Last night Jack was talking to his mother on the phone and he said, "It's colder than a witch's tit in a brass brassiere."
Thursday, January 31, 2002
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Now that Mr. Nut's beginning to respond to words -- for instance, he'll turn and look if I say, "There's Kitty" -- I am reminded of that old Steve Martin routine where he talks about teaching your children the wrong words for things. So that on the first day of school, when he raises his hand to ask if he can go to the bathroom, the kid says, "Can I mambo dogfish to the banana patch?"
I don't really have that dark impulse, but occasionally I do give him a little French lesson. Ne laissez jamais un enfant seul, I said to him this morning (never leave a baby alone). Aimez vous les pommes de terre? (Do you like potatoes?) didn't get much of a response, perhaps because I used the more formal vous instead of the familiar tu -- and he felt distanced by that.
I don't really have that dark impulse, but occasionally I do give him a little French lesson. Ne laissez jamais un enfant seul, I said to him this morning (never leave a baby alone). Aimez vous les pommes de terre? (Do you like potatoes?) didn't get much of a response, perhaps because I used the more formal vous instead of the familiar tu -- and he felt distanced by that.
Monday, January 28, 2002
Jackson cut his first tooth today, on his seven-month birthday. He's been remarkably good-natured about it, though it disrupted his sleep (and mine, and Jack's) last night. Poor little guy. He's sleeping now. Sometimes I love him so much I just ache.
He wasn't much in the mood for photos today.
Here's the first page of John Fante's Full of Life, which he dedicated to H. L. Mencken.
One
It was a large house because we were people with big plans. The first was already there, a mound at her waist, a thing of lambent movement, slithering and squirming like a ball of serpents. In the quiet hours before midnight I lay with my ear to the place and heard the trickling as from a spring, the gurgles and sucks and splashings.
I said, "It certainly behaves like a male of the species."
"Not necessarily."
"No female kicks that much."
But she did not argue, my Joyce. She had the thing within her, and she was remote and disdainful and quite beatified.
Still, I didn't care for the bulge.
"It's unaesthetic," and I suggested she wear something to pack it in.
"And kill it?"
"They make special things. I saw them."
She looked at me with coldness--the ignorant one, the fool who had passed by in the night, a person no more, malefic, absurd.
The house had four bedrooms. It was a pretty house.
He wasn't much in the mood for photos today.
Here's the first page of John Fante's Full of Life, which he dedicated to H. L. Mencken.
One
It was a large house because we were people with big plans. The first was already there, a mound at her waist, a thing of lambent movement, slithering and squirming like a ball of serpents. In the quiet hours before midnight I lay with my ear to the place and heard the trickling as from a spring, the gurgles and sucks and splashings.
I said, "It certainly behaves like a male of the species."
"Not necessarily."
"No female kicks that much."
But she did not argue, my Joyce. She had the thing within her, and she was remote and disdainful and quite beatified.
Still, I didn't care for the bulge.
"It's unaesthetic," and I suggested she wear something to pack it in.
"And kill it?"
"They make special things. I saw them."
She looked at me with coldness--the ignorant one, the fool who had passed by in the night, a person no more, malefic, absurd.
The house had four bedrooms. It was a pretty house.
Sunday, January 27, 2002
Why is this so hilarious?
Saturday, January 26, 2002
One day Jack passed a woman
and her four-year-old son on the street, and the son lifted up his mother's shirt and shouted, Mommy! Moo-moo! Now! So now every time Jackson's ready to nurse, Jack says, Oh, it's mommy-moo-moo time. I plan to wean him at a year, if anyone cares.
I'm drinking whole milk by the quart these days. I haven't craved it this much since I was a kid. Now that you can buy the organic stuff I feel better about it, but for a long time there I was in the "cow's milk is for baby cows" camp. But now that I have three pounds of See's candy left over from my birthday, milk is the only antidote to complete sugar overload. I got that advice from a student of nutrition at NYU.
and her four-year-old son on the street, and the son lifted up his mother's shirt and shouted, Mommy! Moo-moo! Now! So now every time Jackson's ready to nurse, Jack says, Oh, it's mommy-moo-moo time. I plan to wean him at a year, if anyone cares.
I'm drinking whole milk by the quart these days. I haven't craved it this much since I was a kid. Now that you can buy the organic stuff I feel better about it, but for a long time there I was in the "cow's milk is for baby cows" camp. But now that I have three pounds of See's candy left over from my birthday, milk is the only antidote to complete sugar overload. I got that advice from a student of nutrition at NYU.
Friday, January 25, 2002
So last night I discover
that if I turn on two lamps, the space heater, and my computer, I overload the circuit and blow the power for the whole apartment. Extra fun: finding a flashlight in the dark! Super extra fun: discovering that the flashlight's batteries are dead! Macro fun at its most ultimate: finding a candle and something to light it with. I stumble into the coffee table and grab the lemon aromatherapy candle I swiped from work last summer, then I dig blindly in the silverware drawer for something to light it with -- a nonexistent pack of matches? An almost-empty lighter? Then, clutching a jacket around my shoulders, feeling like Jane Eyre, I go outside in the cold to get to the breaker box and find I'm standing in the alley beneath a perfectly clear and starry sky. Orion and his belt. The Seven Sisters, of which I can count only six. Taurus and his one red eye.
A celestial end to a peculiarly difficult day.
Here is another prose poem. It's by James Tate.
Goodtime Jesus
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey. I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.
that if I turn on two lamps, the space heater, and my computer, I overload the circuit and blow the power for the whole apartment. Extra fun: finding a flashlight in the dark! Super extra fun: discovering that the flashlight's batteries are dead! Macro fun at its most ultimate: finding a candle and something to light it with. I stumble into the coffee table and grab the lemon aromatherapy candle I swiped from work last summer, then I dig blindly in the silverware drawer for something to light it with -- a nonexistent pack of matches? An almost-empty lighter? Then, clutching a jacket around my shoulders, feeling like Jane Eyre, I go outside in the cold to get to the breaker box and find I'm standing in the alley beneath a perfectly clear and starry sky. Orion and his belt. The Seven Sisters, of which I can count only six. Taurus and his one red eye.
A celestial end to a peculiarly difficult day.
Here is another prose poem. It's by James Tate.
Goodtime Jesus
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beautiful day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey. I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.
Thursday, January 24, 2002
Had a minor template disaster
today as I was trying to add a counter to Fussy to see how many people were visiting me. Unfortunately, somehow the insertion of the new code obliterated all my photo and site links, so it will be a bit before I get them up again. And if you're looking for a visitor counter, I do NOT recommend Site Meter.
today as I was trying to add a counter to Fussy to see how many people were visiting me. Unfortunately, somehow the insertion of the new code obliterated all my photo and site links, so it will be a bit before I get them up again. And if you're looking for a visitor counter, I do NOT recommend Site Meter.
Wednesday, January 23, 2002
I have been scrubbing the same burned pot for three days now.
Last night while I was feeding Sir Shitsalot (forgot about that one! pardon the vulgarity), Jack was having a meeting with his business partner, Gregg, and Gregg turns to me and asks me if I'd like to do the marketing for their company. They have a new business building and renovating houses, and they need someone to go around town and make powerpoint presentations to architects and whatnot. Gregg says, And we can't do it -- if Jack and I walk into a room full of construction guys they'll just say, Who's the tough guy and the fag with green teeth? But if you walk in, they'll just look at your tits and believe everything you tell them. It's mercenary and sexist, but it's also probably true.
I told them that I am really not a salesperson, but Gregg said that's why I'd be good at it.
After Gregg left, Jack said he had no idea that he was going to pitch that to me. He also said that I don't have to do it if I don't want to. I mean, marketing? Me?
Jack and Gregg both have greenish teeth from taking tetracycline as young children (Jack was a very sickly child; now he's healthy and robust -- I don't know what the deal was for Gregg). You just see the effects of it in their teeth, of course, but Jack says their bones are green, too.
Last night while I was feeding Sir Shitsalot (forgot about that one! pardon the vulgarity), Jack was having a meeting with his business partner, Gregg, and Gregg turns to me and asks me if I'd like to do the marketing for their company. They have a new business building and renovating houses, and they need someone to go around town and make powerpoint presentations to architects and whatnot. Gregg says, And we can't do it -- if Jack and I walk into a room full of construction guys they'll just say, Who's the tough guy and the fag with green teeth? But if you walk in, they'll just look at your tits and believe everything you tell them. It's mercenary and sexist, but it's also probably true.
I told them that I am really not a salesperson, but Gregg said that's why I'd be good at it.
After Gregg left, Jack said he had no idea that he was going to pitch that to me. He also said that I don't have to do it if I don't want to. I mean, marketing? Me?
Jack and Gregg both have greenish teeth from taking tetracycline as young children (Jack was a very sickly child; now he's healthy and robust -- I don't know what the deal was for Gregg). You just see the effects of it in their teeth, of course, but Jack says their bones are green, too.
I was going to save this one
for a rainy day, but it's probably raining somewhere in the world, so here it is.
Rain
one evening when we were lounging in his apartment in a relaxed mood, smoking a little hashish, charles baudelaire said to me: "you know, everybody has seen rain falling -- most people have, at one time or another, actually noticed it."
i agreed with a chuckle. he continued: "you know, i think we can be fairly confident that it has been raining, on & off, for a very long time!"
having said this, he collapsed on the chaise-longue, in a veritable paroxysme; but as always, there was a tinge, a definite tinge of bitterness in his merriment.
"it would be absurd to imagine," he said, "that rain could ever have behaved in any way different from that which we observe today . . ."
after a moment's crystalline silence our conversation drifted to other topics -- the day's gossip, the inexhaustible genius of edgar poe. but when we stood on the fire escape, taking leave, he gazed over my left shoulder into some indefinable distance or abyss and said, almost dreamily: "it is for ever washing the substance of the land into the sea."
Anselm Hollo
for a rainy day, but it's probably raining somewhere in the world, so here it is.
Rain
one evening when we were lounging in his apartment in a relaxed mood, smoking a little hashish, charles baudelaire said to me: "you know, everybody has seen rain falling -- most people have, at one time or another, actually noticed it."
i agreed with a chuckle. he continued: "you know, i think we can be fairly confident that it has been raining, on & off, for a very long time!"
having said this, he collapsed on the chaise-longue, in a veritable paroxysme; but as always, there was a tinge, a definite tinge of bitterness in his merriment.
"it would be absurd to imagine," he said, "that rain could ever have behaved in any way different from that which we observe today . . ."
after a moment's crystalline silence our conversation drifted to other topics -- the day's gossip, the inexhaustible genius of edgar poe. but when we stood on the fire escape, taking leave, he gazed over my left shoulder into some indefinable distance or abyss and said, almost dreamily: "it is for ever washing the substance of the land into the sea."
Anselm Hollo
Tuesday, January 22, 2002
More recent nicknames for The Nut:
Cheesemo
Baron von Roughhausen
Mr. Peebody
Boogerhead
Mr. Fussybiscuits
Monkeybutt
Went for a "well woman" checkup with Anna, one of my midwives, yesterday. The Nut was typically flirtatious and entertaining throughout the visit, even while I was getting my cervix checked. Afterward, Anna was going through all my vitals and she asked, "So, what are you using for birth control?" Well, the sorry answer is, who feels like it? With a baby hanging off my tit all day, all I want to do when I get into bed is sleep. But I had been worried about my flagging sex drive; enough to wonder if I should see a shrink about it, or a marriage counselor. But Anna just waved her hand and said, Ach, it's so normal, breastfeeding keeps your estrogen and progesterone levels low so of course you don't feel like it -- it's Nature's way of helping you space your kids apart. But, she continued, don't expect Jack to feel the same way; he may understand, but he'll still want some action. (Is it also Nature's way of encouraging men to take more than one wife, or support their local whorehouse?) So you have to get really good at blow jobs, she says, and get yourself some Astroglide. And I'm thinking, Holy Mother of God, you'd never get this kind of advice at the HMO.
Cheesemo
Baron von Roughhausen
Mr. Peebody
Boogerhead
Mr. Fussybiscuits
Monkeybutt
Went for a "well woman" checkup with Anna, one of my midwives, yesterday. The Nut was typically flirtatious and entertaining throughout the visit, even while I was getting my cervix checked. Afterward, Anna was going through all my vitals and she asked, "So, what are you using for birth control?" Well, the sorry answer is, who feels like it? With a baby hanging off my tit all day, all I want to do when I get into bed is sleep. But I had been worried about my flagging sex drive; enough to wonder if I should see a shrink about it, or a marriage counselor. But Anna just waved her hand and said, Ach, it's so normal, breastfeeding keeps your estrogen and progesterone levels low so of course you don't feel like it -- it's Nature's way of helping you space your kids apart. But, she continued, don't expect Jack to feel the same way; he may understand, but he'll still want some action. (Is it also Nature's way of encouraging men to take more than one wife, or support their local whorehouse?) So you have to get really good at blow jobs, she says, and get yourself some Astroglide. And I'm thinking, Holy Mother of God, you'd never get this kind of advice at the HMO.
Monday, January 21, 2002
There was a cute little item
in the Times this morning describing the action behind the scenes at the Golden Globes. Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks had produced a TV movie that won an award, and they were goofing around in front of the press backstage. The article says, "Mr. Spielberg said that since he felt he worked for Mr. Hanks on the project, he would let him field all questions. Mocking surprise, Mr. Hanks ordered Mr. Spielberg to fetch him a cup of coffee. 'Black, no sugar,' he said."
I snickered at this, and Jack asked me what was so funny. I read him that part of the story but he just said, "Ah, those filthy rich cut-ups." Jack has a way of deflating these harmless little moments, but his sarcasm makes a point -- why do I sometimes feel so cozy about these people? Do I not have a life, or what? My tiny mind is woefully understimulated and so I can forgive myself for getting my chuckles where I can find them -- but is that everybody else's excuse for being interested in celebrities?
Well, it's always been this way, I guess -- the glamorous classes will always be a fascination for the watchers among us who only stand and wait; the doers are off hiking and donating blood and using their brains to change the world. Although I must admit that parenthood verges on heroic those mornings when He Who Must Be Diapered graces us with an unusually robust Hershey's Kiss. Despite some of my comments that may lead people to believe that I am a dissatisfied with my lot, let me stress that I am extremely honored to be a mother. The Nut is a beautiful, good-natured little man and we are lucky to have had him land in our house.
Got a pair of red Puma Californias today! On sale!
in the Times this morning describing the action behind the scenes at the Golden Globes. Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks had produced a TV movie that won an award, and they were goofing around in front of the press backstage. The article says, "Mr. Spielberg said that since he felt he worked for Mr. Hanks on the project, he would let him field all questions. Mocking surprise, Mr. Hanks ordered Mr. Spielberg to fetch him a cup of coffee. 'Black, no sugar,' he said."
I snickered at this, and Jack asked me what was so funny. I read him that part of the story but he just said, "Ah, those filthy rich cut-ups." Jack has a way of deflating these harmless little moments, but his sarcasm makes a point -- why do I sometimes feel so cozy about these people? Do I not have a life, or what? My tiny mind is woefully understimulated and so I can forgive myself for getting my chuckles where I can find them -- but is that everybody else's excuse for being interested in celebrities?
Well, it's always been this way, I guess -- the glamorous classes will always be a fascination for the watchers among us who only stand and wait; the doers are off hiking and donating blood and using their brains to change the world. Although I must admit that parenthood verges on heroic those mornings when He Who Must Be Diapered graces us with an unusually robust Hershey's Kiss. Despite some of my comments that may lead people to believe that I am a dissatisfied with my lot, let me stress that I am extremely honored to be a mother. The Nut is a beautiful, good-natured little man and we are lucky to have had him land in our house.
Got a pair of red Puma Californias today! On sale!
Sunday, January 20, 2002
The Wheel of Fortune
Thursday was awful. At 7:30, Jack went off to work reminding me that he was rehearsing with Alastair and wouldn't be home 'til after 8 p.m. The baby looked at me with an expression that said he was expecting yet another fantastically interesting day. And the next 12 hours opened up in front of me like a black hole. I had no little missions -- no shoes to take to the shoemker, no photos to take to the lab, no reason to go to Costco or the post office, no poems to polish or chapters to rewrite. What was I doing with my life? I was irretrievably out of touch with my gifts. I consumed, but had nothing to give back to the world but frivolous links.
In the past when I've faced days like this I've taken comfort in the routines of the workplace -- you show up early, you take a little extra pleasure in wasting time with your coworkers, you have drinks later with friends. On the whole you can gently turn the day around without ever really facing the darkness inside. But there were no distractions that day. Peek-a-boo didn't help. Taking the Peanut to the grocery store killed about 20 minutes. And compounding all this was the fear that I was truly depressed and that the Nut would inherit my misery. Bad Mommy.
I was both relieved and more unhappy than ever when I tried to explain all this to Jack at the end of the day, as he seemed to think I was complaining that staying home all day and raising my son wasn't privilege enough for me. It was difficult but he eventually understood. I am a writer, not a talker, I guess.
Friday, like a good suburban mom, I woke up, said Fuck it, put Jackson in the Volvo, and went shopping. I bought little clothes from the sale rack at Baby Gap. I bought myself a pair of low-rider jeans. I bought a lipstick at Aveda. I felt like a Montecito housewife (minus the fake tits, blonde hair, and Cadillac SUV).
As I was walking up State toward the car (Jackson was incredibly patient through all of this, I might add, but he was ready for lunch), I walked past this kid who was sitting on a planter with a little pile of blue books next to him. "Poetry books, five dollars," he said to me -- do I walk like a poetry reader? -- in a relaxed, non-pushy, but basically hopeful way. So I turned the stroller around and went back. He was a nice-looking kid with dark hair and two hoops piercing each side of his lower lip. The book was self-published. He had taken out a loan to pay for the printing. It had a blurb on the back from an assistant professor of urban studies at Westmont, our local Christian college. I have a weakness for cute alternative-looking Christians, so I didn't even read more than the table of contents when I decided to give him five bucks and take a book. Who knows, there might be some gems in here, I thought. Plus I wanted to support that kind of initiative and commitment.
Well, the poetry's full of despair and splinters and smoke and shards and smashing and clutter, and on the whole reads like something a young man smitten with poetry and his own tangled feelings would write. Which makes him no different from me, I guess, except that he still needs to learn to put that pretty smile of his into words.
I Know A Man
As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,--John, I
sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what
can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,
drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.
Robert Creeley
Thursday was awful. At 7:30, Jack went off to work reminding me that he was rehearsing with Alastair and wouldn't be home 'til after 8 p.m. The baby looked at me with an expression that said he was expecting yet another fantastically interesting day. And the next 12 hours opened up in front of me like a black hole. I had no little missions -- no shoes to take to the shoemker, no photos to take to the lab, no reason to go to Costco or the post office, no poems to polish or chapters to rewrite. What was I doing with my life? I was irretrievably out of touch with my gifts. I consumed, but had nothing to give back to the world but frivolous links.
In the past when I've faced days like this I've taken comfort in the routines of the workplace -- you show up early, you take a little extra pleasure in wasting time with your coworkers, you have drinks later with friends. On the whole you can gently turn the day around without ever really facing the darkness inside. But there were no distractions that day. Peek-a-boo didn't help. Taking the Peanut to the grocery store killed about 20 minutes. And compounding all this was the fear that I was truly depressed and that the Nut would inherit my misery. Bad Mommy.
I was both relieved and more unhappy than ever when I tried to explain all this to Jack at the end of the day, as he seemed to think I was complaining that staying home all day and raising my son wasn't privilege enough for me. It was difficult but he eventually understood. I am a writer, not a talker, I guess.
Friday, like a good suburban mom, I woke up, said Fuck it, put Jackson in the Volvo, and went shopping. I bought little clothes from the sale rack at Baby Gap. I bought myself a pair of low-rider jeans. I bought a lipstick at Aveda. I felt like a Montecito housewife (minus the fake tits, blonde hair, and Cadillac SUV).
As I was walking up State toward the car (Jackson was incredibly patient through all of this, I might add, but he was ready for lunch), I walked past this kid who was sitting on a planter with a little pile of blue books next to him. "Poetry books, five dollars," he said to me -- do I walk like a poetry reader? -- in a relaxed, non-pushy, but basically hopeful way. So I turned the stroller around and went back. He was a nice-looking kid with dark hair and two hoops piercing each side of his lower lip. The book was self-published. He had taken out a loan to pay for the printing. It had a blurb on the back from an assistant professor of urban studies at Westmont, our local Christian college. I have a weakness for cute alternative-looking Christians, so I didn't even read more than the table of contents when I decided to give him five bucks and take a book. Who knows, there might be some gems in here, I thought. Plus I wanted to support that kind of initiative and commitment.
Well, the poetry's full of despair and splinters and smoke and shards and smashing and clutter, and on the whole reads like something a young man smitten with poetry and his own tangled feelings would write. Which makes him no different from me, I guess, except that he still needs to learn to put that pretty smile of his into words.
I Know A Man
As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking,--John, I
sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what
can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,
drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.
Robert Creeley
Friday, January 18, 2002
I Am the Puppetmaster
Try this if you have some time to kill (link stolen from bouillabaisse for the soul).
Try this if you have some time to kill (link stolen from bouillabaisse for the soul).
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
Domestic Achievements
This morning Jack says, "I'll pay you ten dollars to clean out the litter box." It's been his job since I first became pregnant. But ten dollars! It took me about three minutes. That's $200 an hour. It's about time I earned what I'm worth around here.
This morning Jack says, "I'll pay you ten dollars to clean out the litter box." It's been his job since I first became pregnant. But ten dollars! It took me about three minutes. That's $200 an hour. It's about time I earned what I'm worth around here.
Monday, January 14, 2002
What's That Floating in the Water? Old Neptuna's Only Daughter!
It was a beautiful Sunday so I drove down along the coast to Ventura to go to my favorite record store, Beat City. Jackson slept in the back and I played a Pixies CD at a moderate volume. But Beat City wasn't there anymore, and the whole downtown part of Ventura had changed. They now call it The Ventura Cultural District, and a lot of the best thrift stores are gone, only to be replaced by fancy little places that sell microbrews (aren't we done with that yet?) and a multiplex movie theater (cinema one-too-many, in my book, with those terrible tiny screens). But Ventura still has a lot of old California character, that great WPA-era civic architecture and old-style bars like the Sans Souci that have gone to seed ("They're all toilets," says Jack). I was kicking myself that I hadn't brought my camera.
I drove a little farther into the boarded-up part of Main Street when lo and behold! Beat City! It was a total Clerks/High Fidelity experience, with the two hipster-nerd guys behind the counter debating Velvet Underground vs. The Strokes vs. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. One of the guys even asked to hold Jackson (he was so guileless that I didn't think of saying no until it was too late). But nothing happened, the guy just carried Jackson behind the counter and showed him pictures of Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons. I bought a used XTC (English Settlement) and we listened to it on the drive back. I think Jackson liked "Snowman" and "English Roundabout" best. We'll try the Pixies again tomorrow.
It was a beautiful Sunday so I drove down along the coast to Ventura to go to my favorite record store, Beat City. Jackson slept in the back and I played a Pixies CD at a moderate volume. But Beat City wasn't there anymore, and the whole downtown part of Ventura had changed. They now call it The Ventura Cultural District, and a lot of the best thrift stores are gone, only to be replaced by fancy little places that sell microbrews (aren't we done with that yet?) and a multiplex movie theater (cinema one-too-many, in my book, with those terrible tiny screens). But Ventura still has a lot of old California character, that great WPA-era civic architecture and old-style bars like the Sans Souci that have gone to seed ("They're all toilets," says Jack). I was kicking myself that I hadn't brought my camera.
I drove a little farther into the boarded-up part of Main Street when lo and behold! Beat City! It was a total Clerks/High Fidelity experience, with the two hipster-nerd guys behind the counter debating Velvet Underground vs. The Strokes vs. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. One of the guys even asked to hold Jackson (he was so guileless that I didn't think of saying no until it was too late). But nothing happened, the guy just carried Jackson behind the counter and showed him pictures of Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons. I bought a used XTC (English Settlement) and we listened to it on the drive back. I think Jackson liked "Snowman" and "English Roundabout" best. We'll try the Pixies again tomorrow.
Friday, January 11, 2002
Thursday, January 10, 2002
Birthday Girl
Time to reflect on those who have achieved far more in less time. I'll never forget turning 26 and being so depressed because I hadn't published anything yet and John Keats had written La Belle Dame Sans Merci and died by that age.
Here's a list of people who are roughly the same age as me:
Flea
Michael Jordan
Tatum O'Neal
Coolio
Russell Crowe
Johnny Depp
Brad Pitt
Conan O'Brien
Calista Flockhart
Marisa Tomei
Jon Stewart
Whitney Houston
Bjork
Here is a list of people who are/were roughly the same height as me:
Brooke Shields (met her on an airplane once -- she was really cheerful)
Russell Crowe (doesn't he seem taller?)
Mel Gibson (I know he seems taller)
Nicole Kidman (doesn't she seem shorter?)
Jean-Claude Van Damme (now he seems shorter)
Princess Diana (she's a lot thinner these days, too)
Woman with the same bra size as me:
Gina Gershon (says Jack, "I knew there was a reason I liked you.")
Poet with the same birthday as me:
Philip Levine, b. 1928
My sister-in-law Lisa sent me The Wizard of Oz and Willy Wonka on DVD. I adore Gene Wilder. Jack's mom sent me a cake that looks like it will just about put me in a coma. And Jackson gave me the greatest gift of all -- he slept from 8:00 p.m. last night until 7:00 a.m. this morning and I got nine full hours of sleep.
it's all right
small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.
but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane
as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words -- but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.
looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.
being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too.
Charles Bukowski
Time to reflect on those who have achieved far more in less time. I'll never forget turning 26 and being so depressed because I hadn't published anything yet and John Keats had written La Belle Dame Sans Merci and died by that age.
Here's a list of people who are roughly the same age as me:
Flea
Michael Jordan
Tatum O'Neal
Coolio
Russell Crowe
Johnny Depp
Brad Pitt
Conan O'Brien
Calista Flockhart
Marisa Tomei
Jon Stewart
Whitney Houston
Bjork
Here is a list of people who are/were roughly the same height as me:
Brooke Shields (met her on an airplane once -- she was really cheerful)
Russell Crowe (doesn't he seem taller?)
Mel Gibson (I know he seems taller)
Nicole Kidman (doesn't she seem shorter?)
Jean-Claude Van Damme (now he seems shorter)
Princess Diana (she's a lot thinner these days, too)
Woman with the same bra size as me:
Gina Gershon (says Jack, "I knew there was a reason I liked you.")
Poet with the same birthday as me:
Philip Levine, b. 1928
My sister-in-law Lisa sent me The Wizard of Oz and Willy Wonka on DVD. I adore Gene Wilder. Jack's mom sent me a cake that looks like it will just about put me in a coma. And Jackson gave me the greatest gift of all -- he slept from 8:00 p.m. last night until 7:00 a.m. this morning and I got nine full hours of sleep.
it's all right
small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.
but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane
as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words -- but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.
looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.
being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too.
Charles Bukowski
Monday, January 07, 2002
Two's Company
The big question now is, should I have another baby?
Pro: Jackson would have someone to play with.
Con: Jackson would have someone to fight with.
Pro: Being a loner by nature, having another kid around would take some of the heat off me, as I wouldn't be the sole source of entertainment for Jackson.
Con: I'd have two kids to entertain instead of one, and would get nothing done, ever.
Pro: Jack wants another one, but not until we can afford it, which could be several years down the road.
Con: I'll be 38 years old in three days, and do not want to be pregnant at age 45.
Con: I have had some depressing days since Jackson arrived, so I could be at risk for more post-partum depression with kid number two.
Pro: But I probably won't have the same stresses of (a) trying to edit a magazine while learning how to tend to a new baby at the same time, and (b) getting blindsided by the humiliation of losing my job (see posts of 11/20/01 and after for details).
Pro: It might be a girl!
Con: It might be a girl.
Last night I was nursing Jackson to sleep and reading my journal from 1990, and I found that I had copied down this poem. It was a time, like this, where I was contemplating action versus inaction.
Sonnet XIX: On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is Kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
John Milton
The big question now is, should I have another baby?
Pro: Jackson would have someone to play with.
Con: Jackson would have someone to fight with.
Pro: Being a loner by nature, having another kid around would take some of the heat off me, as I wouldn't be the sole source of entertainment for Jackson.
Con: I'd have two kids to entertain instead of one, and would get nothing done, ever.
Pro: Jack wants another one, but not until we can afford it, which could be several years down the road.
Con: I'll be 38 years old in three days, and do not want to be pregnant at age 45.
Con: I have had some depressing days since Jackson arrived, so I could be at risk for more post-partum depression with kid number two.
Pro: But I probably won't have the same stresses of (a) trying to edit a magazine while learning how to tend to a new baby at the same time, and (b) getting blindsided by the humiliation of losing my job (see posts of 11/20/01 and after for details).
Pro: It might be a girl!
Con: It might be a girl.
Last night I was nursing Jackson to sleep and reading my journal from 1990, and I found that I had copied down this poem. It was a time, like this, where I was contemplating action versus inaction.
Sonnet XIX: On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is Kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
John Milton
Saturday, January 05, 2002
Praise the Lord!
I have yet another new comments system, I hope and pray it will be the last. Please give it a try. Many thanks to yaccs.
I have yet another new comments system, I hope and pray it will be the last. Please give it a try. Many thanks to yaccs.
Friday, January 04, 2002
The Dead and the Living
My great aunt LaVerne died. She was 98-1/2 years old. She broke her hip and then an infection set in, then she got pneumonia and died. My father calls pneumonia "the old person's friend," I guess because it's a relatively nonviolent way to end life. One of my few vivid memories of LaVerne is that she looked so much like her brothers Harry and Roy that when they got older you couldn't tell which was a man's face and which was a woman's. Just like in babies, there was no difference between masculine or feminine features.
I was looking for something on death in Sharon Olds's "The Dead and the Living" but I found this instead.
Rite of Passage
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room --
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in a clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.
My great aunt LaVerne died. She was 98-1/2 years old. She broke her hip and then an infection set in, then she got pneumonia and died. My father calls pneumonia "the old person's friend," I guess because it's a relatively nonviolent way to end life. One of my few vivid memories of LaVerne is that she looked so much like her brothers Harry and Roy that when they got older you couldn't tell which was a man's face and which was a woman's. Just like in babies, there was no difference between masculine or feminine features.
I was looking for something on death in Sharon Olds's "The Dead and the Living" but I found this instead.
Rite of Passage
As the guests arrive at my son's party
they gather in the living room --
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in a clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.
Thursday, January 03, 2002
Check Out the Big Brain on Brad!
Jackson had his six-month check-up yesterday, he's in the 90th percentile for height (27 3/4"), the 75th for weight (18 lbs. 6 oz.), and the 95th for head circumference (a whopping 18 1/4") -- finally, part of him that will take after me, I have bestowed upon him the lifelong challenge of finding a hat that fits.
Time for resolutions! Mine this year is to dress better -- I spent the last six months wearing t-shirts and jeans or anything that Jackson could cheese with impunity, and the six months before that wearing a pair of 40-waist Levi's and any shirt that would cover my belly. Now it's time to spruce it up a bit. (Something for Daddy, dontcha know.)
Lakers won last night even without Shaq and his injured toe. I had scoffed at the inability of such a big man to deal with such a small problem, so the gods punished me by giving me a blocked milk duct -- my right breast got really hard and I had to cover it with a heating pad set on high and then massage it (ouch) while I nursed Jackson with a cracked nipple, which I believe is the equivalent of walking 20 blocks with a blister on your heel. So I've gained some sympathy for the milionaire and his arthritic toe.
New link on the right to The Plagiarist, a good source for modern poetry. Here's one of my favorites.
Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have sardines in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's sardines?"
All that's left is just
letters. "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it oranges. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called sardines.
Frank O'Hara
Jackson had his six-month check-up yesterday, he's in the 90th percentile for height (27 3/4"), the 75th for weight (18 lbs. 6 oz.), and the 95th for head circumference (a whopping 18 1/4") -- finally, part of him that will take after me, I have bestowed upon him the lifelong challenge of finding a hat that fits.
Time for resolutions! Mine this year is to dress better -- I spent the last six months wearing t-shirts and jeans or anything that Jackson could cheese with impunity, and the six months before that wearing a pair of 40-waist Levi's and any shirt that would cover my belly. Now it's time to spruce it up a bit. (Something for Daddy, dontcha know.)
Lakers won last night even without Shaq and his injured toe. I had scoffed at the inability of such a big man to deal with such a small problem, so the gods punished me by giving me a blocked milk duct -- my right breast got really hard and I had to cover it with a heating pad set on high and then massage it (ouch) while I nursed Jackson with a cracked nipple, which I believe is the equivalent of walking 20 blocks with a blister on your heel. So I've gained some sympathy for the milionaire and his arthritic toe.
New link on the right to The Plagiarist, a good source for modern poetry. Here's one of my favorites.
Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have sardines in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's sardines?"
All that's left is just
letters. "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it oranges. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called sardines.
Frank O'Hara
Wednesday, January 02, 2002
Happy New Year
It's amazing how relaxed things are between me and my parents now that I'm married and have a baby. I used to really struggle with feeling misunderstood and invisible; but now, it's not about my neurotic little problems anymore, it's about us loving them and them loving their beautiful grandson and us. I've never had a real deep relationship with my mom, but just sitting on the couch next to her, playing with the baby, watching the Broncos beat the Raiders with my dad -- just talking about nothing -- I can't remember being so comfortable doing that.
My brother Tim gave Jack a ticket to the aforementioned football game as a Christmas present. Jack said that everyone in the stadium sang the national anthem together, instead of having it be performed by some Top 40 singer trying to plug a new single. The way it's supposed to be, he said: "It was like church." Jack was also pleased to find that, after Tim had spent a good deal of time making Jack feel less than manly about being from California and not being able to deal with the cold, my brother eventually started shivering. They bet each other $5 every time the two teams meet, so I guess Jack was able to pay up in person this time. Whenever the Raiders lose to the Broncos Jack talks about paying Tim with five pounds of pennies or some other inconvenient way, but so far he hasn't bothered.
Not to spoil the mood, but here's the opposition's response to all that good family feeling, by Philip Larkin.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
It's amazing how relaxed things are between me and my parents now that I'm married and have a baby. I used to really struggle with feeling misunderstood and invisible; but now, it's not about my neurotic little problems anymore, it's about us loving them and them loving their beautiful grandson and us. I've never had a real deep relationship with my mom, but just sitting on the couch next to her, playing with the baby, watching the Broncos beat the Raiders with my dad -- just talking about nothing -- I can't remember being so comfortable doing that.
My brother Tim gave Jack a ticket to the aforementioned football game as a Christmas present. Jack said that everyone in the stadium sang the national anthem together, instead of having it be performed by some Top 40 singer trying to plug a new single. The way it's supposed to be, he said: "It was like church." Jack was also pleased to find that, after Tim had spent a good deal of time making Jack feel less than manly about being from California and not being able to deal with the cold, my brother eventually started shivering. They bet each other $5 every time the two teams meet, so I guess Jack was able to pay up in person this time. Whenever the Raiders lose to the Broncos Jack talks about paying Tim with five pounds of pennies or some other inconvenient way, but so far he hasn't bothered.
Not to spoil the mood, but here's the opposition's response to all that good family feeling, by Philip Larkin.
This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
