home fans in the back of the pews alongside the self-adhesive stamps and Priority Mail envelopes.Didn't separation of church and state specifically prohibit this type of proselytizing on government property? I was ready to speak in tongues, none too friendly.The lady next to me was obviously of the same agnostic mindset as we both smiled knowingly at each other and bobbed our head in time to the rhythmic chants of "praise him, praise him."A man's voice boomed from the speakers... "raise your hand if you are here to worship Jesus!"
Not surprisingly, everyone stood still in sheepish silence. Perhaps he should have asked if anyone was just there to pick up a package.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
press release
-------------------------------------
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
-------------------------------------
Renowned Scholar Cracks "Carr Paradox"
Austin, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER 14, 2078. At the turn of the millennium, a little known Texas author was posting to blogs and creating a name for himself on the World Wide Web, as it was referred to at the time. His treatises on life, sex, and the predicament of casual fashion as it directly correlates to the decline of Western civilization were hailed by fans and critics alike. For years following his death, researchers scrutinized these written gems for clues to crack the mystery that shrouded the reclusive writer's life. Now, after fourteen years of sleuthing, Portland author Francine Esther Harding — herself an artist — claims she has the answer. And her online reference work, OrWhatHaveYou.Org, will eventually reveal all.
You might call it “The Carr Paradox,” but a more accurate title would be “Brian Carr's Philosophy about Things on Places.” The term was coined by the Oregonian scholar herself. It is also the title of her essay to appear next year in "The Trans-Orbital Monthly," now available on most interplanetary shuttle flights.
The paradox, according to Harding, is that the War on Terror era scribe, Brian Carr, conspicuously flaunted his homosexual affinities throughout his entire life, but never became a recognized member of the gay movement itself. This factoid hints at a far more fundamental problem: the writer was consumed by his own sexuality.
“The only solution to the paradox,” asserts Harding, “is to keep your grip on both horns of the dilemma and never let go of either one. Carr was the propagator of ‘the institution of manly love’ yet he always felt on the periphery of the gay community. My research explains how this maddening contradiction was possible.”
And the answer to the Carr Paradox? Was Carr a Queer? “The answer,” quips Harding, “is no, Carr was not a Queer. He was infinitely too good of a Queer to ever be a Queer.”
For more information, contact:
Francine Esther Harding, Curator
OrWhatHaveYou.Org
75521 N Woolsey Ave
Portland
OR 97203
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
-------------------------------------
Renowned Scholar Cracks "Carr Paradox"
Austin, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER 14, 2078. At the turn of the millennium, a little known Texas author was posting to blogs and creating a name for himself on the World Wide Web, as it was referred to at the time. His treatises on life, sex, and the predicament of casual fashion as it directly correlates to the decline of Western civilization were hailed by fans and critics alike. For years following his death, researchers scrutinized these written gems for clues to crack the mystery that shrouded the reclusive writer's life. Now, after fourteen years of sleuthing, Portland author Francine Esther Harding — herself an artist — claims she has the answer. And her online reference work, OrWhatHaveYou.Org, will eventually reveal all.
You might call it “The Carr Paradox,” but a more accurate title would be “Brian Carr's Philosophy about Things on Places.” The term was coined by the Oregonian scholar herself. It is also the title of her essay to appear next year in "The Trans-Orbital Monthly," now available on most interplanetary shuttle flights.
The paradox, according to Harding, is that the War on Terror era scribe, Brian Carr, conspicuously flaunted his homosexual affinities throughout his entire life, but never became a recognized member of the gay movement itself. This factoid hints at a far more fundamental problem: the writer was consumed by his own sexuality.
“The only solution to the paradox,” asserts Harding, “is to keep your grip on both horns of the dilemma and never let go of either one. Carr was the propagator of ‘the institution of manly love’ yet he always felt on the periphery of the gay community. My research explains how this maddening contradiction was possible.”
And the answer to the Carr Paradox? Was Carr a Queer? “The answer,” quips Harding, “is no, Carr was not a Queer. He was infinitely too good of a Queer to ever be a Queer.”
For more information, contact:
Francine Esther Harding, Curator
OrWhatHaveYou.Org
75521 N Woolsey Ave
Portland
OR 97203
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
spam
sometimes reality is stranger than fiction...
FROM: IVORY COAST WEST AFRICA
DEAREST ONE,
I AM MISS FAITH AKU FROM IVORY COAST AND I AM CONTACTING YOU
BECAUSE I NEED YOUR HELP IN THE MANAGEMENT OF SUM OF MONEY THAT MY LATE
FATHER LEFT FOR ME BEFORE HE DIED.THE MONEY IS USD 5.7 MILLION U.S DOLLARS AND THE MONEY IS IN ONE OFF THE SECURITY COMPANIES HERE IN ABIDJAN.
MY FATHER WAS A VERY RICH COCOA FARMER AND HE WAS POISONED BY HIS
BUSINESS COLLEAGUES AND NOW I WANT YOU TO STAND AS MY GUIDIAN AND APPOINTED
BENEFICIARY AND RECEIVE THE MONEY IN YOUR COUNTRY SINCE I AM ONLY GIRL AND 21YEARS OLD AND WITHOUT MOTHER AND FATHER.
PLEASE I WILL LIKE YOU TO REPLY ME BACK THIS EMAIL SO THAT I WILL TELL
YOU MORE ABOUT THE INFORMATION SO THAT THIS MONEY WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO YOUR ACCOUNT
SO THAT YOU WILL GET ME PAPERS TO TRAVEL TO YOUR COUNTRY TO CONTINUE MY
EDUCATION THERE? I AM WAITING FOR YOUR URGENT REPLY AND I WILL CALL YOU
AS SOON AS I HEAR FROM YOU. AND I WILL SEND YOU A COPY OF MY PICTURE. HEARING FROM YOU. WILL LET YOU KNOW THE PERSON YOU ARE HELPING.
THANKS.
MISS FAITH AKU
FROM: IVORY COAST WEST AFRICA
DEAREST ONE,
I AM MISS FAITH AKU FROM IVORY COAST AND I AM CONTACTING YOU
BECAUSE I NEED YOUR HELP IN THE MANAGEMENT OF SUM OF MONEY THAT MY LATE
FATHER LEFT FOR ME BEFORE HE DIED.THE MONEY IS USD 5.7 MILLION U.S DOLLARS AND THE MONEY IS IN ONE OFF THE SECURITY COMPANIES HERE IN ABIDJAN.
MY FATHER WAS A VERY RICH COCOA FARMER AND HE WAS POISONED BY HIS
BUSINESS COLLEAGUES AND NOW I WANT YOU TO STAND AS MY GUIDIAN AND APPOINTED
BENEFICIARY AND RECEIVE THE MONEY IN YOUR COUNTRY SINCE I AM ONLY GIRL AND 21YEARS OLD AND WITHOUT MOTHER AND FATHER.
PLEASE I WILL LIKE YOU TO REPLY ME BACK THIS EMAIL SO THAT I WILL TELL
YOU MORE ABOUT THE INFORMATION SO THAT THIS MONEY WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO YOUR ACCOUNT
SO THAT YOU WILL GET ME PAPERS TO TRAVEL TO YOUR COUNTRY TO CONTINUE MY
EDUCATION THERE? I AM WAITING FOR YOUR URGENT REPLY AND I WILL CALL YOU
AS SOON AS I HEAR FROM YOU. AND I WILL SEND YOU A COPY OF MY PICTURE. HEARING FROM YOU. WILL LET YOU KNOW THE PERSON YOU ARE HELPING.
THANKS.
MISS FAITH AKU
Saturday, February 3, 2007
another chinese disturbance (or a day at the museum)
Well, I managed to drag my ass out of the house at the crack of noon today to go see that "American Twenties" exhibit over at UT's Harry Ransom Center. Personally, I do see what all the fuss is about seeing as I'm convinced that in a past life must have I lived through the Harlem renaissance back in '24. (Or the stock crash of '29... I keep forgetting which.) So, this excursion was like slipping on a familiar coat, visiting old friends -- or is that slipping up getting familiar with old friends?
In any case, I was greeted at the entrance by a wall sized placard with the sobering words of Frederick Lewis Allan that I found impossible not to roll around on my tongue repeatedly, like a hard candy that you can't help but savor:
" Soon the mists of distance would soften the outlines of the nineteen- twenties, and men and women, looking over the pages of a book such as this, would smile at the memory of those charming, crazy days when the radio was a thrilling novelty, and girls wore bobbed hair and knee- length skirts, and a trans-Atlantic flyer became a god overnight, and common stocks were about to bring us all to a lavish Utopia. They would forget, perhaps, the frustrated hopes that followed the war, the aching disillusionment of the hard-boiled era, its oily scandals, its spiritual paralysis, the harshness of its gaiety; they would talk about the good old days ...."
The exhibit was broken down into themes, each room more or less encompassing some movement or cultural shift that occured in art, literature, music, architecture and interior design. "Babbitts and Bohemians," gave way to "The Rise of Women," which in turn led to "The New Negro." The door on the left led to the bathrooms and segregated drinking fountains.
I was particularly struck by the artifacts in "Hollywood's Dream Factory" including an actual flapper gown and black and white gelatin prints of the likes of Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks, and Mary Pickford.
There was even a wall-sized lithograph of a Houdini poster entitled "Man from Beyond," that showed the magician being taunted by jungle natives in a block of ice. Most tantalizing -- almost like that night I got lost on E. 12th Street.
What really grabbed my attention though was a portrait of the inimitably bobbed Louise Brooks in a miu-miu that exclaimed "ANOTHER CHINESE DISTURBANCE!" It went on to say that Miss Brooks, a new player at Paramount Pictures exhibits the latest in Oriental style, with a jacket of brocade and matching mules unseen on this continent.
I, for one, can vouch that this is one trend that won't be making a return appearance at your local North American Target.
In any case, I was greeted at the entrance by a wall sized placard with the sobering words of Frederick Lewis Allan that I found impossible not to roll around on my tongue repeatedly, like a hard candy that you can't help but savor:
" Soon the mists of distance would soften the outlines of the nineteen- twenties, and men and women, looking over the pages of a book such as this, would smile at the memory of those charming, crazy days when the radio was a thrilling novelty, and girls wore bobbed hair and knee- length skirts, and a trans-Atlantic flyer became a god overnight, and common stocks were about to bring us all to a lavish Utopia. They would forget, perhaps, the frustrated hopes that followed the war, the aching disillusionment of the hard-boiled era, its oily scandals, its spiritual paralysis, the harshness of its gaiety; they would talk about the good old days ...."
The exhibit was broken down into themes, each room more or less encompassing some movement or cultural shift that occured in art, literature, music, architecture and interior design. "Babbitts and Bohemians," gave way to "The Rise of Women," which in turn led to "The New Negro." The door on the left led to the bathrooms and segregated drinking fountains.
I was particularly struck by the artifacts in "Hollywood's Dream Factory" including an actual flapper gown and black and white gelatin prints of the likes of Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks, and Mary Pickford.
There was even a wall-sized lithograph of a Houdini poster entitled "Man from Beyond," that showed the magician being taunted by jungle natives in a block of ice. Most tantalizing -- almost like that night I got lost on E. 12th Street.
What really grabbed my attention though was a portrait of the inimitably bobbed Louise Brooks in a miu-miu that exclaimed "ANOTHER CHINESE DISTURBANCE!" It went on to say that Miss Brooks, a new player at Paramount Pictures exhibits the latest in Oriental style, with a jacket of brocade and matching mules unseen on this continent.
I, for one, can vouch that this is one trend that won't be making a return appearance at your local North American Target.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
working title
SCREEN BLACK
PAUL (V.O.)
Everybody always asks about the baby. What happened to the baby?
FADE IN:
INT. DINING ROOM - CIRCA 1925 - DUSK
PAUL sits directly opposite EMILY while nursing a tumbler of straight whiskey. They
both stare vacantly across a white tablecloth.
Each looks defeated by life; PAUL is in his late 40's, attractive at twenty paces, greying at the temples with eye sockets whittled by alcohol and the hands of a clock ; and EMILY, brunette hair in an unkempt bun, a frayed floral housecoat that has seen better days.
Medium shot over her shoulder facing a sweaty and disheveled PAUL.
PAUL (Breaks the silence by hitting table with fist)
Dammit, Em. That's just what I've been trying to tell you, but you won't keep your mouth shut long enough to hear me out.
(Calming down)
Now, the way I see it the two of us, we've been headed to this spot for a long time. Like them trains you stare at out the window all the time, you know. Them ones headed up to Blue Mound, and Wichita. That's what it's like. Like them little lights passing through to someplace better, filled up with all the happy faces pressed up against the glass feeling sorry for the rest of us standing still here on the ground. Hell, I even tried to warn you. God knows the whistle's been blowing ever since you let your sister move in here last summer. But you just wouldn't listen.
(Long pause)
On top of that, you had to go and get.... (loses thought, takes a drink) shit. How many rocks can you pile on a man until his back caves in? I can't even sign for flour down there at Tink's no more. How long has it been? 10 months? A year? Way before you let JOAN move in here.
Look. It really was nothing. Just a sometimes thing. Really. For chris-sakes you were on your back most days, and... and, hell. I didn't have no choice. The mill ain't hiring, and here comes another bird to feed. Two birds... hah. Imagine that. You can't buy milk with kindness. So yeah. I done some things that make me not too proud. Some things, well, you were right about, but not everything. I swear on a hundred bibles.
(Breaks down into tears)
Shit, Em. It would've been alright if she had just gone to Lawrence. I told her, 'just go to Lawrence.' Lots of girls do. Can't you see? We couldn't afford another.... we just couldn't. I told her 'just go to Lawrence.' (sobbing) And I meant that. Really, I did. I never wanted to hurt you -- or JO. I guess life just sort of rubbed me smooth, and I didn't have no choice.
And a man's gotta have choices, or he'll make decisions out of nothing.
A BABY cries from an upstairs room, and PAUL looks up at the ceiling. A faint rust-colored stain pools on the white paint above the dining table. PAUL closes his eyes, regaining his composure and slowly backs his chair away from the table. We see EMILY for the first time with the same vacant stare as she seems to gurgle, slumping headfirst onto the table.
View from above as the white tablecloth becomes a tableaux of red surrounding EMILY.
PAUL takes a final swig and puts down his drink, and slowly heads to the foot of the staircase. He turns to view the room before ascending into the dark and the sounds of a crying BABY.
FADE TO BLACK
PAUL (V.O.)
Everybody always asks about the baby. What happened to the baby?
FADE IN:
INT. DINING ROOM - CIRCA 1925 - DUSK
PAUL sits directly opposite EMILY while nursing a tumbler of straight whiskey. They
both stare vacantly across a white tablecloth.
Each looks defeated by life; PAUL is in his late 40's, attractive at twenty paces, greying at the temples with eye sockets whittled by alcohol and the hands of a clock ; and EMILY, brunette hair in an unkempt bun, a frayed floral housecoat that has seen better days.
Medium shot over her shoulder facing a sweaty and disheveled PAUL.
PAUL (Breaks the silence by hitting table with fist)
Dammit, Em. That's just what I've been trying to tell you, but you won't keep your mouth shut long enough to hear me out.
(Calming down)
Now, the way I see it the two of us, we've been headed to this spot for a long time. Like them trains you stare at out the window all the time, you know. Them ones headed up to Blue Mound, and Wichita. That's what it's like. Like them little lights passing through to someplace better, filled up with all the happy faces pressed up against the glass feeling sorry for the rest of us standing still here on the ground. Hell, I even tried to warn you. God knows the whistle's been blowing ever since you let your sister move in here last summer. But you just wouldn't listen.
(Long pause)
On top of that, you had to go and get.... (loses thought, takes a drink) shit. How many rocks can you pile on a man until his back caves in? I can't even sign for flour down there at Tink's no more. How long has it been? 10 months? A year? Way before you let JOAN move in here.
Look. It really was nothing. Just a sometimes thing. Really. For chris-sakes you were on your back most days, and... and, hell. I didn't have no choice. The mill ain't hiring, and here comes another bird to feed. Two birds... hah. Imagine that. You can't buy milk with kindness. So yeah. I done some things that make me not too proud. Some things, well, you were right about, but not everything. I swear on a hundred bibles.
(Breaks down into tears)
Shit, Em. It would've been alright if she had just gone to Lawrence. I told her, 'just go to Lawrence.' Lots of girls do. Can't you see? We couldn't afford another.... we just couldn't. I told her 'just go to Lawrence.' (sobbing) And I meant that. Really, I did. I never wanted to hurt you -- or JO. I guess life just sort of rubbed me smooth, and I didn't have no choice.
And a man's gotta have choices, or he'll make decisions out of nothing.
A BABY cries from an upstairs room, and PAUL looks up at the ceiling. A faint rust-colored stain pools on the white paint above the dining table. PAUL closes his eyes, regaining his composure and slowly backs his chair away from the table. We see EMILY for the first time with the same vacant stare as she seems to gurgle, slumping headfirst onto the table.
View from above as the white tablecloth becomes a tableaux of red surrounding EMILY.
PAUL takes a final swig and puts down his drink, and slowly heads to the foot of the staircase. He turns to view the room before ascending into the dark and the sounds of a crying BABY.
FADE TO BLACK
Friday, January 26, 2007
amy vanderbilt, chapter 41, page 449, verse 2
If an invitation which has been extended cannot be met or is broken, the best method is to phone or telegraph the hostess immediately and explain the circumstances. (Such excuses to the White House are written or telegraphed -- see "The New Resident in Washington.") The usual social form is: (Telegram) MR. AND MRS. HAROLD CLARK STRAGHAN REGRET THAT MR. STRAGHAN'S ILLNESS MAKES IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR THEM TO KEEP THE ENGAGEMENT WITH DR. AND MRS. PRESCOTT ON MAY SEVENTH.
Amen.
Amen.
Friday, January 12, 2007
notes from a laptop
Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have broken several cardinal vows to never own a cell phone... to never own a laptop... and to never, ever be seen in the public square furiously typing away on said laptop. Yet here I sit at Flightpath Coffehouse in the middle of a freak snowstorm, confessing my sins to God, the internet, and Homeland Security.
I expect the Creator to text me at any minute and summon me to his waiting room.
This was no easy decision to cut the ethernet apron strings, mind you. After years of decisive indecision, I was compelled to join the portable computer revolution last Thursday, although as I understand, that train left the station the previous Tuesday. Alternately, I found myself attracted and repelled by the mysteries of WiFi; sneaking furtive glances at the denizens of fixed and glazed eyeballs all about me reflecting back their glowing computer screens.
What was this mysterious draw? The strangely whirring siren song of hard drives that beckoned wary sailors to their deaths, strewn about on the rocks of disney.com, irs.gov, and barnyardsex.net alike.
I needed to fulfill a proclivity to connect with friends in Cleveland or Shanghai at any given moment. I was desperate to feed my addiction, and Dell was more than happy to feed the monkey on my back for a small stipend (and handling charge.)
Upon powering up my laptop for the first time, it was as if Pharos had gently taken my hand and was guiding my ship to safe harbor. No lighthouse in Alexandria had ever shone brighter nor provided as much comfort as that LCD screen before me.
I know what you are thinking. The thought crossed my mind several times as well. "Won't his writing suffer, what with all the distractions of cappuccino machines, Stravinsky, and frat boys?" I was most certainly faced with the same dilemma. Like any sensible person, I pondered, "what would Dorothy Parker do?" I began to recall that once, when faced with an impending deadline that couldn't possibly be met, she simply filled an entire page of the New York Times theater review with empty space and two words.... "Pencil broke."
Somehow, "Access Denied," or "Forbidden Error 403," just wouldn't do. I was flappably undeterred.
So there you have it in an eggshell. Or handbasket, or what have you. Now you have all been brought up to speed (54Mbps, mind you), and my shameful lapse in self control has been exposed for the ridicule and condemnation that it deserves.
Feel free to cast stones and ask questions later. Just a small reminder that before you log off of your own iBook, but be sure to alert me of any hotspots in the 78723 zipcode that may have somehow eluded me.
Meet me there at 9pm, and we'll sit side-by-side in silence, blissfully surfing reality away.
I expect the Creator to text me at any minute and summon me to his waiting room.
This was no easy decision to cut the ethernet apron strings, mind you. After years of decisive indecision, I was compelled to join the portable computer revolution last Thursday, although as I understand, that train left the station the previous Tuesday. Alternately, I found myself attracted and repelled by the mysteries of WiFi; sneaking furtive glances at the denizens of fixed and glazed eyeballs all about me reflecting back their glowing computer screens.
What was this mysterious draw? The strangely whirring siren song of hard drives that beckoned wary sailors to their deaths, strewn about on the rocks of disney.com, irs.gov, and barnyardsex.net alike.
I needed to fulfill a proclivity to connect with friends in Cleveland or Shanghai at any given moment. I was desperate to feed my addiction, and Dell was more than happy to feed the monkey on my back for a small stipend (and handling charge.)
Upon powering up my laptop for the first time, it was as if Pharos had gently taken my hand and was guiding my ship to safe harbor. No lighthouse in Alexandria had ever shone brighter nor provided as much comfort as that LCD screen before me.
I know what you are thinking. The thought crossed my mind several times as well. "Won't his writing suffer, what with all the distractions of cappuccino machines, Stravinsky, and frat boys?" I was most certainly faced with the same dilemma. Like any sensible person, I pondered, "what would Dorothy Parker do?" I began to recall that once, when faced with an impending deadline that couldn't possibly be met, she simply filled an entire page of the New York Times theater review with empty space and two words.... "Pencil broke."
Somehow, "Access Denied," or "Forbidden Error 403," just wouldn't do. I was flappably undeterred.
So there you have it in an eggshell. Or handbasket, or what have you. Now you have all been brought up to speed (54Mbps, mind you), and my shameful lapse in self control has been exposed for the ridicule and condemnation that it deserves.
Feel free to cast stones and ask questions later. Just a small reminder that before you log off of your own iBook, but be sure to alert me of any hotspots in the 78723 zipcode that may have somehow eluded me.
Meet me there at 9pm, and we'll sit side-by-side in silence, blissfully surfing reality away.
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