(a) remembered how to stay up dancing all night long till 3am
and
(b) learned how to do so in three-inch heels.
I am very proud. Very, very.
Also? IOWA RULES, as do Khaliah, Laura, Adrienne, Jen, Patrick, Manal, and the Iowa Writers' Workshop writers who came to the Alterego Birthday Party and didn't run away from the Sarah Lawrence weirdos. (We may be weird but we sure are fun!)
More later, probably, but for now it's to bed with me.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
On the prose poem: Baudelaire's "Be Drunk."
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking … Ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! One wine, on poetry, or on virtue as you wish.”
I just found this poem while doing research on prose poetry for a short story I'm writing.
Baudelaire? Badass! He wrote this poem, this ode, really, to Drunkenness. Now, there’s a topic I didn’t think one could particularly beautify, but he did it.
Bloody fantastic: "Wake" gets reviewed at FilmThreat.com.
Check out Phil Hall interviewing my pal Androooo (a.k.a. Andrew Lawton) at FilmThreat.com regarding his 2008 short, Wake. Then check out the review of the film, also at FilmThreat.com. Then do what you can do to try to see this fantastic short film.
Note especially this line from the review: "If this is what writer/director Andrew Lawton and his cast and crew can do with 28 minutes, then hopefully a feature film isn't too long off. I want to spend more time in Lawton’s cinematic care." AMEN to that.
Note especially this line from the review: "If this is what writer/director Andrew Lawton and his cast and crew can do with 28 minutes, then hopefully a feature film isn't too long off. I want to spend more time in Lawton’s cinematic care." AMEN to that.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Getting out of my own way.
One of my goals for, oh, the last ten years has been to get in better shape. There are several reasons for this. Maintenance of health. Stress relief. A chance to get out of the home office. See the world—or at least the nabe. Clear my mind. Have time to listen to my iPod. Get rid of some of my dog’s excess energy by making her run with me. And, of course, vanity.
Vanity, vanity, vanity. I’ve had this secret promise to myself that I would never agree to get pregnant until after I had had a superslammin’ bikini model type bod. That’s difficult when you eat bacon and chocolate and love sugar and fat the way I do. Really difficult. And as we get older, it’s harder for our bodies to bounce out of that delicious rut, plus as women I’ve heard this horrible rumor that we actually store belly fat more than men do. (To which I say: WTF.)
Now, it's not like I've never run before. I ran cross-country in high school for seventh and eighth grades. I grew up as part of a hanai 'ohana with six crazy aunties and my mom, who ran together every weekend and did triathalons together in matching outfits and often dragged their kids along for the runs, often at the ungodly hour of 5am, if you can believe it. The same people who, when I go home to Hawai'i now, I'll sometimes run with to "catch up," meaning talkstory, only it's pretty hilarious to see a young lady in her late 20s huffing and puffing to keep up with seven ladies twice her age. Anyway, just to say: I'm not a complete neophyte but I've certainly fallen out of the active ranks.
Much inspired by my dear friend Surfrunner, whose fitness-and-foodie blog rocks my world and who touts the Nike+ system as a helpful motivation tool, I decided to at least attempt to work toward those aforementioned reasons to exercise. I bought myself a Nike+ system. The shoes, the sensor, new earphones, some new music for workout playlists, the works. I set a goal—to work out more often, and to that end, I “promised” to work out twelve times in a month, which really doesn’t sound like a lot but life gets in the way so often that I figured it was better to set the bar low and raise it than set it high and fucking eat it on my face.
And when walking around Niketown and seeing all the cool, sciencey clothing that wicks away sweat and keeps you warm or cool and tucks your iPod cords out of the way and so forth, I slapped my own wrist and said you’ll run in your old ugly clothes, fool, until you earn the right to some new workout clothes. (It’s very important to set boundaries with yourself when you have an inner impulse buyer.) So, that’s my second goal to work towards: the right to new clothes.
Surfrunner herself decided to help me out with a challenge: run 15 miles in a month. Now, she didn’t mean “challenge” in the usual connotation of the word or even the Nike+ connotation—both of which inspire competition, smack talking, and shaming—but in a gentler way, a welcome-back-to-the-world-of-fitness-and-to-Nike+ way, and a remember-your-worst-judge-and-best-competition-is-yourself kind of way. We agreed our so-called "challenge" was more like a book club than a sport: you know, how everyone has to eventually read the same amount, on their own time … like that, but for feet.
Also in the inspiration department: competition, smack-talking, and shame. I think it’s going to work. I am going to put my little smack-talking Nike+ mini-me and my progress bar on this here blog, and I am going to be aware that anyone can look at my stats, turn his or her nose up at me, and think to themselves, she only ran 2.89 miles? Please. I could do that in my sleep. But then I am going to remind myself that most people are not big huge bitches like that and that really my fear of what people are thinking about me is my inner couch potato, bitchy and judgy and lazy and scared of new things. She’s the me who, frankly, would rather be sitting on the couch, with some coffee, doing a crossword. The me who hates sweating and turning hotpink in public and who watches thingirls, those naturally stick shaped who don’t seem to work for it or at it, who are just prancing around the park in their little color-coded matching sports bra and pants, wearing an ensemble to sweat for christssake; the me who wants to swear at them to get out of the park because they’re making her feel bad—see? She’s out of control! She just took over the keyboard there!--anyway, that me is just getting in my way. Because who am I to say, really, maybe they did have to work hard and are now understandably a little gloaty because of how far they've come--and, anyway, the swearing and the judging is just Couch Potato being jealous.
Currently, I am a little behind on my goal, but now that I’ve discovered that Nahe can sort of run with me when offleash at Fort Greene Park—that is, she’ll take off running after other dogs and five minutes later be like, oh shit, I lost my mom, where’d she go, barkbarkbark, in response to which I’ve really been improving my whistling skills—I’m keeping the faith. I hope to pretty much make Nahe’s daily morning “walk” my morning run, as long as I get up and out the door by 8am. Perhaps not every single day but let’s hope for most of them.
Vanity, vanity, vanity. I’ve had this secret promise to myself that I would never agree to get pregnant until after I had had a superslammin’ bikini model type bod. That’s difficult when you eat bacon and chocolate and love sugar and fat the way I do. Really difficult. And as we get older, it’s harder for our bodies to bounce out of that delicious rut, plus as women I’ve heard this horrible rumor that we actually store belly fat more than men do. (To which I say: WTF.)
Now, it's not like I've never run before. I ran cross-country in high school for seventh and eighth grades. I grew up as part of a hanai 'ohana with six crazy aunties and my mom, who ran together every weekend and did triathalons together in matching outfits and often dragged their kids along for the runs, often at the ungodly hour of 5am, if you can believe it. The same people who, when I go home to Hawai'i now, I'll sometimes run with to "catch up," meaning talkstory, only it's pretty hilarious to see a young lady in her late 20s huffing and puffing to keep up with seven ladies twice her age. Anyway, just to say: I'm not a complete neophyte but I've certainly fallen out of the active ranks.
Much inspired by my dear friend Surfrunner, whose fitness-and-foodie blog rocks my world and who touts the Nike+ system as a helpful motivation tool, I decided to at least attempt to work toward those aforementioned reasons to exercise. I bought myself a Nike+ system. The shoes, the sensor, new earphones, some new music for workout playlists, the works. I set a goal—to work out more often, and to that end, I “promised” to work out twelve times in a month, which really doesn’t sound like a lot but life gets in the way so often that I figured it was better to set the bar low and raise it than set it high and fucking eat it on my face.
And when walking around Niketown and seeing all the cool, sciencey clothing that wicks away sweat and keeps you warm or cool and tucks your iPod cords out of the way and so forth, I slapped my own wrist and said you’ll run in your old ugly clothes, fool, until you earn the right to some new workout clothes. (It’s very important to set boundaries with yourself when you have an inner impulse buyer.) So, that’s my second goal to work towards: the right to new clothes.
Surfrunner herself decided to help me out with a challenge: run 15 miles in a month. Now, she didn’t mean “challenge” in the usual connotation of the word or even the Nike+ connotation—both of which inspire competition, smack talking, and shaming—but in a gentler way, a welcome-back-to-the-world-of-fitness-and-to-Nike+ way, and a remember-your-worst-judge-and-best-competition-is-yourself kind of way. We agreed our so-called "challenge" was more like a book club than a sport: you know, how everyone has to eventually read the same amount, on their own time … like that, but for feet.
Also in the inspiration department: competition, smack-talking, and shame. I think it’s going to work. I am going to put my little smack-talking Nike+ mini-me and my progress bar on this here blog, and I am going to be aware that anyone can look at my stats, turn his or her nose up at me, and think to themselves, she only ran 2.89 miles? Please. I could do that in my sleep. But then I am going to remind myself that most people are not big huge bitches like that and that really my fear of what people are thinking about me is my inner couch potato, bitchy and judgy and lazy and scared of new things. She’s the me who, frankly, would rather be sitting on the couch, with some coffee, doing a crossword. The me who hates sweating and turning hotpink in public and who watches thingirls, those naturally stick shaped who don’t seem to work for it or at it, who are just prancing around the park in their little color-coded matching sports bra and pants, wearing an ensemble to sweat for christssake; the me who wants to swear at them to get out of the park because they’re making her feel bad—see? She’s out of control! She just took over the keyboard there!--anyway, that me is just getting in my way. Because who am I to say, really, maybe they did have to work hard and are now understandably a little gloaty because of how far they've come--and, anyway, the swearing and the judging is just Couch Potato being jealous.
Currently, I am a little behind on my goal, but now that I’ve discovered that Nahe can sort of run with me when offleash at Fort Greene Park—that is, she’ll take off running after other dogs and five minutes later be like, oh shit, I lost my mom, where’d she go, barkbarkbark, in response to which I’ve really been improving my whistling skills—I’m keeping the faith. I hope to pretty much make Nahe’s daily morning “walk” my morning run, as long as I get up and out the door by 8am. Perhaps not every single day but let’s hope for most of them.
Today on DailyCandy New York: real, actual, and quite delicious candy.
DailyCandy today videoprofiled one of my favorite Brooklyn industries: Fine & Raw Chocolate.
Okay, yes, those candy bars are, like, nine bucks a pop, but they are really fricken delicious for being raw and organic and somewhat healthy. But, hey, let's not kid ourselves too much, it is still chocolate, which is good because otherwise you wouldn't see me bothering with agave syrup and lucuma. By the way, what the hell even is lucuma? I don't know, but it's in my #1 favorite Fine & Raw bar, the Lucuma and Vanilla:
DELICIOUS CONSPIRACY!!!
Okay, yes, those candy bars are, like, nine bucks a pop, but they are really fricken delicious for being raw and organic and somewhat healthy. But, hey, let's not kid ourselves too much, it is still chocolate, which is good because otherwise you wouldn't see me bothering with agave syrup and lucuma. By the way, what the hell even is lucuma? I don't know, but it's in my #1 favorite Fine & Raw bar, the Lucuma and Vanilla:
bar: lucuma & vanillaI'm not even sure I want to know. What if lucuma is an euphemism for organic, legal crack? Would I want to know that? Or would I just want to go back to Choice Greene and stand in line to buy another $9 chocolate bar? Which in retrospect does seem suspect--that I want to cough up $9 for candy.
origin: Ecuador
description: textured style bar
with notes of bread pudding, toffee apple, and burnt caramel
ingredients: raw cacao, raw agave nectar, lucuma, vanilla
price: $8.50
DELICIOUS CONSPIRACY!!!
Monday, April 20, 2009
Awesome anthropology name number 49567.
Guess who is cited in the article I am copyediting right now?
Joe Friday.
No, really. That's his name. Awesomeness.
Joe Friday.
No, really. That's his name. Awesomeness.
Manahatta.
Is it just me or is the recent New York Magazine article about "Manahatta" unspeakably, unbearably sad? It amazes me, always, how easy it is to live in a place and be unconscious about its history. It amazes me, but it also makes me want to live a different way, a way more conscious of the following:
Here I am, the girl with a complicated relationship with New York for precisely this pull, this boring and oft-forespoken reason but nonetheless truly, truly true: I love the prettygrittysparklyshinyglassyindustrious city but it makes me miss nature. Little fences around the roots of trees that line the streets, four-block radii of jogging paths and dirt trails that are our neighborhood parks, even the larger Central Park and Prospect Park, these are not nature but what we have cultured and cultivated into a tony version of it.
When I live here and dream of elsewhere, it is because elsewhere the grass really is greener. It's greener and more plentiful, and the ocean is bluer, and the trees are more numerous, and there are mountains and rivers and waterfalls and animals and wild orchids, still.
Then again, when I live elsewhere, I whine about a different set of variables. (None of which have to do with grass.)
Maybe I'm just a whiny person.
But it makes me just crazy to think that right under my feet, in the complete history of this island, is everything I ever wanted. Just not everything at the same time.
There were more ecological communities per acre than Yellowstone, more native plant species per acre than Yosemite—30 kinds of orchids, for instance. There were also 230 types of birds, nearly 80 kinds of fish, plus bears, wolves, beavers, otters, and numerous others. By contrast, there were no starlings—they were introduced to Central Park near the end of the nineteenth century—and possibly no Canadian geese. Supporting this richness were 66 miles of streams, 21 ponds, and 300 springs, fed by water stored in the underlying sand and gravel pushed here by the glaciers that shaped Mannahatta some 14,000 years ago. [New York Magazine, April 12, 2009]
Here I am, the girl with a complicated relationship with New York for precisely this pull, this boring and oft-forespoken reason but nonetheless truly, truly true: I love the prettygrittysparklyshinyglassyindustrious city but it makes me miss nature. Little fences around the roots of trees that line the streets, four-block radii of jogging paths and dirt trails that are our neighborhood parks, even the larger Central Park and Prospect Park, these are not nature but what we have cultured and cultivated into a tony version of it.
When I live here and dream of elsewhere, it is because elsewhere the grass really is greener. It's greener and more plentiful, and the ocean is bluer, and the trees are more numerous, and there are mountains and rivers and waterfalls and animals and wild orchids, still.
Then again, when I live elsewhere, I whine about a different set of variables. (None of which have to do with grass.)
Maybe I'm just a whiny person.
But it makes me just crazy to think that right under my feet, in the complete history of this island, is everything I ever wanted. Just not everything at the same time.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Ten quick, random, happy things.
1. Today Dave and I took Nahe to Fort Greene Park before 9am on purpose and, trusting our collective gut but still with quite a bit of trepidation, we let her off-leash and watched her fly.
2. Good news: We still have a dog. She didn't run away or die.
3. Brooklyn Flea was in full swing today. The hipsters were out en masse. I was not one of them but I was browsing the racks. I really, really wanted to buy this awesome African caftan thingy, from I forget which vendor(!sad!), but it was $40. I was pretty sure I could rock it, but not $40 sure. So I settled for buying brandsparklynewbaby things for my hot mamacita friend, Hina: I got a really adorable semimatching set of shirts for her and her two girls (they all have feathers on them but in different colors and styles and actually were from different vendors ... Loyalty and Blood and Flux ... feathers must be "in," I guess).
4. MMmmm for Moloka'i toasted coconut coffee, the last remnant of Dave's 30th birthday extravaganza this past January.
5. Learned to fix my own damn Virtual Nails today so I don't have to keep hauling ass back to Brooklyn Heights until my own nails grow back out, hopefully stronger. Damn things kept breaking.
6. Found a serious liquor store. It's on Myrtle, which I have been warned not to go to after dark but . . . well, sometimes a girl needs something stronger than wine.
7. Rocking the ki ho'alu while editing again.
8. Gorgeous near-summerlike weather today!
9. Yay for groceries and new recipes to try.
10. Yay for new earbuds and an iPod and Nike + and a heartpumping run in my near future.
2. Good news: We still have a dog. She didn't run away or die.
3. Brooklyn Flea was in full swing today. The hipsters were out en masse. I was not one of them but I was browsing the racks. I really, really wanted to buy this awesome African caftan thingy, from I forget which vendor(!sad!), but it was $40. I was pretty sure I could rock it, but not $40 sure. So I settled for buying brandsparklynewbaby things for my hot mamacita friend, Hina: I got a really adorable semimatching set of shirts for her and her two girls (they all have feathers on them but in different colors and styles and actually were from different vendors ... Loyalty and Blood and Flux ... feathers must be "in," I guess).
4. MMmmm for Moloka'i toasted coconut coffee, the last remnant of Dave's 30th birthday extravaganza this past January.
5. Learned to fix my own damn Virtual Nails today so I don't have to keep hauling ass back to Brooklyn Heights until my own nails grow back out, hopefully stronger. Damn things kept breaking.
6. Found a serious liquor store. It's on Myrtle, which I have been warned not to go to after dark but . . . well, sometimes a girl needs something stronger than wine.
7. Rocking the ki ho'alu while editing again.
8. Gorgeous near-summerlike weather today!
9. Yay for groceries and new recipes to try.
10. Yay for new earbuds and an iPod and Nike + and a heartpumping run in my near future.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Shake a tail feather, indeed.
This bird, dancing to Ray Charles, is too cute for words. Trust me. Just watch it.
I think the bird has a better sense of rhythm than I do.
(Thanks to my Mommabear for the tip.)
I think the bird has a better sense of rhythm than I do.
(Thanks to my Mommabear for the tip.)
Variations on a theme: Famous-osity.
Actually, I'm glad it happened. The Mary Gaitskill thing. Because had I known who she was, sitting there all pretty in a tea-rose colored shirt and matching suede boots, I wouldn't have gone over there to talk to her. I would have sat, intimidated, in a different corner, chatting up some other unknown face.
And it gave RG something to razz me about. And because I'm a big girl now, it gave me something to laugh at myself about.
There is nothing wrong with three glasses of wine. Not A Thing. It makes me charming. It makes me witty. It makes me fun. It makes me care less of what people think of me. It makes me able to laugh at myself.
It also makes me take the G train in the wrong friggin' direction, but whatever. Witty! Fun! Superfun!!
I guess I'm afraid I came off a little blonde and unmemorable to the Civitella people. A little too bow-and-scrape. A little too you-are-former-Civitella-fellows-and-I-am-but-a-lowly-MFA-student. I'm afraid Mary Gaitskill will never forget how I had a 15 minute conversation with her without ever figuring out who she was.
But what I am not afraid of? Myself. The me I keep trying to become. The me who pulled me up by my bootstraps, forcibly removed the very comfy pajama set in which I live, tugged on the most fabulous but still understated outfit I could muster, and showed up on an unknown street corner in TriBeCa (at least I think that's where I was ...). And when I realized I had beat RG there, I followed a dude in a door bearing the Civitella poster.
I did this, I'll freely admit, after calling Dave at work and making him give me encouragement to do so. But I still did it. Me, all by myself. I marched into a room full of unknown people, armed myself with a glass of wine, and began the steady, plodding, slow and halting process of talking story to complete strangers.
Some of you aren't amazed.
If you are not, you do not know me.
All of the above is nothing short of a fucking miracle.
My god is it easy to fall out of practice at talking story. My god is it easy to get rusty at it. But I did it--faux pas and all. Proving only that I need more practice, really. Like anything worth doing.
Finally, the evening led to a moment of crystality. There is a kind of writer and person and famous person I do not want to become. I just never want to be so assured of my success that I lose my humility. To be clear, I am not at all saying I know what Mary was thinking in that conversation. All I know is how I read it, how it came off to me, and how RG reacted to me not knowing her.
I mean, why should anyone know a particular writer anyway? Because they, like cream, have risen to the top of This Day's Pop Culture Buzz? Do you know how much work it takes to keep your finger on the pulse of all that shit? It's a brain drain, it's web culture, it's the opposite of being a Renaissance man/woman, it's about knowing a little about a whole ton, and I hate it. There was an interview I read recently, in The Sun Magazine, with Nicholas Carr, called, "Computing the Cost." It talked about how the Internet is rewiring our brains: we can surf the web, we have improved our decision making processes, we think in tangents, but in return we lose depth, richness, texture.
--See? Total tangent! My brain is rewired!--
Anyway. My point was that, even if I get famous some day, I hope I never assume people will know who I am. Why should people know my face, my name, my person, even my books, necessarily? Can't there be wide bodies of knowledge--equally valid if less traversed--that they chose to pursue instead of me? Who wants the new writers to all be shaped from the same cookie-cutter anyway?
And it gave RG something to razz me about. And because I'm a big girl now, it gave me something to laugh at myself about.
There is nothing wrong with three glasses of wine. Not A Thing. It makes me charming. It makes me witty. It makes me fun. It makes me care less of what people think of me. It makes me able to laugh at myself.
It also makes me take the G train in the wrong friggin' direction, but whatever. Witty! Fun! Superfun!!
I guess I'm afraid I came off a little blonde and unmemorable to the Civitella people. A little too bow-and-scrape. A little too you-are-former-Civitella-fellows-and-I-am-but-a-lowly-MFA-student. I'm afraid Mary Gaitskill will never forget how I had a 15 minute conversation with her without ever figuring out who she was.
But what I am not afraid of? Myself. The me I keep trying to become. The me who pulled me up by my bootstraps, forcibly removed the very comfy pajama set in which I live, tugged on the most fabulous but still understated outfit I could muster, and showed up on an unknown street corner in TriBeCa (at least I think that's where I was ...). And when I realized I had beat RG there, I followed a dude in a door bearing the Civitella poster.
I did this, I'll freely admit, after calling Dave at work and making him give me encouragement to do so. But I still did it. Me, all by myself. I marched into a room full of unknown people, armed myself with a glass of wine, and began the steady, plodding, slow and halting process of talking story to complete strangers.
Some of you aren't amazed.
If you are not, you do not know me.
All of the above is nothing short of a fucking miracle.
My god is it easy to fall out of practice at talking story. My god is it easy to get rusty at it. But I did it--faux pas and all. Proving only that I need more practice, really. Like anything worth doing.
Finally, the evening led to a moment of crystality. There is a kind of writer and person and famous person I do not want to become. I just never want to be so assured of my success that I lose my humility. To be clear, I am not at all saying I know what Mary was thinking in that conversation. All I know is how I read it, how it came off to me, and how RG reacted to me not knowing her.
I mean, why should anyone know a particular writer anyway? Because they, like cream, have risen to the top of This Day's Pop Culture Buzz? Do you know how much work it takes to keep your finger on the pulse of all that shit? It's a brain drain, it's web culture, it's the opposite of being a Renaissance man/woman, it's about knowing a little about a whole ton, and I hate it. There was an interview I read recently, in The Sun Magazine, with Nicholas Carr, called, "Computing the Cost." It talked about how the Internet is rewiring our brains: we can surf the web, we have improved our decision making processes, we think in tangents, but in return we lose depth, richness, texture.
--See? Total tangent! My brain is rewired!--
Anyway. My point was that, even if I get famous some day, I hope I never assume people will know who I am. Why should people know my face, my name, my person, even my books, necessarily? Can't there be wide bodies of knowledge--equally valid if less traversed--that they chose to pursue instead of me? Who wants the new writers to all be shaped from the same cookie-cutter anyway?
On accidentally meeting a famous writer.
(This is what I wrote in my notebook last night on the subway, coming home after attending the Civitella Ranieri open house with Rigoberto, followed by a lovely tapas dinner.)
Oh God.
Tonight I sat Mary Gaitskill down in the corner and asked her her name.
This really happened to me.
RG tried to "throw me a line," he said, by mentioning that she'd just been on the cover of Poets & Writers magazine, but my god I wouldn't know her from her face. I would only recognize her if she walked around with her book covers or titles taped to her head.
It all falls into place. When I didn't react to "Mary" (note: she did not give her last name), she asked what I was reading as a graduate student. We had a little discussion about Nam Le's The Boat.
She didn't give her last name. She didn't read the Poets & Writers issue on which she appeared on the cover. I thought, who is this lady, how can she not read the issue of a magazine focusing on her, who does she think she is, et cetera.
I thought she was stuck up.
But instead she was Mary Gaitskill.
Hello, my name is Mayumi Shimose Poe and I am a fucking idiot.
At least it makes a good story for the retelling.
Oh God.
Tonight I sat Mary Gaitskill down in the corner and asked her her name.
This really happened to me.
RG tried to "throw me a line," he said, by mentioning that she'd just been on the cover of Poets & Writers magazine, but my god I wouldn't know her from her face. I would only recognize her if she walked around with her book covers or titles taped to her head.
It all falls into place. When I didn't react to "Mary" (note: she did not give her last name), she asked what I was reading as a graduate student. We had a little discussion about Nam Le's The Boat.
She didn't give her last name. She didn't read the Poets & Writers issue on which she appeared on the cover. I thought, who is this lady, how can she not read the issue of a magazine focusing on her, who does she think she is, et cetera.
I thought she was stuck up.
But instead she was Mary Gaitskill.
Hello, my name is Mayumi Shimose Poe and I am a fucking idiot.
At least it makes a good story for the retelling.
Back to real life.
Sadly, my friends left. I am back to being alone in the house with only a bored puppy for company and unfortunately I am back to being consistently at work.
It was a glorious, glorious time. I love when people come to visit, because it's fun to play hostess and tourist. And Surfrunner and her lady are some of the best guests ever: they're superclean, superfun, and supernice; they cooked us a delicious dinner; they came bearing wine and gifts from the SF Ferry Building Farmer's Market; and Surfrunner used to live in New York, so they were also self-sufficient in that when I couldn't tag along and had to get some work done, they were fine off on their own.
Why did they have to leave? WHY?!
Well. I am headed their way (to California) at the end of next month for Sidewalk Monkey's wedding, so at least I don't have to miss them too much. My bet is that by then they'll have the shakes from Nahe withdrawl and will be seriously considering puppy parenthood. :)
It was a glorious, glorious time. I love when people come to visit, because it's fun to play hostess and tourist. And Surfrunner and her lady are some of the best guests ever: they're superclean, superfun, and supernice; they cooked us a delicious dinner; they came bearing wine and gifts from the SF Ferry Building Farmer's Market; and Surfrunner used to live in New York, so they were also self-sufficient in that when I couldn't tag along and had to get some work done, they were fine off on their own.
Why did they have to leave? WHY?!
Well. I am headed their way (to California) at the end of next month for Sidewalk Monkey's wedding, so at least I don't have to miss them too much. My bet is that by then they'll have the shakes from Nahe withdrawl and will be seriously considering puppy parenthood. :)
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Quote of the day: On happiness.
"And I am learning that happiness is not a summit you achieve and then rest at and admire the view; it is a constant effort. It takes every-moment work on my insides."
--Sidewalk Monkey
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Gratitude.
There are times when I am filled with so much gratitude for my life, exactly as it is being lived.
These moments are fleeting, so I absolutely try to grab them and note them when they occur.
Today, the gratitude comes for sitting at my desk, in my home office (with a door that closes!), listening to Ozzie Kotani's Liliu'okalani slack-key medley and editing, with a small dog wrapped around my body, napping and slowly stealing more and more of my office chair. There are fresh flowers in vases and cleanshiny surfaces, and while it's overcast, a brightwhite light comes faintly through the clouds.
Breathe, self. Breathe. Observe. Listen. Sip coffee. Feel the furred movements of the small animal sleeping behind you. Edit. Savor. And breathe again.
These moments are fleeting, so I absolutely try to grab them and note them when they occur.
Today, the gratitude comes for sitting at my desk, in my home office (with a door that closes!), listening to Ozzie Kotani's Liliu'okalani slack-key medley and editing, with a small dog wrapped around my body, napping and slowly stealing more and more of my office chair. There are fresh flowers in vases and cleanshiny surfaces, and while it's overcast, a brightwhite light comes faintly through the clouds.
Breathe, self. Breathe. Observe. Listen. Sip coffee. Feel the furred movements of the small animal sleeping behind you. Edit. Savor. And breathe again.
Quote of the day: baggage and love.
"Show me someone with no baggage, and I'll show you someone who forgot to pack" (p. 45).--Alison Luterman, "Baggage: A Love Story," The Sun, January 2009: pp. 44-46
Now this has Nahe written all over it.
This dog fleece from Local Labels features a fierce Mohawk up top and the words "BULLY" on the back. Awesomeness.
Just FYI, Newyorkers, if you've ever sat there scratching your head about what to get visitors or people from your hometown that's typically "from New York" without having to resort to some tacky snowglobe with a taxicab in it (although, hey, I actually love snowglobes), check out Local Labels.com. Their mission statement is "shop local." According to their site, "From specialty foods to gifts, we have explored the five boroughs and found local bakers, chocolatiers, artists, and manufacturers creating fresh and unique products."
Monday, April 6, 2009
Aprilness.
There are not enough days in this month for the annual birthday blues. Knock on wood--and I do realize it is only the 6th--but I am hoping deeply to make it through my birthday without the usual attendant depression regarding my life and where I am in it.
Signs are good, though. I've got my dear friend Surfrunner and her girlfriend coming in town tomorrow through the next week, a local food brunch with some friends from high school (with the lovely Brooke hosting), a fancy Easter dinner with some friends from the college/postcollege years, a handful of writerly readings and events, another VCFA packet party with Suz and Caitlin, and then, for my 29th birthday, I'm headed to Iowa. Yup. You heard me. Iowa, to hang out with my ladywife, this fine lady, and a fellow birthday girl. There will be celebrating, walking Iowa Writer's Workshop (which K. attends), no doubt a lot of drinking, and hopefully some brunching before we have to head back to nyc. (Just think! After that weekend, I will honestly be able to say to people that I went to the Iowa Writer's Workshop. After that statement, though, I will have to make hasty tracks before they inquire further.) Following the Iowa party weekend, my husband's cousin is supposedly coming to town--I don't want to get too excited, in case things don't work out, but I loooove his cousin, so I hope it does!
Despite three deadlines (AA's June issue page proofs, AA's September issue manuscript, and packet 4 for RV/VCFA), how can a girl fail to be excited by life so full and shinybright?
To recap: Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Trip. Family. And a wee bit of work.
Signs are good, though. I've got my dear friend Surfrunner and her girlfriend coming in town tomorrow through the next week, a local food brunch with some friends from high school (with the lovely Brooke hosting), a fancy Easter dinner with some friends from the college/postcollege years, a handful of writerly readings and events, another VCFA packet party with Suz and Caitlin, and then, for my 29th birthday, I'm headed to Iowa. Yup. You heard me. Iowa, to hang out with my ladywife, this fine lady, and a fellow birthday girl. There will be celebrating, walking Iowa Writer's Workshop (which K. attends), no doubt a lot of drinking, and hopefully some brunching before we have to head back to nyc. (Just think! After that weekend, I will honestly be able to say to people that I went to the Iowa Writer's Workshop. After that statement, though, I will have to make hasty tracks before they inquire further.) Following the Iowa party weekend, my husband's cousin is supposedly coming to town--I don't want to get too excited, in case things don't work out, but I loooove his cousin, so I hope it does!
Despite three deadlines (AA's June issue page proofs, AA's September issue manuscript, and packet 4 for RV/VCFA), how can a girl fail to be excited by life so full and shinybright?
To recap: Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Friends. Trip. Family. And a wee bit of work.
Another great article title . . .
. . . brought to you by American Anthropologist (quoted in forthcoming article in the September 2009 issue of AA).Klein, Cecilia
1993 Teocuitlatl, “Divine Excrement”: The Significance of “Holy Shit” in Ancient Mexico. Art Journal 52(3):20–27.
"Come Early Morning."
I inadvertently continued the Chasing Amy (1997) lovefest (here and here) last night by viewing Come Early Morning (2006), which was written and directed by Joey Lauren Adams, who played Alyssa in Chasing Amy.
Come Early Morning itself? Didn't exactly change my life, but it was well-written and well-performed. It was one of those movies you're glad you saw but you're never going to purchase it for your home DVD library. The film revolved around Lucy Fowler (Ashley Judd), a 30-something who is a contractor by day and a drunk who sleeps around, a lot, by night. During the course of the movie, she sort of adopts a dog, has daddy issues, realizes the issues are her daddy's not hers, finds and questions religion, confronts gender issues in the south, falls in love with a decent guy and takes a stab at having a relationship beyond a one-night stand, crashes and burns miserably, makes a few more mistakes, then finally picks herself up, dusts herself off, and begins again. Dave would probably say it's one of those movies where nothing really happens. And I would counter with: What are you talking about! Everything happened!! Were you watching the same movie as I was?!
Anyway, I didn't make the connection between the two films till I was on imdb looking up production details on Come Early Morning and saw pictures of Joey Lauren Adams and wondered, well what the heck is the girl from Chasing Amy doing at this event? And then I went, oh, right, she just wrote and directed the thing. Barely has a right to be there, really.
Also, supposedly in August of this year, another film project starring many of the original Chasing Amy cast is coming out, something called The Chasing Amy Doc. I'm assuming "doc" = "documentary"? Perhaps a film about making a film? Hmm.
Come Early Morning itself? Didn't exactly change my life, but it was well-written and well-performed. It was one of those movies you're glad you saw but you're never going to purchase it for your home DVD library. The film revolved around Lucy Fowler (Ashley Judd), a 30-something who is a contractor by day and a drunk who sleeps around, a lot, by night. During the course of the movie, she sort of adopts a dog, has daddy issues, realizes the issues are her daddy's not hers, finds and questions religion, confronts gender issues in the south, falls in love with a decent guy and takes a stab at having a relationship beyond a one-night stand, crashes and burns miserably, makes a few more mistakes, then finally picks herself up, dusts herself off, and begins again. Dave would probably say it's one of those movies where nothing really happens. And I would counter with: What are you talking about! Everything happened!! Were you watching the same movie as I was?!
Anyway, I didn't make the connection between the two films till I was on imdb looking up production details on Come Early Morning and saw pictures of Joey Lauren Adams and wondered, well what the heck is the girl from Chasing Amy doing at this event? And then I went, oh, right, she just wrote and directed the thing. Barely has a right to be there, really.
Also, supposedly in August of this year, another film project starring many of the original Chasing Amy cast is coming out, something called The Chasing Amy Doc. I'm assuming "doc" = "documentary"? Perhaps a film about making a film? Hmm.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I had more to say about "Chasing Amy" . . .
but now I've lost my steam.
If anyone wants to write a dissertation on why the innovative character of Hooper X is more than your usual Hollywood black-person, gay-person sidekick, written in for the purposes of getting the heterosexual white protagonists romantically together, please do so and then e-mail me so I can link to you.
If anyone wants to write a dissertation on why the innovative character of Hooper X is more than your usual Hollywood black-person, gay-person sidekick, written in for the purposes of getting the heterosexual white protagonists romantically together, please do so and then e-mail me so I can link to you.
Chasing Amy is fucking brilliant.
I just happened to catch Chasing Amy on TV, and okay it's been a few years but how could I forget what a deeply awesome movie that was?! I mean, for 1997, that was pretty radical to get on the silver screen and be talking fellatio, menage a tois, and finger cuffs--not to mention having one of the main characters be lesbian identified. 1997 was pre-Sex and the City--not to mention pre-L Word, Will and Grace, and definitely pre-RuPaul's Drag Race--and along comes this little, unassuming movie, Chasing Amy, that actually manages, I think, to intelligently, empathetically, and even tenderly portray sexuality, in the specific characters of Alyssa and Hooper X as well as, more generally, in the questions the film raises.
The film takes that Sex and the City movie song from Fergie, Labels or Love, and makes it literal: We shouldn't let our all-too-human predilection for labeling things and filing them away safely get in the way of our quest for love.
Alyssa is a very complicated character. She is the proto-Samantha Jones, a woman with, as the saying goes, "a past." She has been there, done that, tried everything. Most recently, she's spent several years being seriously involved with women and identifying as a lesbian. Her frank dialogue with Holden and Banky about gender, sexuality, and what exactly constitutes different sexual acts is where things really begin to get interesting. Watching the film again, I marvelled at the questions so bluntly addressed; I then wanted to make it required viewing for all high-school students. The attraction that the viewer senses between Holden and Alyssa despite her firm stance as a lesbian exactly captures that unspoken tension/attraction/nervousness that exists in so many friendships during high school, be they between those of the same or opposite sex. And the moment when Holden confesses his undying love to Alyssa, and she verbally and physically assaults him is a crowning moment of glory. How dare he tell her he loves her? How dare he, indeed! Him loving her doesn't change anything for him, nor should it change anything for her. It's like, fuck you, I'm a fucking lesbian, so what if you love me, what does that do for me, how does that change my life? What is happening in this moment is a shifting of blame and power. Holden feels his feelings and then, without thinking of how his feelings might make Alyssa feel, dumps them on her.
All this is ruined in the Hollywood version of this story, because right after Alyssa beats on him, she comes running to him in the thunderstorm and starts making out passionately with him. Of course the hot femme lesbian that our rugged protagonist loves was secretly feeling the same. As Holden himself puts it (jokingly): "all you needed was some serious deep dicking." While this pisses me off greatly, I understand the dramatic reasons for making Alyssa fall for Holden. Because if I had my way, Chasing Amy would have been an awfully short film.
This semi-sell out of a plot turn did raise the point that if Alyssa let her identification of herself as a lesbian define her, she was being as close-minded as a heterosexual person who only allows themselves to consider those of the opposite sex as possible sexual and romantic partners. Because the whole exchange is so fucking brilliant, I am just going to repost it here, as it appeared on the memorable quotes page on imdb:
Alyssa: You know, I didn't just heed what I was taught, men and women should be together, it's the natural way, that kind of thing. I'm not with you because of what family, society, life tried to instill in me from day one. The way the world is, how seldom it is that you meet that one person who just *gets* you - it's so rare. My parents didn't really have it. There were no examples set for me in the world of male-female relationships. And to cut oneself off from finding that person, to immediately halve your options by eliminating the possibility of finding that one person within your own gender, that just seemed stupid to me. So I didn't. But then you came along. You, the one least likely. I mean, you were a guy.
Holden: Still am.
Alyssa: And while I was falling for you I put a ceiling on that, because you *were* a guy. Until I remembered why I opened the door to women in the first place: to not limit the likelihood of finding that one person who'd complement me so completely. So here we are. I was thorough when I looked for you. And I feel justified lying in your arms, 'cause I got here on my own terms, and I have no question there was some place I didn't look. And for me that makes all the difference.
Holden: [pause] Well, can I at least tell people all you needed was some serious deep dicking?
Can we just take a moment to appreciate that exchange? Kevin Smith writes people that are more intelligent and witty than people but who somehow still manage to sound like people. Fucking incredible.
What's also incredible is the idea--in, let me remind you again, 1997, people--of fluid sexuality. Of there being no need to be loyal to the labels people have chosen for you, or even those you have chosen for yourself. To constantly be tossing to the wind your past, to be remaking yourself in your own current image, to be molding yourself and remolding yourself, based on nothing other than your life as you are living it. How can you fail to be inspired by that? This movie is now 12 years old, and these are still things we're struggling with.
So, they're in love: the lesbian and the close-minded boy from a small town. All is great and headed toward happily ever after when Holden discovers via his friend Banky--who has taken a dislike to Alyssa because she's stealing away his best friend and also because Banky may be a little in love with Holden--that not only has Alyssa been with women, she's also been with men. More than a few men. That between high school and college, she experimented, a lot, in her search to find the one person she'd connect with. And Holden can't let it go. He becomes obsessed, finally confronting Alyssa at a hockey game, such that she finally yells out, "If you wanted some background information on me, Holden, all you had to do was ask. I would have gladly volunteered it. You didn't have to go playing Hercule-fucking-Poirot!"
After brooding over how much he loves Alyssa versus how much her "past" bothers him, and after having a "deep conversation" with Jay and Silent Bob (which leads to the title of the film), Holden comes to what he thinks will be an ideal solution: he should have a threesome with Alyssa and Banky. To have a threesome will make him feel adventurous enough to be Alyssa's peer and he can put her past behind him; Alyssa and Banky will then like each other better, because they will have shared something special; and Banky can deal with his attraction to Holden by having sex with him and the woman Holden loves.
Yeah. There was no point at which this ever sounded like a good idea to anyone other than Holden.
Her heart breaking before all of our very eyes, Alyssa turns Holden down. That chapter of her life is in her past; she only went through all that because she was searching for her soulmate; experimenting in their relationship would not make it stronger, but weaker. Also, she is not his whore, and why does he want to share her with anyone, when she would never want to share him? She bitchslaps him, but somehow manages to do so in a tender and serious way, and then leaves his life forever. Banky is quick on her heels to leave Holden as well.
The screen then reads: "One Year Later . . ."
Our plucky would-be threesome is back at the comic convention where they first met. They've gone and stayed their separate paths, creatively and emotionally. It seems to be the first time they are seeing each other again. It seems possible that Holden and Banky's friendship will be repaired. Holden's creative venture has been to do a graphic novel about his relationship with Alyssa, showing that he has learned and changed and so forth, and he gives it to her, asking her to read it sometime, when she gets a chance. It seems somewhat possible from the shining in their eyes that Holden and Alyssa still love each other.
But then the film does the smart thing: It has Alyssa's girlfriend come back on screen and ask who "that" was, meaning the guy who'd been talking to her. Holden. And Alyssa stuffs his 'zine into her bag and says, "just some guy I knew," before inquiring what does she want to do that night?
The premise of the film is that there is a brief Hollywood moment requiring suspension of disbelief that someone as awesome as Alyssa would give Holden a chance in the first place, and we're willing to go with it, but when he blows it bigtime with his small mind, he doesn't get a second chance. Exactly the right note to end on. That's life.
The film takes that Sex and the City movie song from Fergie, Labels or Love, and makes it literal: We shouldn't let our all-too-human predilection for labeling things and filing them away safely get in the way of our quest for love.
Alyssa is a very complicated character. She is the proto-Samantha Jones, a woman with, as the saying goes, "a past." She has been there, done that, tried everything. Most recently, she's spent several years being seriously involved with women and identifying as a lesbian. Her frank dialogue with Holden and Banky about gender, sexuality, and what exactly constitutes different sexual acts is where things really begin to get interesting. Watching the film again, I marvelled at the questions so bluntly addressed; I then wanted to make it required viewing for all high-school students. The attraction that the viewer senses between Holden and Alyssa despite her firm stance as a lesbian exactly captures that unspoken tension/attraction/nervousness that exists in so many friendships during high school, be they between those of the same or opposite sex. And the moment when Holden confesses his undying love to Alyssa, and she verbally and physically assaults him is a crowning moment of glory. How dare he tell her he loves her? How dare he, indeed! Him loving her doesn't change anything for him, nor should it change anything for her. It's like, fuck you, I'm a fucking lesbian, so what if you love me, what does that do for me, how does that change my life? What is happening in this moment is a shifting of blame and power. Holden feels his feelings and then, without thinking of how his feelings might make Alyssa feel, dumps them on her.
All this is ruined in the Hollywood version of this story, because right after Alyssa beats on him, she comes running to him in the thunderstorm and starts making out passionately with him. Of course the hot femme lesbian that our rugged protagonist loves was secretly feeling the same. As Holden himself puts it (jokingly): "all you needed was some serious deep dicking." While this pisses me off greatly, I understand the dramatic reasons for making Alyssa fall for Holden. Because if I had my way, Chasing Amy would have been an awfully short film.
This semi-sell out of a plot turn did raise the point that if Alyssa let her identification of herself as a lesbian define her, she was being as close-minded as a heterosexual person who only allows themselves to consider those of the opposite sex as possible sexual and romantic partners. Because the whole exchange is so fucking brilliant, I am just going to repost it here, as it appeared on the memorable quotes page on imdb:
Alyssa: You know, I didn't just heed what I was taught, men and women should be together, it's the natural way, that kind of thing. I'm not with you because of what family, society, life tried to instill in me from day one. The way the world is, how seldom it is that you meet that one person who just *gets* you - it's so rare. My parents didn't really have it. There were no examples set for me in the world of male-female relationships. And to cut oneself off from finding that person, to immediately halve your options by eliminating the possibility of finding that one person within your own gender, that just seemed stupid to me. So I didn't. But then you came along. You, the one least likely. I mean, you were a guy.
Holden: Still am.
Alyssa: And while I was falling for you I put a ceiling on that, because you *were* a guy. Until I remembered why I opened the door to women in the first place: to not limit the likelihood of finding that one person who'd complement me so completely. So here we are. I was thorough when I looked for you. And I feel justified lying in your arms, 'cause I got here on my own terms, and I have no question there was some place I didn't look. And for me that makes all the difference.
Holden: [pause] Well, can I at least tell people all you needed was some serious deep dicking?
Can we just take a moment to appreciate that exchange? Kevin Smith writes people that are more intelligent and witty than people but who somehow still manage to sound like people. Fucking incredible.
What's also incredible is the idea--in, let me remind you again, 1997, people--of fluid sexuality. Of there being no need to be loyal to the labels people have chosen for you, or even those you have chosen for yourself. To constantly be tossing to the wind your past, to be remaking yourself in your own current image, to be molding yourself and remolding yourself, based on nothing other than your life as you are living it. How can you fail to be inspired by that? This movie is now 12 years old, and these are still things we're struggling with.
So, they're in love: the lesbian and the close-minded boy from a small town. All is great and headed toward happily ever after when Holden discovers via his friend Banky--who has taken a dislike to Alyssa because she's stealing away his best friend and also because Banky may be a little in love with Holden--that not only has Alyssa been with women, she's also been with men. More than a few men. That between high school and college, she experimented, a lot, in her search to find the one person she'd connect with. And Holden can't let it go. He becomes obsessed, finally confronting Alyssa at a hockey game, such that she finally yells out, "If you wanted some background information on me, Holden, all you had to do was ask. I would have gladly volunteered it. You didn't have to go playing Hercule-fucking-Poirot!"
After brooding over how much he loves Alyssa versus how much her "past" bothers him, and after having a "deep conversation" with Jay and Silent Bob (which leads to the title of the film), Holden comes to what he thinks will be an ideal solution: he should have a threesome with Alyssa and Banky. To have a threesome will make him feel adventurous enough to be Alyssa's peer and he can put her past behind him; Alyssa and Banky will then like each other better, because they will have shared something special; and Banky can deal with his attraction to Holden by having sex with him and the woman Holden loves.
Yeah. There was no point at which this ever sounded like a good idea to anyone other than Holden.
Her heart breaking before all of our very eyes, Alyssa turns Holden down. That chapter of her life is in her past; she only went through all that because she was searching for her soulmate; experimenting in their relationship would not make it stronger, but weaker. Also, she is not his whore, and why does he want to share her with anyone, when she would never want to share him? She bitchslaps him, but somehow manages to do so in a tender and serious way, and then leaves his life forever. Banky is quick on her heels to leave Holden as well.
The screen then reads: "One Year Later . . ."
Our plucky would-be threesome is back at the comic convention where they first met. They've gone and stayed their separate paths, creatively and emotionally. It seems to be the first time they are seeing each other again. It seems possible that Holden and Banky's friendship will be repaired. Holden's creative venture has been to do a graphic novel about his relationship with Alyssa, showing that he has learned and changed and so forth, and he gives it to her, asking her to read it sometime, when she gets a chance. It seems somewhat possible from the shining in their eyes that Holden and Alyssa still love each other.
But then the film does the smart thing: It has Alyssa's girlfriend come back on screen and ask who "that" was, meaning the guy who'd been talking to her. Holden. And Alyssa stuffs his 'zine into her bag and says, "just some guy I knew," before inquiring what does she want to do that night?
The premise of the film is that there is a brief Hollywood moment requiring suspension of disbelief that someone as awesome as Alyssa would give Holden a chance in the first place, and we're willing to go with it, but when he blows it bigtime with his small mind, he doesn't get a second chance. Exactly the right note to end on. That's life.
DUN-dun.
It's true. On March 31, while making our way to Niketown at 57th and 5th, we saw S. Epatha Merkerson.
And all I could think was: DUN-dun.*
---
* Also evidently known as the doink-doink, the chung-chung, and "the Dick Wolf Cash Register Sound."
And all I could think was: DUN-dun.*
---
* Also evidently known as the doink-doink, the chung-chung, and "the Dick Wolf Cash Register Sound."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Possibly the best blog entry, ever, about dating. Ever.
It's over at A P O C A L Y P S T I C K and it's called "Does Anybody Date Anymore?"
SOOOOOOOO FUNNY.
(Via my Wife, because she reads every funny thing ever, first, and then tells me about it.)
SOOOOOOOO FUNNY.
(Via my Wife, because she reads every funny thing ever, first, and then tells me about it.)
When hybridity goes strange.
File under: Things I'm pretty sure I will never need.
Listen, I'm all for efficiency, and living in New York I understand the notion of combining gadgets to save space. But this seems wrong, somehow.
(Thanks to DailyCandy for the tip.)
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