creation consumes

I haven't written anything for so long, now.

That's not true. I have written lots of things. 18,422 words in the last two weeks of the semester alone, in fact. But that's not what I meant - I meant that I had not written here, or anywhere, for myself, for a long time.

Little bits of things keep bubbling up. Tiny scraps of not very good poetry, mostly. But even that is remarkable; I used to get words in my head all the time, but it hasn't happened for years. A decade, really. Which is sobering.

The problem is that when one has intensely given oneself over to a particular creative endeavor, there isn't much room left for anything else. It consumes.

But I have no creative endeavor imminent, and no school or job to suck all of that energy away (which is where most of it has been the last ten years, let's be honest). And so I find myself drawn back to this blog, and to my scraps of poetry, and to the 83,000 word first draft novel that's been gathering dust in my hard drives for five years. (Had a heck of a time finding it. I had named the files, unhelpfully, 2010 and Book 2.)

So I guess I'm reviving the blog, and maybe even finally editing the book. We'll see. But I'm almost excited about it, regardless.

things I like this week, vol. 42.1

If you haven't seen this yet - I've had it sent to me by two dear people who apparently know my taste - it's incredible: a Paris apartment sealed up just before WW2 and opened just recently. The woman paid the rent until she died and never returned, and when they opened it up, they found a painting of her grandmother, actress-muse-mistress to Giovanni Boldini.

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I love the internet.

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This woman's photographs are incredible.

My favorite thing about this shot is the pinky-red blood trail behind her, and the way the color is echoed in the gradation of her lips.

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I love this post about the sound in tango music that's named after a cicada - a chicharra. I've heard it, but I'd never known what it was.

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Ben Folds choosing pianos in his studio.

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An absurdly detailed map of North American dialects. For the record, I say "pin" and "pen" differently, despite being born in Georgia and living for the past decade and a half in Tucson.

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A fascinating article in Smithsonian magazine about how artists in Egypt are using graffiti as a form of protest against the government. 

A pawn uprising.

It's an excerpt from Neruda translated into Arabic: "You can step on the flowers but you can never delay the Spring."

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Heartbreakingly beautiful photography by a teenage trainhopper. They published a book of his photos, but he's working as a mechanic now and doesn't think of himself as a photographer.

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It's the light and shadow under her shoulder, and her vulnerability.

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I am suffering quite heavily from this at the moment. I'm partway through To Have and Have Another (making drinks as I go); I'm two chapters in to editing Colin's next novel; I have started but not finished The Wyrd Sisters and Jitterbug Perfume; Colin gave me The Paris Wife for Mother's Day, which I have read before and loved and want to read again, especially after To Have; seeing Gastby made me want to read my copy of Jazz Age Stories, which was returned to me by a student the day after I remembered owning it (but not that I'd lent it out); I downloaded American Gods to my phone and haven't opened it; and the trailer for Ender's Game makes me itch to read it again, for probably the tenth time. 

Of the paper copies, only Ender's Game is actually in the bookshelf - the rest are stacked around the house, mostly in the nightstand.

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And speaking of Fitzgerald, here's the villa where he supposedly wrote Tender is the Night: 

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More to come tomorrow, I think. I've been saving up awhile (as you might have guessed from the dearth of posts lately).

things I like this week, vol. 41

From the selby's Nina Pohl shoot, which was lovely and mid-century modern - though I preferred the flowers. 

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Einstein's desk, which I saw two pictures of in a week, one accompanied by this quote: "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?" And even though I spent two and a half days cleaning up my office over spring break, at least I felt somewhat validated about it having been very much like Albert's in the first place. 

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Bookshelves in the bathroom . . . 

 . . . bookshelves in the kitchen . . .

. . . bookshelves in the bedroom. These make me conclude that we need more bookshelves in our apartment, preferably built-ins. Hardwood floors wouldn't hurt, either.

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Neil Gaiman did a collaboration with BlackBerry called A Calendar of Tales. He twitter-sourced ideas by asking questions about each month ("What would you burn in November, if you could?"), picking a tweet that inspired him ("My medical records, but only if that would make it all go away.") and then wrote a story for each month. And then they posted all the stories, and asked people to create art based on those stories, and they're going to pick an art piece for each month and turn the whole damn thing into a calendar. 

The stories are quite good, and the art that people submitted is incredible. You can see/read/watch the whole thing here. What it all has to do with BlackBerry I don't know, but it's beautiful despite that.

. . . 

 

 

Dimitry Tsykalov, whose works make me think of these lines from Eliot's Wasteland:

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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This is from a photoshoot done with disposable cameras, by two models who are dating, as an ad for Gucci Guilty Black. I am fascinated by the contrast of the apparent intimacy of the photos and the obviously advertorial nature of the whole enterprise. 

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This house is downtown, just behind the Stillwell house, and is quite gorgeous. And for sale for an absurd $1.5mil, because apparently it was the home to some Senator I've never heard of.

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Morocco is quickly climbing the list of "places I need to visit soon."

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'Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, from Ulysses

. . . 

The irony of Courtney Love discussing makeup amuses me. She seems surprisingly coherent. 

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It was in my head for a week or two before I actually listened to the lyrics and fell in love with itfor that reason, too.

things I like this week, vol. 38

Faux sherling-lined velvet mouse slippers, which I would find a way to wear everywhere.

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Hell yes, Amanda Palmer. Hell yes.

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Could be useful.

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A NY Times article entitled "Battle of the Somm," which explained a good deal of jargon as well as some interesting tidbits, my favorite of which was:

Although the cheapest wines ANCHOR prices on a list, Somms are anxious to offer good wines at every PRICE POINT and often take pride in finding excellent wines for the shallow end of the list. However, many diners are embarrassed to order the cheapest wine on offer and erroneously suppose there is some magic inherent in the second-cheapest bottle.

The bolded, capped vocab words got a bit obnoxious, though.

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Found it while looking for a good stock photo of blues dancers.

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Ode to Broken Things

Things get broken 
at home 
like they were pushed 
by an invisible, deliberate smasher. 
It's not my hands 
or yours 
It wasn't the girls 
with their hard fingernails 
or the motion of the planet. 
It wasn't anything or anybody 
It wasn't the wind 
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime 
Or night over the earth 
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow 
Or the hips getting bigger 
or the ankle 
or the air. 
The plate broke, the lamp fell 
All the flower pots tumbled over 
one by one. That pot 
which overflowed with scarlet 
in the middle of October, 
it got tired from all the violets 
and another empty one 
rolled round and round and round 
all through winter 
until it was only the powder 
of a flowerpot, 
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock 
whose sound 
was 
the voice of our lives, 
the secret 
thread of our weeks, 
which released 
one by one, so many hours 
for honey and silence 
for so many births and jobs, 
that clock also 
fell 
and its delicate blue guts 
vibrated 
among the broken glass 
its wide heart 
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up 
glass, wearing out clothes 
making fragments 
breaking down 
forms 
and what lasts through time 
is like an island on a ship in the sea, 
perishable 
surrounded by dangerous fragility 
by merciless waters and threats.

Let's put all our treasures together 
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold -- 
into a sack and carry them 
to the sea 
and let our possessions sink 
into one alarming breaker 
that sounds like a river. 
May whatever breaks 
be reconstructed by the sea 
with the long labor of its tides. 
So many useless things 
which nobody broke 
but which got broken anyway.

 - Pablo Neruda (of course), trans. Jodey Bateman

. . .

 

It's not so much to ask for a huge library with vaulted ceilings, is it?

things I like this week, vol. 34

The solitude of this quaint neighborhood
is so pleasant and yet so sad,
with its little houses
and the trees that paint shadows.

One of my favorite tangos, for the lyrics as much as for the music (both here).

. . .

India.

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I love that the wrinkles in the fabric look like waves.

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Taken in Chile.

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The shortest short story, written in Spanish by Augusto Monterroso:

Cuando despertó, el dinosaurio todavía estaba allí.

(When [s]he awoke, the dinosaur was still there.)

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So wonderful and chilling.

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I saw this on Bookshelf Porn and two days later saw one in person in Minneapolis. Apparently they sell kits for them.

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Oh, art jokes, how I love thee.

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So much more than a map.

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"After a really awful, no-good day, didn't your momma ever make you milk and cookies?"

They make everything better.

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An abandoned subway station in New York. Apparently now you can ride through it . . .

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A scientifically-based analysis of how much power Yoda can output.

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Number seven from Kurt Vonnegut's 8 rules of writing:

Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

home

"Tell me more about your valley," she said to Moomintroll. 

"It's the most wonderful valley in the world," he answered. "There are blue-trees with pears growing on them, and chatterfinches sing from morning till night, and there are plenty of silver poplars, which are wonderful for climbing--I thought of building a house for myself in one of them. Then, at night, the moon is reflected in the river, which tinkles over the rocks with a sound like broken glass, and pappa has built a bridge that is wide enough for a wheelbarrow."

"Must you be so poetic?" said Sniff. "When we were in the valley you only talked about how wonderful other places were." 

"That was different," said Moomintroll.

"But it's true," said Snufkin. "We're all like that. You must go on a long journey before you can really find out how wonderful home is."

- from Comet in Moominland, by Tove Jansson

on dreams and inevitabilities

SPOILER ALERT: What follows is the ending scene of Of Mice and Men. If you haven't read the book yet (and you should), don't read the rest of the post.

I've taught Of Mice and Men for five years, now. It was number three in the most banned books in the US in the nineties, not so much for the profanity as for the ending scene. It is always hard for my students, at fifteen, to understand why George has to kill Lennie. I have to logic them through every other option available to George, and even then, some of them don't choose to accept it.

It always brings up interesting personal questions, too, ones I don't share with my classes. Would I, if the situation demanded it as absolutely as George's does, be able to do the same? Would I have that kind of personal strength? Or would I, out of cowardice, choose a route that would be worse for everyone involved?

The thing is, though, that much of the logic depends on the fact that this death is better for Lennie because he doesn't know that it's coming. He dies believing that the dream is going to happen, dies painlessly and instantaneously, not knowing that George has betrayed him. George has to live with the pain, yes, but that's bearable because Lennie does not. It would be an entirely different story if Lennie were aware of George's betrayal, if George, for some reason, had to shoot him in the stomach and Lennie had to die just as slowly and painfully as if Curley had shot him, if Lennie stared George in the eyes until the life finally drained out of him. Or if, somehow, it went wrong and Lennie didn't die at all, but continued to live on with the full knowledge of George's actions.

George wouldn't look so much like a hero, then. Good intentions don't matter much if, in the end, it wasn't the better decision.

. . .

Lennie looked eagerly at him. “Go on, George. Ain’t you gonna give me more hell?”

“No” said George.

“Well, I can go away,” said Lennie. “I’ll go right off in the hills an’ find a cave if you don’t want me.”

George shook himself again. “No,” he said. “I want you to stay with me here.”

Lennie said craftily – “Tell me like you done before.”

“Tell you what?”

“‘Bout the other guys an’ about us.”

George said, “Guys like us got no fambly. They make a little stake an’ then they blow it in. They got nobody in the worl’ that gives a hoot in hell about ‘em  – ”

“But not us,” Lennie cried happily. “Tell about us now.”

George was quiet for a moment. “But not us,” he said.

“Because  – ”

“Because I got you an’  – ”

“An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us,” Lennie cried in triumph.

The little evening breeze blew over the clearing and the leaves rustled and the wind waves flowed up the green pool. And the shouts of the men sounded again, this time much closer than before.

George took off his hat. He said shakily, “Take off your hat, Lennie. The air feels fine.”

Lennie removed his hat dutifully and laid it on the ground in front of him. The shadow in the valley was bluer, and the evening came fast. On the wind the sound of crashing in the brush came to them.

Lennie said, “Tell how it’s gonna be.”

George had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment he was business-like. “Look across the river, Lennie, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.”

Lennie turned his head and looked across the pool and up the darkening slopes of the Gabilans. “We gonna get a little place,” George began. He reached in his side pocket and brought out Carlson’s Luger; he snapped off the safety, and the handgun lay on the ground behind Lennie’s back. He looked at the back of Lennie’s head, at the place where the spine and the skull were joined.

A man’s voice called from up the river, and another man answered.

“Go on,” said Lennie.

George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again.

“Go on,” said Lennie. “How it’s gonna be. We gonna get a little place.”

“We’ll have a cow,” said George. “An’ we’ll have maybe a pig an’ chickens . . . an’ down the flat we’ll have a . . . little piece alfalfa  – ”

“For the rabbits,” Lennie shouted.

“For the rabbits,” George repeated.

“And I get to tend the rabbits.”

“And you get to tend the rabbits.”

Lennie giggled with happiness. “An’ live off the fatta the lan’.”

“Yes.”

Lennie turned his head

“No, Lennie. Look down across the river, like you can almost see the place.”

Lennie obeyed him. George looked down at the gun.

There were crashing footsteps in the brush now. George turned and looked towards them.

“Go on, George. When we gonna do it?”

“Gonna do it soon.”

“Me an’ you.”

“You . . . an’ me. Ever’body gonna be nice to you. Ain’t gonna be no more trouble. Nobody gonna hurt nobody nor steal from ‘em.”

Lennie said, “I thought you was mad at me, George.”

“No,” said George. “No, Lennie. I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”

The voices came close now. George raised the gun and listened to the voices.

Lennie begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s get that place now.”

“Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.”

And George raised the gun and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it close to the back of Lennie’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

George shivered and looked at the gun, and then he threw it from him, back up the bank, near the pile of old ashes.

The brush seemed filled with cries and with the sound of running feet. Slim’s voice shouted, “George. Where you at, George?”

But George sat stiffly on the bank and looked at his right hand that had thrown the gun away. The group burst into the clearing and Curley was ahead. He saw Lennie lying on the sand. “Got him, by God.” He went over and looked down at Lennie, and then looked back at George. “Right in the back of the head,” he said softly.

Slim came directly to George and sat down beside him, sat very close to him. “Never you mind,” said Slim. “A guy got to sometimes.”

But Carlson was standing over George. “How’d you do it?” he asked.

“I just done it,” George said tiredly.

“Did he have my gun?”

“Yeah. He had your gun.”

“An’ you got it away from him and you took it an’ you killed him?”

“Yeah. Tha’s how.” George’s voice was almost a whisper. He looked steadily at his right hand that had held the gun.

Slim twitched George’s elbow. “Come on, George. Me an’ you’ll go in an’ get a drink.”

George let himself be helped to his feet. “Yeah, a drink.”

Slim said, “You hadda, George. I swear you hadda. Come on with me.” He led George to the entrance of the trail and up towards the highway.

Curley and Carson looked after them. And Carlson said, “Now what the hell you suppose is eatin’ them two guys?”

on graceful exits

As I went over to say good-by I saw that the expression of bewilderment has come back into Gatsby's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams — not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn't be over-dreamed — that voice was a deathless song.

They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn't know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

for pondering

With her Florentino Ariza learned what he had already experienced many times without realizing it: that one can be in love with several people at the same time, feel the same sorrow with each, and not betray any of them. Alone in the midst of the crowd on the pier, he said to himself in a flash of anger: "My heart has more rooms than a whorehouse."

- Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

things I like this week, vol. 22.2

We appear to have a book theme going, still.

. . .

If Famous Writers Had Written Twilight.

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It's an art installation called The Obliteration Room by Yayoi Kusama. It was originally white; they gave stickers to kids who visited until the whole thing was covered. (This photo is about halfway through the process.)

I'm sure there's some sort of pattern analysis one could make.

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This map won best in show at the annual competition of the Cartography and Geographic Information Society, and it was done by one man. The article includes a lengthy analysis of why his map is so impressive - and you'll understand, after reading it.

Am contemplating buying it for Joley.

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Steve McCurry's blog continues to impress.

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Backstage at the New York City Ballet, from their facebook page.

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I have linked at least three people to this blog post with hot toddy recipes. I made the first one with Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey (since I just happened to have the ingredients at hand), and it was delicious. I highly recommend them.

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All I have is the image address.

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Fascinating and horrifying pictures of abandoned theatres. I'm always interested in shots like these, but somehow the idea that someone would abandon a theatre never occurred to me (despite having taken J to see the recent Muppets movie). It's as though, in my head, theatres were like that joke the Player makes in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead:

Player: You know what happens to old actors?
Ros: What?
Player: Nothing. They're still acting.

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I have a strong disdain for Louis Vuitton, but I want this. A lot. Even though it would be really heavy. But then, if one can afford Louis Vuitton, especially vintage, one can afford to hire someone to carry it for you.

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25 Things I Learned From Opening a Bookstore. Number 19 is particularly relatable.

things I like this week, vol. 22

So many things to share. Have been saving up a long time. (More like "things I like this month.")

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Like a picture frame for nature.

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“The story of writing in the digital age is every bit as messy as the ink-stained rags that would have littered Gutenberg’s print shop or the hot molten lead of the Linotype machine,” Mr. Kirschenbaum said, before asking a question he hopes he can answer: “Who were the early adopters, the first mainstream authors to trade in their typewriters for WordStar and WordPerfect?”

From A Literary History of Word Processing. Worth reading the entire article (assuming you're a book nerd, and I'm going to make a blanket assumption that most of my readers are).

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Speaking of book nerds . . . who wouldn't want a book the size of a box of cigarettes? Heart of Darkness is particularly appropriate, I think.

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Photo of the day, several days ago.

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Haven't been terribly pleased with 20x200's recent price hike (the name is obsolete, now!) or their taste in goofy prints, but I love, love this photo.

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So pretty.

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Neil and Amanda (you should know who these people are!) had a tango lesson the day they got married. She has this to say:

and during the lesson, when she talked about how the art of tango was to relinquish control to your dance-partner and trust that he would bravely carry you across the floor, i cried.

Tango is a good metaphor for many things, on many levels.

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I bought my full-access ticket to the Tucson Tango Festival at the early bird price. So excited. There is a beginner's option, if you're interested . . .

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Reminiscences and resolutions from a friend:

When I was about 7 I began reading Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. I was allowed to read as late as I wanted. There was no "lights out" rule in my home. One night my mother awoke to hear me sobbing hysterically in the next room. Running in to check on me, worried, she asked what happened.

"Oh, momma!" I hiccuped, "Beth died."

She laughed at me, then folded her 6 foot frame into the tiny bottom bunk I slept in and cuddled me while I cried.

Mommas are good for that.

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How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd . . .

. . .

A post from a woman in Cuba about the tradition of throwing water out the door on New Year's to wash away the bad of the previous year:

The child is bathed in a basin because the suds must then be used to clean the floor, and the bent-backed retiree drags a water cart from the hydrant to the shack where he lives. The jacuzzi jets in some hotel, the stillness of of the blue waves of one of those swimming pools that can only be seen on Google Earth, so hidden are they behind the hibiscus hedges and watchdogs of certain residences. It is not the same water.

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Jiro Dreams of Sushi.

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More to come.