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Last Seen Tumblr Blogs
Fun Fact
The “We are the 99%” Tumblr blog became the slogan for the Occupy Wall Street movement.
Video
youtube
If the young men could sing like blackbirds and thrushes,
how many young girls would go beating the bushes
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youtube
William Basinski - The Disintegration Loops
“It is The Disintegration Loops, a project he finished the morning of September 11 while living in New York, for which he's best known. The previous summer, Basinski had found an old pile of old recordings to salvage. As he digitized them, he discovered that the tapes themselves were literally falling apart; realizing the beauty in the decay, he keep the loops running. In the recording that resulted, short, melodic loops turn over in your ears as they slowly deteriorate like wood planks on abandoned houses, letting wind and silence slip through the cracks. Listen long enough, and rhythms appear and disappear.”
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6/1
Last night I went to Salwa’s house for Iftar, the breaking of Ramadan fast. A boy there, Ibn, told me the reason to go slower, in order to receive. I pictured myself running, trying to accept something wrapped in cloth from someone running beside me, and it was easy for me to understand what he meant.
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5/13
On Sunday I drove out to West Haven with two friends to a seedy little apothecary I went to before with Alli. I bought a blue pendant for divination, tapered like a spade, to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when I have grown exhausted or disgusted with questioning, and a short stick of palo santo to burn when I ascertain evil or feel uncertain. I texted Alli saying where I’d gone, we’ve been broken up for almost three weeks, and she asked if she could come over to talk. I didn’t use the pendant. She was wearing a black work dress. When she arrived, I finished washing the dishes so we could get used to being around each other again and then we sat apart from one another and talked and then we had sex. It was difficult for me to let her get up afterwards, and when she was beginning to leave I put on her black dress so she had to take it off of me first, a little mock beginning, as if I could fool her into returning to the sequence, put her on her back again, dip like a plover.
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This are high school kids from Connecticut and I am stoked on them
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Cry hail
Wallace Stevens really is the king of this shit.
Hymn From A Watermelon Pavilion
You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,
Whose garden is wind and moon,
Of the two dreams, night and day,
What lover, what dreamer, would choose
The one obscured by sleep?
Here is the plantain by your door
And the best cock of red feather
That crew before the clocks.
A feme may come, leaf-green,
Whose coming may give revel
Beyond revelries of sleep,
Yes, and the blackbird spread its tail,
So that the sun may speckle,
While it creaks hail.
You dweller in the dark cabin,
Rise, since rising will not waken,
And hail, cry hail, cry hail.
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الله
This was written a few years ago for an assignment in a class on Islam. Just came across it again and I’m fond of it. The assignment was: create a piece of art using the Arabic script for the word “allah” and write about how the form you chose communicates something of your understanding of Allah.
Spray paint on snow, in the woods of New Hampshire.
Few things are whiter than snow, not even the whites of your eyes. More precisely, few things are as devoid of blemish than fresh snow. Snow is almost unique, in that is is so thoroughly of the world, yet has the ability to make one’s surroundings otherworldly. It is the product of weather patterns that have repeated themselves for thousands of years, much longer than our current civilization. It is a almost a given for many in the world that the snow will appear at least once a year. Yet every time it does remind us of the fact, it changes utterly the look and substance of everything. The world is, for a brief moment as we wake up the morning after the year’s first snow, unrecognizable. Snow is commonplace yet extraordinary. It’s singular power and versatility is, by some measures, incomprehensible to us. It brings joy to children on the morning of a cancelled school day. It’s awesome power renders useless our petty systems we have built to master our domain: the T in Boston won’t resume normal service for a month, the newspapers are saying. Observe the adults of New England run ragged, their work routines and the flows of their bosses money disrupted, slowed down, or stopped. Observe now the scores of happy children freed from their school burdens as they throng to the hills of the towns and country with their sleds. These two phenomenon come together, inseparable from one another.
In the poem “Snow” by the Irish poet Louis MacNeice, it is snow that reminds the poet of the world. “Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:/ World is suddener than we fancy it,” MacNeice writes. Snow reminds us that the world is “incorrigibly plural.” It reminds us to “feel/ The drunkenness of things being various.” Snow is beauty, it is power, and it is purity. It is of the world and not of it. It “contains multitudes,” as Whitman might say, yet contains nothing in its pure whiteness. This is, perhaps, one way to think about Allah.
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Eduardo Galeano called this form ‘chronicles’ and I’m not crazy about that name, but haven’t come up with a better one.
Late in the summer when his father was dying, Jacob and I went swimming out in the Litchfield hills, things we could never do in the decade we had known each other in the city that was far away from Connecticut. It was late August or early September, when the days are shorter but still thick with humidity all day, until the thunderstorms roll in. We drove up to the Lovers’ Leap state park, and looked out at the Housatonic from the ledge there, where Jake and the other New Milford kids smoked weed as teenagers. Then at the reservoir we didn’t have bathing suits so we jumped in in our underwear. It started to thunder and lightning when we were in the water, and we were trying to remember whether that was dangerous or not. Later we would drive up to Lake Waramaug, and go swimming at one of the private boat launches. Jacob told me that Henry Kissinger’s house was somewhere near the lake. When he bought his estate nearby in the 1980s, Kissinger had his security team remove all the blueberry bushes because they posed a security risk. The water was warm as we swam out to the floating dock in the darkness. We could just make out the shape of the ridges that circle the lake.
***
The summer night is like a perfection of thought. - Wallace Stevens, The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm
***
During the summer that the Hartford police department imposed a curfew after 9 p.m. for anyone under the age of 18, I was a teenager working a summer job. On Wednesdays we would drink at a bar in Parkville that we were told didn’t check our IDs. A coworker of mine was 24 and had been other-than-honorably discharged from the Marines after tours in Afghanistan and at the Guantanamo Bay military prison in Cuba. Looking at each other through binoculars from one watchtower to another, American soldiers mimed a game of baseball with the Cuban soldiers. The pitch would come from Cuba into the prison camp, where an American Marine would take a swing and send a fly ball back to Cuba, the game went. One Wednesday night in Hartford while we were drinking, the marine’s car got towed from in front of a nearby Chinese place. I didn’t realize it at the moment, but the car was his home that summer. The next night a few of us drove down from Hartford to Mystic after work to go to the 24-hour reading of Moby-Dick aboard the Charles W. Morgan. This was back when you could sneak into the reading without paying, read a couple of chapters and sleep for a while and leave as the sun came up. The marine came along because, I think, he had nowhere else to go after his car had been towed. We slept for a few hours on the ship that night. I thought about the deaths of Queequeg and Tashtego. The next night after work I dropped him off at the homeless shelter at the bottom of Park Street. A few days later we got some money together to get his car out of the tow yard on the Berlin Turnpike, and we didn’t talk about it much after that.
***
“Even these brawny, buoyant heroes do sometimes sink” - moby-dick, p. 394
***
On a night just before Thanksgiving, a large group of us were very happy to be alive in a rented house on the beach in New London. After dinner, we took several backpacks of beer down to the beach past the empty vacation homes along Mott Avenue. We sat out on the rocks jutting out into Long Island Sound, right where it feels like the Sound is becoming the broad Atlantic, and drank cans of Narragansett Lager. After a while someone dug out a small hole in the cold sand, and Henry opened his backpack and started handing out paper to everyone for burning. They were his medical records. He had been declared cancer free, after a long round of chemotherapy. The time we had seen him previously in New York City, he’d just had surgery -- his second -- and his head was still bald. In the darkness on the New London beach, we tore up letters, billing statements, treatment plans and oncologists notes, and threw them into the fire. The next morning a few of us went swimming in the coldness of the Sound in November.
***
There was a punk funeral in the north end of Middletown, all loud guitars and hugs for old friends and cigarettes and beers out in the cold back parking lot. The dark Connecticut River and the lights on the Arrigoni Bridge. Bands that hadn’t played in years got together to raise money for the family of a Connecticut exile who had died in Philadelphia. Each band asked us to tell our friends that we loved them, which we did. A kid with a buzzcut cried during one set and moshed during another. When the last band played, a bottle of whiskey made its way around the crowd, the stage lights shining through the golden liquid as people hoisted it high.
***
In the fall of 1995, my mother took me to see the Hartford Whalers play the New York Rangers in the Hartford Civic Center, a week before my seventh birthday. I remember the loud, gruff voices of the scalpers on Trumbull Street that sold us our tickets. I remember sitting on my mother’s lap in section 213, Roy Y, almost as far back as you can get in the Civic Center. The steepness of the upper bowl, the coldness of the ice. My mother told me it was illegal to not wear a warm coat in a hockey arena. I sat on her lap because I was too small to see the ice over the shoulders of the men in front of me. There were lots of fathers with their sons, and not very many mothers with theirs. The Whalers lost 4-1 to a Rangers team just two years removed from their 1994 Stanley Cup victory. Mark Messier had a goal and an assist for the Rangers, but when Steven Rice scored for the Whalers off an assist from the great Pat Verbeek, I remember the noise in the Civic Center startling and frightening me. I’d never seen my mother cheer for a sports team. The Whalers went 34-39-9 that season, finishing 4th in the division.
After the Whalers left, I would regularly go to see the minor league Hartford Wolf Pack in Hartford. The tickets were cheap and I laughed with my friends at a team called the Albany River Rats. Looking back, the name “River Rats” had a lot of character, shouldering the kind of us-against-the-world pride of another poor capitol city, a city a lot like Hartford. We had plenty of rats in Hartford, too. The name Wolf Pack had no character. There haven’t been any wolves in Connecticut since the 19th century, when they were killed off by European settlers and colonists. There are no more Whalers either.
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Made a cake in secret for a friend’s birthday (different friend shown above)
Also truncated a poem for her, Daphne by Jorie Graham.
Say write hard answers on me.
Bear down make clear.
The moon rises.
Will never be perfect.
Turn if it’s allowed.
Be outstanding.
Give pleasure away.
Give trust away.
Forgo explanation.
Touch pain with great curiosity.
Carry acceptance in you
the aftersound of something felled.
A long time.
This really happened.
This time it was me.
Do not dream.
Stay awake for the end.
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(EDIT) The king of Northampton
I. In the dream they bear me from II. when I wake I think about killing myself
the car and pass their knives this coarse dress I take off
thru the seat cushions looking
for the documents I destroyed exit sickness, exit marvel
the rings I wore and swallowed little golden plaything, every limb
hung in its socket
and finding nothing they tie
me up and stop up my sun like a melon
mouth and push whose every nectar
little stymie flower
me into the trunk of another car
where I vomit in fear against my gag this is all
knead me out.
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The king of Lexington
as you hunted stag
singularly
so you travel grieving
separated from power
unable to sell those ornaments
which bear your seal
the risk is too great
hating yourself
so you travel
altho the roads
shine
with your auditors
and you are forced
into the mesh
of rice fields, flagging
altho you eat stalks
and your lungs cloud
you travel
without love
for you are pursued
and unready
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