Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
"But now that I’m about to move, I suddenly realize how much there is in New York that every New Yorker should do that I haven’t yet done. Things I always meant to do but hadn’t gotten around to, because I figured they’d always be here. Things I love that I want to do again, once more before I go. If not now, when?"
Things I will miss about New York: googleplexinfinity.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Had a lovely Wife date yesterday: a ramen-and-fried-chicken lunch at Ippudo, followed by a "writing date" at Think Coffee. We totally ate up our ramen, drank our coffee, and talked and thought (sometimes even about writing), but between us only wrote a reminder to myself to let my JOB know that I was moving. Because I hadn't thought of it, and Wife reminded me. This is Reason No. 184855939020221674893920 to get yourself a Wife. (And I'll tell ya, it ain't no problem to make a pretty woman your wife. Look at mineses.)
Monday, August 23, 2010
Today I held the Official Notice in my hands: the hubby and I are moving back to the SF bay area, sometime in late September/early October. Woo-hoo/Waaahh!
Funny ... for the first time in over two and a half years, May in the Bay will actually be back in the bay.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Rilke said a great thing in his letters about Cezanne that he wrote to his wife. Rilke is living in Paris and he's working for Rodin, and his wife Clara is somewhere else, and he's writing to her about being in Paris. Part of what he's writing about is seeing Cezanne's pictures, which are beginning to be shown for the first time in Paris. So he goes and looks, and he goes and looks again, he goes and looks again. He can't get over these pictures, and he's writing to Clara about it, the blue, the apples, the blue and the apples, and I'm not going to get this right, but the spirit of it is, he said, "Cezanne doesn't say, ' look how much I love the apples' in his paintings. He uses his love to paint the apples, so that when you see them, you love them." That's it, isn't it? It's not, look how much I love the apples, or look how well I can paint these apples. It's forging his talent. First he has this talent, then his accuracy and everything he loves about the natural world is forged to the physical apples so that he makes them so when you see them on the blue cloth you say, "oh my god, look at those apples." --An Interview with Marie Howe, by Christian Teresi (The Writer's Chronicle 42(6):10-11).
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Yawp: A gentle, playful reminder that writing is meant to be savored by all, not just those with a MFA.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
1. Try to understand what the author wished to do, and do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt.5. If the book is judged deficient, cite a successful example along the same lines, from the author’s ouevre or elsewhere. Try to understand the failure. Sure it’s his and not yours?
The leaves have gone yellow. You are knee-deep in silty water, your hands thrusting through the mud. You feel the cold rush of the mountain stream as it swirls at your ankles and then flows on to the lower patch. There is the sharp pinprickle of crawfish skittering over your toes. You reach for the root of the mature plants, careful not to disturb the keiki, still growing. According to the creation chants, Wakea (sky father) and Papa (earth mother) birthed a daughter, Ho’ohokulani, with whom Wakea then had incestual relations, producing a son, Haloa-naka, stillborn and thus buried. His body produced the plant that was the lifeblood of your people. As you work tenderly to unearth the corms, you wonder about the lesson. That we are all connected, the before-generations and the unborn ones? That we are all dependent upon each other? That fucked-up shit happens even in our most mythical, founding families? That new life is possible, even when you hold a small dead body in your hands? But you quiet your mind and return to tending the kalo. Corm after corm, you watch for the yellow leaves and feel your way around the largeness of tuber, then you pull skyward. Kalo leaves, cooked, become lu’au leaves, good for wrapping meat before cooking underground. Kalo tuber can be cooked and served in chunks; cooked and mixed with coconut milk and flakes to form kulolo; cooked and then pounded into poi. This plant will feed your family. This plant you can harvest and sell to put a roof over their heads. This plant you will harvest, and then check on the keiki, and then uproot any weeds that have settled into the patch. The sun hot on your back. Salt of sweat and seabreeze settling in white crystals on your skin. The trades ruffle the velvet-green leaves, like the flapping of startled wings. Pull skyward, and pull, and pull. You do it in a rhythm, but the muddy sloshes of root coming free from mud take on a less watery sound, each pull start to sound tinny and higher in pitch, and …
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP.
It’s just your alarm. You wake six stories high, with the salt and silt of Hawaii still under your fingernails. During the night, the reconditioned air has sent you back under covers, shivering. You have no family to feed. You have no land to tend. There is no sea, no salt, no kindly sun. Still you feel an inexplicable ache throughout your body when you wake, as if perhaps you were not the one pulling, but the one being pulled.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Dear Self,On the teetering edge of 2009/2010 and all the changes to come . . . again . . . I urge you to live this time left wildly, fully, completely. Embrace it.You may never live here again.Then again, if history has taught us anything, you never know.--Mayumi, December 19, 2009