Monday, December 20, 2010

That Infamous Meadow




Sophie lay on her blanket in a secluded meadow formed by a clearing in the trees. Since she had accidentally stumbled upon it years ago, the meadow had been her own private treasure. Her school in the dreary city was too far away for quick visits, and today marked the first time she’d been able to return since starting college, but only after, of course, her mother had decided that she completed her daily “summer chores” to satisfaction. The weather was warm, humid, and Sophie found it difficult to stay awake with the lullaby hum of the cicadas. The ground, warmed by the sun, made her spot surprisingly comfortable. The peace this meadow afforded her, this withdrawal from her hectic life and overbearing mother, was so sudden that it brought her to tears. Feeling foolish, she wiped them away and dismissed such nonsensical thoughts. Within a matter of minutes, the book she was holding, her worn copy of Jane Eyre, had slipped out her hands and her eyes closed to slits.

At the moment she was closest to sleep, Sophie heard a large crashing in the undergrowth. Without warning, a man strode into the meadow. He was quite imposing, well built and wearing all black: black jeans, black v-neck, black ray-bans.

Sophie sat bold upright in fear, “Um, excuse me?”

“Oh sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“What are you doing?”

“Me? I always come to this spot when I want a good place to read,” he motioned from the thick book in his hands to Jane Eyre, “you know its peaceful, isolated…I’m surprised to find someone else here actually”

“Yep, me too…so, uh…”

“Pardon me, I haven’t said. My name is Dezi,”

“Sophie” she nodded her head curtly. She sized up her strange companion and wondered what his background could possibly be. He did look to be about the same age as her, maybe mid-20s at most. The name was probably short for something, although she couldn’t guess what. He looked vaguely Greek, or at least Mediterranean, with a dark tan and thick black hair, kept short, but hinting at curls.

“Well Sophie, it is a pleasure to meet you. Would it be okay with you if I just read silently over here?”

“Free country,” she rolled her eyes while he seated himself on a tree stump several feet away. He kept his sunglasses on while reading. After a few minutes of indecision, she picked up her own book, brought it up in front of her eyes, and began loudly flipping the pages, hoping to hint at her annoyance. Eventually her curiosity overcame her decision to ignore him.

“ Are you from, like, around here?”

“Oh yeah, I live really close by. Been here all my life.”

“Really? I’ve never seen you around. Where did you go to school?”

He looked her over for a few seconds before responding, “It’s no wonder you haven’t seen me around school. I’m much older than you.”

Sophie became unsure of her earlier observations, “you don’t look it. How old are you?”

He flashed a smile and responded with the same question, “How old are you?”

Flustered by the strange reply, Sophie could only think of an old-school phrase her mother often used, “it’s the lady’s prerogative not to reveal her age,” and said it aloud before she even recognized she had.

His smile grew even larger and he spoke in an affected British accent, “well it’s the gentleman’s imperative to respect the lady’s request, but also within his purview to not reveal his age as well.”

“Stop it. You’re making fun of me.”

He held out his thumb and index, close together, and teasingly replied, “Just a little bit.” Sophie smiled despite herself, and decided to let the matter go. Though still unnerved by his presence, she gave him the benefit of doubt and returned to her reading.

She had read little more than a paragraph when he broke the silence again, “ How do you find Ms. Brontë?”

“What?” a bit more harshly than she intended

“I said, how do you find her work?” he pointed toward the book she held, “do you like it?”

“Oh…oh yes I love it, it’s my favorite.”

“How many times have you read it through?”

“This is my fifth or sixth time, I think. Why do you ask?”

“Well I’m glad you’re well familiar with it. I have somewhat of a strange hypothesis about that book. Maybe you’ll agree.”

“Which is…?” she prompted, eyebrows raised. Although the conversation was awkward and stilted, such comments did make him seem intelligent. Sophie felt he must have been prompted by loneliness, or even a lack of well-cultured conversation in his daily routine, and she decided to humor him.

“Jane Eyre is in love with death.”

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make any…”

He cut her off, “think about it, all of the classical literary heroines are. Think of like, Antigone, Juliet, Scheherazade, even Nancy Drew,” he chuckled at her disbelieving scowl, “come on, I mean what is she doing shacking up with a mysterious rich guy who lives in a creepy mansion and locked his first wife in the attic?”

Sophie, now indignant, retorted, “Yeah, but it’s not like Mr. Rochester’s going to murder her.”

“True, true…so I guess when I mean by ‘loving death’ is not so much a death-wish, but a compulsion, a force totally outside of themselves, some dark urge…toward whatever end.”

Taken aback, Sophie reviewed the bizarre exchange in her mind, looking for some point of defense. When she finally thought of something, she gleamed in triumph and shuffled a bit closer, still sitting, with pointed finger to accentuate her point.

“Not Scheherazade.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You gave me four examples of ‘ladies in love with death’ or whatever, but Scheherazade doesn’t work. So your hypothesis isn’t very universal.”

It was his turn to look incredulous, “you think so?”

“I know so. I’m not a world literature major for nothing. The whole point of the tales in the Arabian Nights was to distract the king from killing her,” she laughed at her cleverness, “bitch wanted to live!”

“Yeah? And what about you?” he retorted, “Ms. World Literature, are you smart enough or powerful enough to resist death like Scheherazade?” The tone of his voice dropped and Sophie could almost hear a faint echo, as if his dramatic tone had empowered the syllables to reverberate in her ear. She swallowed and the ringing stopped.

“Yes,” she answered quietly, looking back over the line of trees toward where she imagined her house and her mother to be.

“I don’t believe you,” he teased.

“You don’t know me,” she turned back to him, serious, and locked eyes with his opposite, still mirrored by shades, “I would fight. I would fight death to the end, and beyond.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a few minutes and then broke into deep laughter, “maybe I underestimated you Sophie.”

Bolstered by his admission, she drew even closer, “what book are you reading?”

He ignored her question. A shadow rolled across the meadow as clouds obscured the sun. Sophie realized that she was far closer to him than she thought. Her blanket lay crumpled behind her. The ground beneath had hardened, and she shivered from the sudden cold. Dezi took off his sunglasses and looked down directly. She found that she could not look away. His eyes were a deep gold flecked with black, intensely, unnaturally bright, gleaming like coins. Sophie knew she was close enough now, too close, and then she felt a curious sensation. She was merging into his eyes. Her skin was melting, pouring trough the membrane and forming shiny pools within his iris. As suddenly as it had begun, the connection was severed. He looked away, put his sunglasses on right before the clouds rolled back to allow sun on the meadow. Sophie felt dazed. She put a hand to her head, rubbing her temples while he reached into his pocket, and took out a small plastic bag filled with bright red seeds.

He smiled widely once again. It was so self-assured it made her nervous. “Would you like some pomegranate seeds? They’re delicious, very refreshing.”

Sophie automatically extended her hand to receive them. But a nagging doubt persisted at the back of her mind. She pictured her mother, arms sternly splayed on her hips, staring out the back door in the muggy twilight toward the hills and the meadow. She would wait for her daughter all night if need be, if only to berate her thoughtlessness.

Before he could release the handful of seeds into her palm, Sophie clenched it into a fist and cautioned, “but only a few.” Slowly she reopened her hand. Dezi brought his face close and slowly dropped five seeds into it, one by one, as he moved across, kissing each fingertip.

SM DEC 2010

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Ghost

Ghost,

you cannot just stumble in and out of our lives at random

knocking into everything and wailing loudly

like some alcoholic

there are rules there are boundaries

you died already

and the dead don’t get the luxury

of second chances the dead are passed by in the street

without any acknowledgment of their presence

SM Nov 2010

Battleships (Inspired by Drawing Restraint 9* by Matthew Barney)


Silly boy, when eyes smolder with a volley of canon fire

they are meant to inflict damage.

Don’t declare war against a superpower.

My ship was docked in the bedside candle,

I set it alight.

At sea I am the captain, and God, and the consuming forces of imperialism—

I don’t just meet people, I conquer them,

colonize their wills and dress them in Victorian clothes,

so when the leak springs in the hull they will be forced to peel

off every single layer.

You will pile all decoration at my feet as an offering,

kneel with open arms to receive judgment.


B7?…No D10?…No F4?...yes F3?...yes F2?...yes F1?...damn, you sunk my battleship


You don’t just meet people, you conquer them.

At sea I am vulnerable, and pray to your God for deliverance. I am afraid

there will be no end to our subtle warfare,

come candlewax or high water

You light the candle to set the mood,

kiss me too roughly, grope for strings to pull my corseted lungs tight

and call the gasps sexual excitement.


Try to shrug me off but I will keep clutching,

hold you close as the water rushes in.

SM Nov 2010

The Three Fates (With All Due Respect to Mrs. Spears)

Pass the eye from her to me to him to her to him again, and then me,

always me.

Me and her and him we have the gift of sight—

we have 3.

There is solidarity, there is power,

and there is love;

there is mad-love in 3,

charges and tides and cults of personality.


3 is sexy…

but it is no commodity.

as some pop stars would have you believe.

Britney, as always, puts it best:

Everybody loves counting, oh yes.

Bride and groom and me in between

finger to finger,

thread and scissor—CUT


No please don’t cut the cord yet,

don’t betray our 3,

don’t pimp our love in your videos Britney.

Pass the eye to him and her, then back to me, next her then him then him,

always him,

then me.


Hold the thread with one hand,

clasp mine with the other,

and we will banish

even the thought of separation.

1, 2, 3

SM Spring 2010

Desert Sun

I swear that every year when it gets cold, my mother’s hands begin to resemble crocodile skin. Their smooth pale surface cracks into little red ridges, that connect and cross down her fingers in grid-like patterns, running down to the scabs that wreath her fingernails. Everywhere the skin has been stretched taunt and peeled too far back by the cold, as if even the temperature was intent on wrecking violence upon her. She complains every day as she applies her extra strength hand lotion, “goddamn Midwestern winters.”


Each time I witness her ritual I ask, “why don’t you move to the Southwest?” She laughs, usually responds with something along the lines of, “oh no, over there its dry heat, even worse on my poor hands.” I wonder if she understands that when I tell her to move I don’t mean it for the health of her hands. If she does notice, she always dismisses the insinuation.


This last time, still rubbing lotion, she had wandered into the living room to see what I was watching, and after our usual exchange a peculiar commercial started. We both paused and turned to watch while the voice-over boomed: “tired of those Midwestern winters? Well here’s the solution! Move on out to the sunny Southwest where that desert sun dances right above your head and keeps all that snow-related sadness far away. No depression can hide under this glare baby! We see absolutely everything here.”


I muted the television. We were both silent. My mother stared off into space, eyes unfocused, rubbing her hands together. Then she shook her head, as if to break away her thoughts from a weighted chain, and walked back down the hallway.

SM Nov 2010


Superman's Dead

This piece was born out of a little challenge I set for myself. After putting my iPod on shuffle and getting a page worth of song, artist and album names, I wanted to make a cohesive poem that used as many references as possible. Although the final product is considerably shorter than it began, you may still be surprised by the amount of references I was able to fit in.

It feels good to know you’re mine. Now drive me far away.

I don’t care where,

just far away.


Im freely sipping the best coffee this side of I-don’t-care-where-just-far,

a retro-fabulous diner, Nighthawks vibe,

feels so da da da dun, da dun da da.

Just another day,

which is to say that Time has become inconsequential,

I outlasted her—tough ol’ bitch.


Now who is Queen of England? The Sultan of Swing? The Keeper of Gramercy Park?

I am everything to anything left over,

lord and master wherever I may wonder.

My cup is overfull but never runs,

it did boil once—one of those “catastrophes”—

with violins and tears and fears and that tired-dire-end-of-this-mad-world.

But never fear, Everlast, is here! Single-handedly

SAVED THE WORLD, and preserved it in this comic book,

like some crazy Dorian-Gray-role-reversal-bullshit-whatever.


Can you explain to me how, you’re so evil, how?

It’s too late for me now, there’s a hole in the earth,

I’m out.


Jagged little pills aren’t helping:

The nosebleeds came more often,

until the blood just didn’t stop flowing.

I run my fingers through stringy black hair,

it falls away in clumps,

reveals a desert-head beneath,

a landscape worthy of O’ Keefe,

dry and cracked and itchy,

parabola above and the parabol underneath,

a fiery sunburn under the skin, tough ol’ bitch.

No reason for alarm or panic! at the disco

I am as permanent as a painting,

and the glow I radiate is so bright…

Stronger, even, than the Dime Jukebox in the corner,

playing the Last-Song-Ever

A catchy tune,

sad though, ironically stoic,

like statues left without audience or caretaker.

Monolithic, imbued with the sense of a grand gesture

unfulfilled.

SM Winter 2009-2010

13 Ways of Looking at the Party (inspired by "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens)

So we turn up the music to snub the solemn towers passing judgment.

Don’t dare contextualize us with your cheap party clichés.


Un-obscured vision is an ailment best cured with this holy cup.

Intoxication will blur the party and reality,

cheers!


As always, I take my place in the center of things and hold court.

I demand proper party etiquette from the drunks; rituals must be observed.


Jesus, We have the same name! Kind of, not really, but you’ll see it in the translation…

--That’s brilliant, that’s perfect, meeting you here, at this party, on this terrace.


Well if I could truly commit, I honestly believe she would love me less.

Jealous rages are magic for our sex life,

The party prologues our dizzy romance.


No one at the party knows it’s the anger I sweat out,

in bullets, appropriately enough, reloading

with each slurred manifesto—well I can preach too: alcohol turns

even the most profound into raging douchebags


She will find me a rival and equal to any man. Especially her man. Or maybe her friend’s man.

I’m an American, I’m free to party, fuck your towers,

its not cheating if no one finds out.

It will be Yankee doddle dandy baby.


It’s just too loud, and what if the cops come, you know? They would come. Well, the noise and the music on the terrace, you know? Terraces are very public places. I think we should leave, like, right now. It’s been fun but, but what about the cops? You don’t understand, I will literally be disowned…


I often wonder if I could seduce the policemen who arrive to break-up parties.


Parties, like religious gatherings and one-night stands, reach a perceptible apex,

then quickly decline; it’s noticed by all, but rarely commented on.


Let’s escape then, let’s make moves, let’s go to St. Marks, I’m belligerent enough

another hour of fun. Then let us begin again, another party, another terrace.

It never has to end.


Chronicles of parties are epic tales in their own right, in a certain context.


All I want is to feel outside of myself,

like anybody more interesting,

like someone who is famous or on drugs

or the absolute life of the party.

I didn’t get invited.

SM Nov 2010

So Get Ready, Cuz This S***'s About to Get Heavy

I have so much (too much?) stuff coming your way peeps. I'm very excited to release them to the world. As usual I have tried to mix in some old with some new. And you know who else is excited? Rap superstar Eminem is just blowing up with happiness!
Enjoy...

Saturday, October 23, 2010

A response.... a justification for myself.

I cant sleep. I wont sleep. I need something that will make it better. Nothing is making it better. Insomnia, no, terror, panic, yes. What a great time to be alone.Why would I want to sleep when one day all I will do is sleep? Shop online? Trivial, stupid, feel sicker, dad;s only gonna resent me more. Watch tv, play games, listen to melodies, harmonies, comedies, anything. Nothing works. Your mind isnt in your ears its in your head, and its screaming "youre going to die one day."


Excuses, excuses, excuses. Stupid excuses. "Its not just nothing, youll be okay, theres a reason for everything, you dont have to die, youll find a way to live forever, youll deal with it when the time comes, maybe when you get there youre ready to go." Lies, excuses, excuses.


One day Ill be on broadway. Doesnt matter. I got that solo today. i got that part. Doesnt matter. Im behind making my films... doesnt matter. I have to make my mother start living once more, my brother needs friends, my dad and i never had a relationship. Wont matter. Won't matter, why try now? Because we all just die. Oh god, mother, brother, dad, brother, not fair! I won't watch them die I cant i cant I CANT, i wont. But it doesnt matter. I have to. no, not fair.


Afraid to write about it? Perhaps not anymore. Afraid to even show this to the world? Maybe. Thinking you were alone in this fear, this sensation? Innacurate. Online, fine, cheking. Wait, I'm seeing things. There's no way that person wrote this when I needed it most, just when i was running out of distractions. It only took one line of writing to pull out a gasping breath of fresh air, a hope, a freedom, an acceptance. "Its ok if you cant escape yourself."


A beautiful phrase, a stunning phrase, stopped in my tracks kind of phrase. Is fear gone? No. Will you still die? Yes. Were you meant to know this wonderful phrase? Why yes I think you were. Will you be able to sleep better? Tonight, maybe, but tomorrow? Who knows, you don't, they don't, he she it doesn't. But nothing matters.


Tomorrow, it will matter again, maybe, maybe. But tonight, knowing you, you of all people you wrote the one thing i needed to keep moving forward. Keep moving forward. Theres another thing with you. Always you. My friend, my best friend, my go-to, a stranger, acquaintance, a love, whatever you are. You did it for me tonight. You made the fear better.


Ill write, I will write.


You did it. And i thank you.


And Im not alone.



3:14 Every Night

From a recent late-night sketch session.















I went in with no plan on these, equipped with a sketchbook, chalk pastel, and pencil, and just kind of drew what came out. I tried to layer the color in different ways for each.









Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Witching Hour

And you know you will not be able to fall asleep until you begin to understand him. And you can’t fall asleep because you’re always thinking about so many things, in a distinct order, and all at once. Thinking about very small things like laundry detergent, or the sandwich you had for lunch today, or debating whether you offended someone at that party with your off-color remarks about Asians...while you also ponder big cares like your bank account, recent developments in your love life, your anxiety about the Christian Right, and what it would be like if you existed as someone else, even for a minute, and could see yourself as they do.

Many nights you wish you could keep that sensation of being…else…that your body always prevents with a sharp tingling in the back of your teeth that acts as the emergency switch to make you stop—before your very identity is lost.

And, of course, riding along with all of these concerns, is your fear of death. Every day you think about death before you sleep. Which does make sense. After all, it’s a natural progression of thought as you approach the middle space between waking and…whatever. But sometimes you can’t get over it, and will just stay up thinking for hours and hours. You remember this happening to you ever since you were young. You couldn’t name it then, but there was a recognized fear that often drove you out of bed to your mother. Until your nearsighted eyes could adjust to the sudden light in the living room, you would just grope along toward the formless figure you hoped to be your mother on the couch. And even though you knew she would scold you for staying up, at least you could escape, for a few moments, the dark isolation.

Do you remember the words your mother used to sing when you were afraid to fall asleep? That silly song about the Duke of York who had ten thousand men or something like that? No that was a long time ago, you’ve forgotten the words, but you certainly remember the beat. You can still clap your hands to it, da duh da duh da duh. And, great wit that you are, you even came up with a new song—which, on further reflection, you suppose is probably related to him:

‘Cause when you’re up you’re up,

and when you’re down, you’re down,

and when your mind takes you for a ride,

you’re always up and down.

But you like to remind yourself that you’re “just fine.” Such thoughts, you’ve reasoned, are not symptoms of a clinical depression, but rather evidence of your mind’s great talent at compartmentalization. What a blessing, some minds are never organized. And with such a talent you would logically conclude that your thoughts would settle down into sleep, but apparently you still don’t understand him.

In the house next door, another restless figure turns in his bed. He can’t sleep either but, then again, he doesn’t really have to, his dreams are always superimposed on reality.

How can he be sane when even the pigeons make him nervous?

How can he be lucid when everything tastes like electricity and fog?

And every night that you leave your bed and go over to your window and stare across the way, you can just barely make out his outline by the streetlight’s yellow sphere reflecting in the glass. He is always there staring back. And you wonder each time what it would be like to know yourself through his mind. Does he see you at all? Do his eyes supply a coherent picture of the world, or does the outside stimuli dissolve into shifting blobs of flickering neon before he can process them? You trace encouraging words on the window with your fingers—backwards so he can read them—if he can even read them. And then you begin to wonder why it’s so important to you that you help him. And the lack of rest is starting to frenzy your thoughts. And though it’s becoming harder to think logically, you begin to see the implications of the strange connection you have formed. Maybe you should stop this before it starts. Maybe you should just think about the sandwich you had for lunch. Draw back from the chasm outside the window, and simply.fall.asleep.already. Even though you know you cannot fall sleep if you don’t understand him. But maybe you will come to understand. Actually, it’s okay if you don’t understand, really it is. Your patience can only take so much. We all have to sleep at some point. It’s okay if you don’t understand It’s okay if you don’t. Its okay if you don’t.

It’s okay,

it’s okay,

it’s okay if you can’t escape yourself.

SM Oct 2010

Get Murky Esther

“New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter anymore.

I don’t know them, I have never known them and I am very pure.”

--The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath


Come get murky with me Esther. Submerge in the dark deep. The water is black, not choked with oils or mud, but opaque in a way that water could never possibly be. We defy contradictions, and by our presence here this place is sanctified. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Language is useless; touch me and you will feel it, and you will know. Place your hand on my chest, taunt under damp cloth, and you will know by the movement of my blood that we are sacred and alive. Finally we are alive. Let’s sink deeper and be holy and think great things and think each other’s thoughts and believe. The water is dark but it is warm, surprisingly, comfortingly warm. The only light comes from the pale bulb so close above, but dim, a small bubble around you and me and the center of the pool. The green of the walls reflects back at the edges of vision and it only makes your emerald eyes gleam even stronger. If you moved more than a foot away, I only would see the brilliant green of your iris, until both would be extinguished too after a few more inches. But please, do not leave, the water is dark and deep, and I don’t want to lose you now. Come closer. Let me whisper your thoughts into your ear, and you will shudder at first because they are dark, and come from a heavy place, in a voice not your own. Do not despair; I will not let you drown under that weight. We still have the light that glances along the surface, and you can whisper back to me the desperate incantations you repeat each night in your chambers to ward off dreams of sludge.

SM Jun 2010

While You Were Waiting By That Tree

So i've got two new posts coming atchyall, one that's a few months old and one that's brand spankin new. For these, my goal was to move towards prose by constructing (hopefully) very vivid scenes. As always, please feel free to comment.

Also, please forgive the lack of output recently. The J.A.M. is doing their best to be productive while balancing schoolwork and other activities. So keep checking back with us, we promise more good stuff to come. And yes, Godot will definitely come by tomorrow...

Monday, September 13, 2010

Thanksgiving Haikus

So I'm gonna get a little experimental with y'all. Ive had a sudden burst of inspiration and decided to post these "haikus" at the risk of sounding more than a little contrived and ridiculous. But if nothing else, they were really good practice for poetic self-restraint: keeping to a pattern and saying the most one can with as few syllables as possible. So read them as a set, and don't take them too seriously (even though some dark things are at work).


Haiku for Suggestive Whispers Cupped Privately Into Ears

I live through few words.
She’s verbose enough to share,
Come learn some grammar.

Haiku for Intolerably Long Train Rides to Connecticut
Meet my family.

Count blessings with rich people?

Better start drinking.

Haiku for Realizations of Unwittingly Playing Central Roles in the Power Struggles of Others
Acting the fool—But
she was slumming all along.

Which is more cruel?


Haiku for Slurred Protests While Eyeing Sharp Knives on Granite Countertops
I want to carve it.

Stares back, east-coast-proper cold,
... Stick it where it hurts.

Haiku for Severe Glances Exchanged Over Laden Tables

For once she is silent.
It’s true that I drink too much,

I won't stop talking.


SM Nov 2010

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Love, Family, & Citrus Fruit (M's High School Remix)

Recently, I rediscovered many of the poems I wrote while in high school. The poems are uniformly horrible, (filled with oh so much angst, jokey digressions, and unnecessary exclamation points) but many of the lines still remain valid for me. So in one of those spurious, what-the-hell moments, I spliced together my favorite lines from poems written over the course of three years. Now let's be real, this piece is still bad, but it is, for me at least, a cool reflection of my (slightly) younger self at a weird/emotional/wonderful time. Apart from the stanza headings, I have kept almost all the individual lines intact, and added only around six new words throughout for purposes of transition. There are only two instances where a completely new image has been introduced, the rest is just some inventive juxtaposition. The centered justification, capitalization, and punctuation are all remnants of my old style. So buckle up and hold on tight, cause we're taking a ride down Memory Lane, a wild road fraught with holes and hairpin curves and treacherous bandits besides. Here we go, one more time...
REMIX! YO DJ BRING THAT SHIT BACK


Entr'acte

Please allow me to introduce myself,
(The first of many allowances I will ask you to make.)
I just thought I'd correct a common misconception:
It's pronounced like a H, spelled with an E,
Comprende?
Question: What's in a name anyway?
Answer: A bunch of spaces and letters.
Yeah whatever...moving on!
I get all my appliances from infomercials,
All my culture from music videos,
I'm just going to open my wallet and stop talking.
Let's shop til we drop.

Love
Levitation's a pretty young thing but what happens when Gravity gets jealous?
Abstraction is all in good fun, but too much personification is dangerous,
Meet me under a shady tree on a warm summer's day,
And whisper strange yet delicious things.
Of course things can be both strange and delicious,
Have you ventured into Hot Topic lately?
And if the topic is truly hot, you know I'm an expert.
All you have ever been is lukewarm,
I just wrote this poem to make you boil.
So read these lines softly now (but always with purpose!)
My heart pumps not blood but citric acid.

Family
A deluge of wedding rings hit the ground like raindrops,
Humming so loud they drowned out the sounds of the party,
Just as we were about to cut the cake!
What dreadful timing on the part of my parents.
Thier hearts pumped not blood but citric acid.
He burned me twice, she burned me once,
Only once was enough to destroy all the bonds,
Fill the air between us with smoke.
You know how that old saying goes about the true parentage of inspiration?
So what does that make my mother?
Necessity Re-visited?
Or is it,
Reused? Rehabbed? Reloaded?

Citrus
Abstraction is all in good fun, but too much personification is dangerous.
They took away my citrus fruit and I was faced with two simple choices:
I could fight for it and be punished,
Or I could move on, try to remember what it felt like,
The ecstasy in tasting the sour sting, and the surge, the surge in my heart,
My heart which pumps not blood, just citric acid.

Exeunt
The time has now arrived my friends,
We have finally come to the end,
And even though it lasted for only such a short time,
Believe me, it was the best time I ever had.
A moment of silence please for memories not quite forgotten.
In keeping with the proper tradition I now ask my final wishes;
To all the poems left unfinished,
To all the beauty still un-witnessed,
I humbly beg for your forgiveness,
Know that I love you dearly even in my ignorance.
The sun sets, Apollo's chariot departs, the surf crashes upon the rocks.
Maybe one day I can start to love myself,
But that day seems such a long way off.
I walk out across the dunes as the tide slowly advances,
Erasing all my footprints.
SM Aug 2010

Monday, August 16, 2010

For A Friend

I would paint myself in crimsons and blues, the coldest hues, if only to preserve your warmth.
And I would live on water and hard bread, for days or weeks or when, if only so you can feel sustained.
Would face down the mob, charge heedlessly into the end of pitchforks as the distraction for your escape.

Well the song is true ya know, cuz you're a god, and i am not.
Imagine my surprise to fall asleep next to a friend--and wake up beside a deity.
All the others may not believe in your divinity, but I do.
They have not walked the dark paths we have traveled; they did not wrestle with angels in the desert.
Some love to test my devotion, play-acting trial and temptation as I lean casually from skyscrapers.
Some attempt to stage you in their portraits, always end up with sloppy lines and wrong dimensions.
Then there are those who deny you completely. I can only look on with pity as they turn gradually into pillars of salt.

I woke up next to a god shivering in the bed. I grabbed a brush and started living in violet.
Many will hear me, few will listen, but, really, the only person who will find any meaning is you.

SM Aug 2010

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Greetings Loved Ones, Let's Take A Journey




The California Bear goes "RAWRRRRRRRRREAD all the older posts below! Or else I see a mauling in your future...and it will be quite...unpleasant! So there"

Notes on California (With Apologies to Susan Sontag)

I have had my fill of green, of oak trees and cornfields, and other pleasant prairie things…so make this contraption GO FASTER. I’m exhausted from hours cooped up on your flying deathtrap, and to top everything my butt has completely fallen asleep. So be quick in your landing and safety speech and give me more complimentary peanuts to tide the hunger damnit!…How I long for desert, for cactus and palms, for a dry wit and a sun-baked life.


<· I touched down in LAX on an unseasonably windy day in late may. As the plane began its long descent, I could feel an overwhelming excitement rising in the pit of my chest. I was taking part in that all-too familiar American tradition. A native Chicagoan, raised in the suburbs, but off to college in New York City, I was taking a trip to SoCal for 10 days. Ostensibly my purpose was to visit friends, but I also wanted to assess everything California had to offer for my adult life ahead. I was taken aback by the sprawling metropolis beneath me: carved out of the sand and plopped next to the sea, it came replete with a legion of pools, surprisingly verdant lawns, and highways that made the Illinois Tollway look like a rustic horse-path by comparison. I took in the glittering promise of the West Coast, breathless from nervous excitement. California, here we come.

The characteristics of California according to Ms. Katy Perry:

Gurls who take some liberties with spelling

Grass that is really greener,

Water with just an extra something,

Daisy Dukes,

bikinis, tankinis, martinis, (but no weenies)

sun-kissed skin,

sex on the beach,

freaking in Jeeps,

&

representin’ California + the west coast in general

g Geologically speaking, California longs to leave, to break away from the rest of the continent, and, honestly, Californians probably wouldn’t mind leaving with it. As anyone who travels here from out-of-state knows, SoCal’s culture is a blend of continental assimilation and remaining stubbornly Californian. It’s certainly far removed from the attitudes and lifestyle of mainstream America, hell, Northern Californians can’t even identify with them. Although still connected to the continental 48 for a couple more millions of years or so, perhaps we should still consider California as a culture on the fringe, more akin to the spirit of Hawaii than a place like Illinois, or even it’s neighbors Arizona and Nevada.

Living within the bubble of the entertainment capital of the world allows Californians the unique position to make cultural commentaries…and they excel especially in pointing that proverbial finger at themselves. Every medium is filled with artists who attempt to grasp the essence of California in their work—from the glossy sheen of Entourage to the dark mystery of Mulholland Drive, the introspective haze of Less Than Zero to the clearheaded detachment of Slouching Toward Bethlehem—these disparate images give outsiders the basic understanding of the contradictions that lie at the core. And if none of these can paint a clear picture of the place, one need only turn on the radio. It would be impossible to quantify the number of musicians in the past 50 years who have used California as their muse for some of the most celebrated songs in American history, hence the use of Katy Perry and Tool, which were simply my starting points in this exercise. Even these notes follow in the vein of such statements mentioned above, gathered by an outsider after only a relatively short trip. Let’s face it; few other places on this Earth inspire such constant inspection. Californian-(self)love is infuriating and unrelenting and unbelievably pretentious, but also fascinating and fun in the best, most indulgent way. These musicians just might be on to something: you can check out any time you like but you can’t ever leave.

California is quite possibly the most ironic state of the union…a sparsely populated desert that belonged to Mexico only a hundred and fifty years ago is now the most populated and (until the recent booms in the south) most desired real estate. The state is a geographical (and cultural) oxymoron, one that doesn’t really exist anywhere else in the U.S. except perhaps Florida and Texas. Now, I’m not trying to suggest that most states are homogenous. Even Illinois has immense lifestyle differences, (most identifiable in the contrast between Chicagoland and the rest of the state.) But even these states would be hard pressed to match California in pure variety…surfer dudes, sk8r punks, actors, pornstars, businessmen, their aging counterparts—retirees of every kind, the Fabulously Wealthy, the Not So Fabulously Wealthy, incredible numbers of immigrants—both legal and not, and a contingent of conservatives who continually seem surprised when reminded of all the others in their midst. It’s generally accepted by Californians as the norm, no big deal, right? Except to an outsider it is genuinely strange. New York City may be America’s true melting pot, but with California we see many different groups still separated, but kept arranged on the same, small plate.

The second evening of our trip we resolved to go camping in the San Bernardino Mountains, near the idyllic resort town of Lake Arrowhead. As we climbed the altitude out of the Inland Empire, the temperature dropped…and dropped…and dropped. When we reached the site we were dismayed to find snow still on the ground. It could not have contrasted more with the temperate valley we had left behind just a few hours ago. The people of the region really served to confirm the divide more than anything else. Those who we observed in Lake Arrowhead came from a radically different breed than the chic Angelanos, and they pegged us almost immediately as The Spoiled Kids From L.A. Who Don’t Know What The Hell They’re Doing. Though it certainly wasn’t true, (only our host actually lived in Cali and we all had a good deal of camping experience) we definitely were not prepared for the unbearable cold that night in the mountains, and quickly made plans to move to a campground on the beach by next morning. As we checked out of Lake Arrowhead, a perceptive ranger walked by and mocked, “what happened? Did you guys forget the television, the heater?” Not one to admit shame, my friend cheerfully replied, “well, we did bring the television.” After our hasty retreat from the mountains, it took us less than three hours to reach the ocean and encounter an entirely new set of eccentric residents, many of whom lived semi-permanently on the beach. I would continue to feel such differences at many points throughout the trip, and, keep in mind; we didn’t even have the time or cash to venture to the northern parts. It would appear that most Californians are united in name only…west coast represent indeed.

Once we were comfortably situated on Carlsbad beach, we planned a day excursion to San Diego, about an hour south. I was pretty thrilled; three years ago I had traveled to the San Diego area for a week on a school trip. Now, I was filled with nostalgia for the place, and this second time around only increased my appreciation of it. The scenery was gorgeous, the food superb, and the downtown area was charmingly bizarre: A blend of skyscrapers and Latino-style architecture housed offices, restaurants, even a lushly decorated, authentically old-school train station. And I can’t even begin to extol the virtues of Balboa Park, which we sadly did not have the tine to fully explore. As we drove back, I felt a sense of completeness. The curious high-schooler had returned independently as a college man, and must (god willing) return again. San Diego is the sort of town that forces you to promise to keep coming back. Removed from the weirdness of L.A. and the commuting nightmares of Orange County, San Diego would be the most rewarding choice if I were to ship out and set up my life in SoCal. Realistically though, S.D. does not escape the problems and issues of the region, especially illegal immigration and outrageous housing and utility prices. Even if I can’t possibly afford it, that town will always allure to that part of my mind that secretly wishes to devolve back to the enchanted teenager.

Throughout her career, Georgia O’Keefe escaped to the desert to create some of her best-loved work. I could feel the same pull, as tangible and insurmountable as gravity, as we drove around Palm Springs in the middle of the week. Even in our modern age, we still have not found a way to conquer the desert; throughout the valley are warnings and signs of a dire drought in the region. (National Geographic has a fantastic article here that discusses the Californian water shortage, which I cannot even begin to distill properly.) As a resort town dependent on tourism, however, Palm Springs tries to maintain a tight balance between conservation and luxury. Now, I don’t mean to preach about this—I certainly was not doing my part for the environment when I willingly spent a day in the local waterpark. But these are the contradictions that define the region, and the unyielding desert provides the backdrop. With the windows down and the wind surging through my hair, I imagined myself as the black cloud at the front of a sandstorm, pulled through the devastation by a ferocious wind, whistling around silent pillars of red stone. I feel the echoes of a nomadic past meeting a pastoral present. I weave down the borderline and knit together east and west.

Some more characteristics of California according to Mr. Maynard James Keenan, vocalist for the band Tool:

A Bullshit, three-ring circus sideshow of freaks

Fretting for lattes, lawsuits, hairpieces, and prozac

Living in a hopeless fucking hole

L. Ron Hubbard and the like,

Armed gangster wannabes,

Memory junkies,

hidden agendas

insecure entertainers

&

one great big festering neon distraction

I began to sour on the place by the end of the week. The general insanity of the Memorial Day holiday certainly didn’t help. My friends and I never made it to Venice Beach as we planned after spending two hours in gridlock traffic. Defeated, we caught glimpses of the ocean through choked alleyways as we retreated away from the nightmare that is L.A. traffic and parking. To my mind the frenzy seemed ridiculous, (after all, it was only an overcrowded beach) yet Venice is one of the most celebrated and popular locales in the state. Then again, Angelanos are notorious for overstating the virtues of their city. (The site for travel-guide company, The Lonely Planet, provides a hilarious scale here that pretty accurately illustrates most attitudes toward L.A.) It doesn’t help that much of Los Angeles is relatively new, or that the network of suburbs is so expansive. While rolling your way across in town in a motorist’s worst nightmare, you’re given time to properly look around, and the view is often grim. When we look beneath that Warholic, pop plastic veneer of the movies, L.A. can appear pretty soulless. Celebrated sci-fi writer, Phillip K. Dick, has these telling observations of his native Orange County in A Scanner Darkly: “In southern California it didn’t make any difference anyhow where you went; there was always the same McDonaldburger place over and over, like a circular strip that turned past you as you continued to go somewhere…life in Anaheim, California was a commercial for itself, endlessly replayed.” The trip was immensely enjoyable, but overall, I did not fall totally in love with the Golden Coast—sorry Katy, it wasn’t meant to be. Though I suppose I will always still admire it from afar…especially the weather.


Take me back now I suppose, take me back. Your West is not wild enough for me. Pleasantly wacky to be sure, but what I need is a little adversity. I just can’t thrive living by the beach or resort, driving long hours to get anywhere at all, with the windows down, feeling the touch of sun and sea breeze. On the contrary, I must be trapped with other people, forcing my way onto the subway, daily facing down death at the hands of bicyclists and taxis. So I will try to sit back and relax, but I cannot promise I will enjoy the flight…especially since MY ENTIRE BODY IS TENSE FROM THIS DAMN SEAT. Fine, fine, I will try to relax Ms. Persistent Flight Attendant, but keep this in mind: I’m headed back East toward Chicago and points beyond, looking forward to our early dawn. And you can be damn sure that the observer will have to write it all down in the cold, damp, midwestern morning.

SM July 2010

Monday, July 19, 2010

Baha'i Gardens

Pictures I took during a recent trip to the Baha'i temple in Wilmette, of the temple itself and the surrounding gardens.

I didn't realize when I took this shot that there was a small black fly hiding within the folds of the petals--I caught him only in review, and really like his unassuming presence.






Art imitates nature. Or in this case, is it the reverse? The plants within the Baha'i gardens subtly suggest the architecture of their temple.






I'll post a link to the rest of the pictures soon.