today my heart was cold. you asked
do i love you? and after two years, not
today. your face seemed suddenly
unfamiliar. your half-moon smile,
your lips curling
like petals to keep or reveal
your pollen, your love. your
wrong everyword.
20090303
.inner.compositions.
"
The folding-up of a protein occurs at more than one level. [...] Quaternary structure can be directly compared with the building of a musical piece out of independent movements, for it involves the assembly of several distinct polypeptides, already in their full-blown tertiary beauty, into a larger structure. The binding of these independent chains is usually accomplished by hydrogen bonds, rather than covalent bonds; this is of course just as with pieces of music composed of several movements, which are far less tightly bound to each other than they are internally, but which nevertheless form a tight "organic" whole.
"
{Hofstadter, Douglas R.>> Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid >> pg 525}
So it would seem that the hipster gene is encoded in us!
And perhaps, even more importantly, all of us!
I speak of nothing more than the forces behind a mixtape, recorded and labelled, being an aspect of our cells, permeating like a young music note, lost from the herd, into the forests of ribosomes and rivers of cytoplasm.
Furthermore, it works to resonate with us that we are the manifest vibrations of high and low polypeptides, and their lapping waves, wetting our appetites under a lunar strobe light blinking at something close to the tempo of a lover's footsteps crossing a dancefloor.
It sheds new perspective on the mixtape soundtrack of our lives:
for all the time we spend seeking out songs,
we are comprised of the very greatest hits collection that we are seaching for.
The folding-up of a protein occurs at more than one level. [...] Quaternary structure can be directly compared with the building of a musical piece out of independent movements, for it involves the assembly of several distinct polypeptides, already in their full-blown tertiary beauty, into a larger structure. The binding of these independent chains is usually accomplished by hydrogen bonds, rather than covalent bonds; this is of course just as with pieces of music composed of several movements, which are far less tightly bound to each other than they are internally, but which nevertheless form a tight "organic" whole.
"
{Hofstadter, Douglas R.>> Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid >> pg 525}
So it would seem that the hipster gene is encoded in us!
And perhaps, even more importantly, all of us!
I speak of nothing more than the forces behind a mixtape, recorded and labelled, being an aspect of our cells, permeating like a young music note, lost from the herd, into the forests of ribosomes and rivers of cytoplasm.
Furthermore, it works to resonate with us that we are the manifest vibrations of high and low polypeptides, and their lapping waves, wetting our appetites under a lunar strobe light blinking at something close to the tempo of a lover's footsteps crossing a dancefloor.
It sheds new perspective on the mixtape soundtrack of our lives:
for all the time we spend seeking out songs,
we are comprised of the very greatest hits collection that we are seaching for.
20090302
love poem for a dog
mornings i watch you chase rabbits
in your dreams. feet twitch, mouth chomps.
all day howl.
you greet me, your tail
a-going like a metronome.
how can i not be moved by you?
in your dreams. feet twitch, mouth chomps.
all day howl.
you greet me, your tail
a-going like a metronome.
how can i not be moved by you?
.uphill.muscles.
Presumably, you ride a bike.
I hope so.
And if you do, you may have observed a hitherto unnamed phenomena of the natural world, in which no matter which direction you are riding, and with utter disregard to the exhaustive dance of the weather(wo)man on the television, the wind is always directly in your face.
I guess in retrospect, it's nothing incredibly insightful, nothing profound. I will try not to dwell on the subject matter for too long.
Rather, we can maybe skip over any attempt to metaphornicate the situation into symbolic progeny of constant opposition, and invisible forces resisting your best attempts at propelling yourself down the road with your own weak legs.
They never seem strong enough.
"Which muscles do you need to get up hills?"
"The quads," I said, slapping the front of my thighs,
having no idea if that is indeed the name for those Sisyphusian muscles.
No, let's not whine. Too much of that already.
Let's look forward. Upwind even.
Let's think about about a Jesus bike, resurrected from a basement, pushing aside a boulder of dryer lint and cardboard boxes. It skims over water like a stone skipping over the surface like a schoolboy trying not to step on sidewalk cracks.
We'll put a sail on the Jesus bike, like a flapping robe trying desperately to hide our quads.
We'll point our handlebars at the Holy Land,
and sing a shanty as the winds carry us further into our unapologetic depravations.
I hope so.
And if you do, you may have observed a hitherto unnamed phenomena of the natural world, in which no matter which direction you are riding, and with utter disregard to the exhaustive dance of the weather(wo)man on the television, the wind is always directly in your face.
I guess in retrospect, it's nothing incredibly insightful, nothing profound. I will try not to dwell on the subject matter for too long.
Rather, we can maybe skip over any attempt to metaphornicate the situation into symbolic progeny of constant opposition, and invisible forces resisting your best attempts at propelling yourself down the road with your own weak legs.
They never seem strong enough.
"Which muscles do you need to get up hills?"
"The quads," I said, slapping the front of my thighs,
having no idea if that is indeed the name for those Sisyphusian muscles.
No, let's not whine. Too much of that already.
Let's look forward. Upwind even.
Let's think about about a Jesus bike, resurrected from a basement, pushing aside a boulder of dryer lint and cardboard boxes. It skims over water like a stone skipping over the surface like a schoolboy trying not to step on sidewalk cracks.
We'll put a sail on the Jesus bike, like a flapping robe trying desperately to hide our quads.
We'll point our handlebars at the Holy Land,
and sing a shanty as the winds carry us further into our unapologetic depravations.
20090301
portrait of my father
first, grief. then
the eyes, the weight
beneath them, beyond them.
the shoulders slouch
as though the earth wants to reclaim
them, pull them closer to its lips.
slow heart beat.
when i was young, i stood on his feet
to dance a slow circle
through the kitchen.
the hands, bearlike, in mine.
the eyes, the weight
beneath them, beyond them.
the shoulders slouch
as though the earth wants to reclaim
them, pull them closer to its lips.
slow heart beat.
when i was young, i stood on his feet
to dance a slow circle
through the kitchen.
the hands, bearlike, in mine.
.paper.island.
Have you ever noticed a cat's tendency to locate the one patch of texture on the ground that differs from its surroundings, and inevitably lay on it? Sometimes a jacket, sometimes a bag. Those would make some degree of sense, the sake of comfort being considered. I would probably want to lie down on a big parka myself, given the choice between that and concrete.
But I have seen cats snoozing on nothing more than a sheet of paper, as if they wanted their dreams to be burned into narrative.
Perhaps it is as simple as every cat fancying itself a sleek predator, master of its own island.
No flashing mirrors.
No bonfires.
No inanimate sidekicks.
Just claws and hair, and the knowledge that in the figure and ground, one needs a bit of water to make an island.
But I have seen cats snoozing on nothing more than a sheet of paper, as if they wanted their dreams to be burned into narrative.
Perhaps it is as simple as every cat fancying itself a sleek predator, master of its own island.
No flashing mirrors.
No bonfires.
No inanimate sidekicks.
Just claws and hair, and the knowledge that in the figure and ground, one needs a bit of water to make an island.
20090228
driving home drunk
i wonder what it would be like to hit
the median head-on. the world becomes
hot metal and pressure. i'd hear my tires
claw the pavement, smell something burning.
all of it, too much friction. too much...
maybe my body would be light, all the bad
parts filtered through another sphere
and kept away from me.
i'd be
another animal caught on
the wrong side of headlights.
the median head-on. the world becomes
hot metal and pressure. i'd hear my tires
claw the pavement, smell something burning.
all of it, too much friction. too much...
maybe my body would be light, all the bad
parts filtered through another sphere
and kept away from me.
i'd be
another animal caught on
the wrong side of headlights.
.ואלס.עם.בשיר
Like rocks around a dying campfire, Lee's living room has a ring of assorted wrenches, handlebar tape, and chains lying in it. And from the fire within, we have brought Capt. Nemo back to life, a veritable two-wheeled phoenix.
Some cosmetic changes to be had, Lee asserts: a lavender phoenix. Strangely enough, the rest of the colour scheme is in an Easter egg theme.
With spring around the corner, reincarnation motifs are just all abound!
וגם אני יראה "ואלס עם בשיר" הלילה. שמעתי שהוא ממש טוב. אני מרוגש.
20090227
when god speaks
just listen: the birds in the holly tree
speak in tongues. their voices
rise like smoke, like a sacrifice.
i wouldn't have known it either
had i never felt that hurt before.
i was alone in my bedroom, watching the night
pull down its shades, the colour of an old bruise.
it frightened me, how little i wanted
to live another day.
i could never feel this whole again.
speak in tongues. their voices
rise like smoke, like a sacrifice.
i wouldn't have known it either
had i never felt that hurt before.
i was alone in my bedroom, watching the night
pull down its shades, the colour of an old bruise.
it frightened me, how little i wanted
to live another day.
i could never feel this whole again.
.spicy.thai.burrito.
Last time I saw Matt & Kim, Kim was in and out of the lady's room while Matt was talking to us. Apparently, she had eaten some spicy Thai burrito, and was trying to brush out the taste and smell on her breath.
It makes me wonder if I'll recognize what she had for dinner tonight, through all the sweat.
It makes me wonder if I'll recognize what she had for dinner tonight, through all the sweat.
20090226
on letting go
mostly i feel lonely
when i think of you.
i had watched the tree
outside my window
and how the wind
ran through it,
pulled it toward
the west. how can
one move when rooted
that way?
i toyed with the thought
of seeing you again
and thought
better of it.
when i think of you.
i had watched the tree
outside my window
and how the wind
ran through it,
pulled it toward
the west. how can
one move when rooted
that way?
i toyed with the thought
of seeing you again
and thought
better of it.
.unfindable.cities.
A trip to the library today revealed that despite my recollection of having returned Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, the library does not in fact have it shelved anywhere. The implication, thus, is that apparently I have made a mistake.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
20090225
.time.an.origami.rock.
It seems, for once, that my hand-drawn calendar is synched up with the mainstream ones. For a brief moment, I'm entertained by the image of recycled sheets, with shaky grids drawn on sitting on a white rack next to a perfectly quadrilateral, calendar of cats in buckets, the whole package cleanly sealed off behind a transparent film, as if cuteness were a sexually transmitted disease, waiting to spring off commercial merchandise to ruin your life forever.
And when that brief moment is over, I have finished drawing up the next thirty-five days of my life, not even bothering to use a straightedge this time. If these little boxes were houses, then poor March looks like a straw house waiting for a wolf to come along.
And what becomes of the thirty-five expended, experienced days?
I begin to think of the linguistic ways of talking about how one travels through time: we like to think of it in terms of the putting the past behind us, the future in front of us. We envision ourselves boldly stepping forward into tomorrow, as if we were retrieving a baseball we failed to catch from the past. The shining future is like the sun in our eyes.
And the Chinese, I seem to remember, and perhaps even the Vietnamese (to be honest I can't even remember off the top of my head), have a way of envisioning us falling through time, like a marble falling from the past above down the stairs to the deep pit of the future. One can't seem to fight gravity any more than one can fight tumbling into tomorrow. Surely if Newton had been Chinese, he would have realized the fourth-dimensional qualities of time concomitantly as he had notions of gravity pounded into his head by an impertinent apple.
But perhaps we can offer another metaphor, for they lurk under every pencil with lead in its belly. Why not think of time as nothing more than a sheet of paper, ripped off the wall when we are through with it?
Nobody moves us.
We are the movers,
the page turners.
Time is nothing more than ink in a pen, and when the veins are too dry to draw up any more numbered boxes, you are in some trouble, buster.
Time is nothing more than a leaf of scrap paper, fallen from a tree of trivia and flipped over, recycled. It'll be crumpled up when we're done with it, and if the trash hasn't been taken out yet, well by George, we're going to just fold it into itself a little more and shove it into our pockets to dispose of later.
And when our pants come back from the wash, and we extract the shredded pulp of discarded time past, we'll spread it around our palms, thinking it a digested concert ticket, and try to recall exactly where we were, and what all that blowing in our ears was.
And when that brief moment is over, I have finished drawing up the next thirty-five days of my life, not even bothering to use a straightedge this time. If these little boxes were houses, then poor March looks like a straw house waiting for a wolf to come along.
And what becomes of the thirty-five expended, experienced days?
I begin to think of the linguistic ways of talking about how one travels through time: we like to think of it in terms of the putting the past behind us, the future in front of us. We envision ourselves boldly stepping forward into tomorrow, as if we were retrieving a baseball we failed to catch from the past. The shining future is like the sun in our eyes.
And the Chinese, I seem to remember, and perhaps even the Vietnamese (to be honest I can't even remember off the top of my head), have a way of envisioning us falling through time, like a marble falling from the past above down the stairs to the deep pit of the future. One can't seem to fight gravity any more than one can fight tumbling into tomorrow. Surely if Newton had been Chinese, he would have realized the fourth-dimensional qualities of time concomitantly as he had notions of gravity pounded into his head by an impertinent apple.
But perhaps we can offer another metaphor, for they lurk under every pencil with lead in its belly. Why not think of time as nothing more than a sheet of paper, ripped off the wall when we are through with it?
Nobody moves us.
We are the movers,
the page turners.
Time is nothing more than ink in a pen, and when the veins are too dry to draw up any more numbered boxes, you are in some trouble, buster.
Time is nothing more than a leaf of scrap paper, fallen from a tree of trivia and flipped over, recycled. It'll be crumpled up when we're done with it, and if the trash hasn't been taken out yet, well by George, we're going to just fold it into itself a little more and shove it into our pockets to dispose of later.
And when our pants come back from the wash, and we extract the shredded pulp of discarded time past, we'll spread it around our palms, thinking it a digested concert ticket, and try to recall exactly where we were, and what all that blowing in our ears was.
20090224
mother
on the phone, she says,
I'm sorry I wasn't better. I should have
stayed with your father.
I should have
stayed for you.
she says getting older is just
god's way of making you dwell
on how shitty you've been.
the days repeat like a song
stuck in your head. everyday
she sees herself leaving her daughters
with the man she no longer loved
and not looking back.
I'm sorry I wasn't better. I should have
stayed with your father.
I should have
stayed for you.
she says getting older is just
god's way of making you dwell
on how shitty you've been.
the days repeat like a song
stuck in your head. everyday
she sees herself leaving her daughters
with the man she no longer loved
and not looking back.
.not.tooth.nor.nail.
A point of contention, no doubt, but the issue of zombie defences always seems to be on the forefront of cautious minds. What really is the best way to protect yourself?
And if you ascribe to offence as the best defence, then what is the ideal weapon?
What does it say about a person?
I'd wager that the latter group would be in better shape, and would taste better.
Unless tender meat is your thing.
In any case, if you were a zombie, you would probably one the fit people on your side.
And to leave the question of offence in the air for a hot minute, I still maintain that the best plausible protection against zombies would be chain mail. Because ask yourself, what on a human body can really get through chain mail? Not tooth nor nail. In fact, you might be hard pressed to even disassemble the metal links by hand.
The argument goes that a group of zombies en masse could still rip you apart in theory, or maybe more realistically, smother you. But really, if you're up against such a horde, let's face it, you're probably screwed anyway.
No the only real question is how one pees from inside such a fortress.
I suppose you're just going to have to deal with some rusty joints if you want to make it out of here alive.
And if you ascribe to offence as the best defence, then what is the ideal weapon?
What does it say about a person?
I'd wager that the latter group would be in better shape, and would taste better.
Unless tender meat is your thing.
In any case, if you were a zombie, you would probably one the fit people on your side.
And to leave the question of offence in the air for a hot minute, I still maintain that the best plausible protection against zombies would be chain mail. Because ask yourself, what on a human body can really get through chain mail? Not tooth nor nail. In fact, you might be hard pressed to even disassemble the metal links by hand.
The argument goes that a group of zombies en masse could still rip you apart in theory, or maybe more realistically, smother you. But really, if you're up against such a horde, let's face it, you're probably screwed anyway.
No the only real question is how one pees from inside such a fortress.
I suppose you're just going to have to deal with some rusty joints if you want to make it out of here alive.
20090223
.headful.of.hiss.
A look in
the mirror tells me
I could cut my hair tonight.
Don't you remember that feeling you get sometimes, if not usually, after you cut your hair? A hesitant moment, spanning days and nights, as your head acclimatizes itself to the shift in weight.
Maybe you can see better now with the hair out of your eyes.
Maybe you stagger, blinded by light, unfiltered
and you can't seem to hide the fact that you have been sleeping through class
and your best friend's wedding.
I could cut my hair tonight,
shave off those snakes
and watch as all those paralysing secrets slither away.
the mirror tells me
I could cut my hair tonight.
Don't you remember that feeling you get sometimes, if not usually, after you cut your hair? A hesitant moment, spanning days and nights, as your head acclimatizes itself to the shift in weight.
Maybe you can see better now with the hair out of your eyes.
Maybe you stagger, blinded by light, unfiltered
and you can't seem to hide the fact that you have been sleeping through class
and your best friend's wedding.
I could cut my hair tonight,
shave off those snakes
and watch as all those paralysing secrets slither away.
ladybug
there's nothing lady-like about you
on your back, capsized on the sidewalk.
cross your legs, pull down your
skirt, narrow your eyes, your gaze
on nothing in particular.
here you are, kicking a goddamn
tantrum. sun on your belly like the hot breath
of a man until he
stomps you clean through.
on your back, capsized on the sidewalk.
cross your legs, pull down your
skirt, narrow your eyes, your gaze
on nothing in particular.
here you are, kicking a goddamn
tantrum. sun on your belly like the hot breath
of a man until he
stomps you clean through.
20090222
poem from our window
thick fog where you breathe
on the window pane.
you draw
a heart in the quick-fading white
because it seemed like
the right thing to do.
outside, the world is just
another specimen behind glass,
everything cataloged.
here is a sparrow
caught on the wind.
and here,
the gray you find
swarming in the city.
but it seemed new
when your cloud of breath disappeared
and we were part of it all.
on the window pane.
you draw
a heart in the quick-fading white
because it seemed like
the right thing to do.
outside, the world is just
another specimen behind glass,
everything cataloged.
here is a sparrow
caught on the wind.
and here,
the gray you find
swarming in the city.
but it seemed new
when your cloud of breath disappeared
and we were part of it all.
.the.curtain.calls.
A laminated chore chart, waiting to snap in names like Lego bricks.
A Nalgene filled with root beer up to the "Made in USA".
Fingers still smelling faintly like bike grease.
Winter winds afraid of being forgotten.
I'll be done with this script tonight.
A Nalgene filled with root beer up to the "Made in USA".
Fingers still smelling faintly like bike grease.
Winter winds afraid of being forgotten.
I'll be done with this script tonight.
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