Ticking clock, setting sun
time, oh time
loves everyone
those who linger
those who wait
for patient time
and a lover's fate
ticking clock, moments pass
time, oh time
like liquid glass
I see through moments
that spread to days
transparent intentions
and a dream that stays...
time, oh time
loves everyone.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Floating into the morning..
Taking a cue from am unnamed personage that has stirred an alarming fondness in me I have decided to start rising very, very early. I remember Anne Rice's Louis taking particular note of the last sunrise he ever saw...he watched it as though it was his first. I have always been fond of watching the opening and closing of the day...
Sunrise was likened to coming closer and closer to God's kingdom in my mind as a youth. I thought I could see God's promise of eternal life in a paradise illustrated by the gilded purple clouds. There was always something magical about 5am.
After watching black and white television for hours in the middle of the night when I was 7 years old I noticed the blackness fade to a blanched blue through the window. I clutched my cat and felt a deep sense of relief. At last it was light out. At last fears disappeared. But as I grew a couple years older and the insomnia remained I grew to love the blackness. I could draw, write poems, being enthralled by the petticoats and bouffants of the 1950s television shows that ran all night. Something about black and white television always made me feel so safe...
The tea that was supposed to enable a peaceful repose only worked for a few hours. The next thing I knew it would be 1 in the morning and I was wide awake, eager to turn on the lights in the family room, let my cat sit on my lap and obsess over the world of black and white...the soft tones of endless shades of grey. Pencils skirts and petticoats, Dobie Gillis and Donna Reed... I would drift in and out a little bit through the night, sponge rollers in my hair to try and imitate Tuesday Weld at school the next day... and I would sleep a little bit...
And in my dreams I was in a poodle skirt sipping a malt with my steady...someone faceless held my hand as the saxophone played on the jukebox... and in my dreams I was black and white... and endless shades of grey...
The night-tide glow of electronics still fascinates me.. but now it is a computer screen or an ipod... It isn't a world of malt shops, do-wop, hand in hand going steady forever...on TV
older years enticed me with a couple centuries prior... organs filled my mind, masks in the catacombs and a voice that could never be forgotten. The Angel of Music coaxed me out of bed. I embraced the feeling of a ghost leading me down the gloomy hallway as the hem of my nightgown slid along the carpet underfoot... I'd stare at the moon and see an angel's face singing a melancholy song. I was enamored of the shadows. I was in love with the sound of the train running through town at 4 am...
There was a tear in the sleeve of my blue night gown with the peach ribbons...it was never repaired...
I am going to get up early from now on...
Sunrise was likened to coming closer and closer to God's kingdom in my mind as a youth. I thought I could see God's promise of eternal life in a paradise illustrated by the gilded purple clouds. There was always something magical about 5am.
After watching black and white television for hours in the middle of the night when I was 7 years old I noticed the blackness fade to a blanched blue through the window. I clutched my cat and felt a deep sense of relief. At last it was light out. At last fears disappeared. But as I grew a couple years older and the insomnia remained I grew to love the blackness. I could draw, write poems, being enthralled by the petticoats and bouffants of the 1950s television shows that ran all night. Something about black and white television always made me feel so safe...
The tea that was supposed to enable a peaceful repose only worked for a few hours. The next thing I knew it would be 1 in the morning and I was wide awake, eager to turn on the lights in the family room, let my cat sit on my lap and obsess over the world of black and white...the soft tones of endless shades of grey. Pencils skirts and petticoats, Dobie Gillis and Donna Reed... I would drift in and out a little bit through the night, sponge rollers in my hair to try and imitate Tuesday Weld at school the next day... and I would sleep a little bit...
And in my dreams I was in a poodle skirt sipping a malt with my steady...someone faceless held my hand as the saxophone played on the jukebox... and in my dreams I was black and white... and endless shades of grey...
The night-tide glow of electronics still fascinates me.. but now it is a computer screen or an ipod... It isn't a world of malt shops, do-wop, hand in hand going steady forever...on TV
older years enticed me with a couple centuries prior... organs filled my mind, masks in the catacombs and a voice that could never be forgotten. The Angel of Music coaxed me out of bed. I embraced the feeling of a ghost leading me down the gloomy hallway as the hem of my nightgown slid along the carpet underfoot... I'd stare at the moon and see an angel's face singing a melancholy song. I was enamored of the shadows. I was in love with the sound of the train running through town at 4 am...
There was a tear in the sleeve of my blue night gown with the peach ribbons...it was never repaired...
I am going to get up early from now on...
Saturday, August 13, 2011
poem from an insomniac mind
long travels
oh, you handsome demon
take your hands off the wheel and sit beside me for a while
your words are slick and foreboding
your notions disguise the stars
your notions disguise the sun
oh, you handsome demon
unbuckle you intuition and lean your chin
towards mine
the weight and sweat of indecision don't do me any justice
I'll make a sweep of starlight in my eyes
and disguise you from myself
oh, you handsome demon
travel incognito with me
in these modes of modern transportation
your unknown notions become mine
-Claudine Woodard
oh, you handsome demon
take your hands off the wheel and sit beside me for a while
your words are slick and foreboding
your notions disguise the stars
your notions disguise the sun
oh, you handsome demon
unbuckle you intuition and lean your chin
towards mine
the weight and sweat of indecision don't do me any justice
I'll make a sweep of starlight in my eyes
and disguise you from myself
oh, you handsome demon
travel incognito with me
in these modes of modern transportation
your unknown notions become mine
-Claudine Woodard
"My friend's flesh and blood.."
The song was sleeping in my mind as I woke up with watery eyes at 5 o'clock. It was still black in my room... and there was this watery echo in my half-dreaming mind. Bryan Ferry's voice calling me seductively... as if he were singing my song...
and I thought of his glittery tuxedo jackets as I lay in bed and his seductive blue eyes and black hair. I thought of how he dated tall blonde super-models and I wondered what it must be like to be so very British... whatever that means... world-weary? perhaps... But to be well into your 60s and still dating 20 something supermodels... the man must have something...
I thought of his voice, and in a dreamy lull and I had to reach for my ipod. The black room was illuminated with an eerie bluish light as I switched the dial to Roxy Music. The light reminds me of a porcelain ghost... but I had to hear that song... and think of the album cover and the comely pair of women depicted therein, pouting and clutching spears. They must be golden haired Spartans and I wonder what outer world they come from. As if they come from the sea, sailing on a long journey in their billowy white gowns exposing toned sun-kissed arms and pushing the bottom lip out in a heroic pout.
Oh, to be so winsome, full-bodied and enigmatic. Why did it grow out of fashion to put heavenly looking women on the covers of albums... could it even be appreciated now?
I can imagine staring at this album cover for hours had I seen it in 1980. But my parents weren't cool enough to listen to Roxy Music. Cool enough for The Cars, yes, but not cool enough for Roxy Music...
Bryan Ferry's voice inspires thoughts of rainbow colored mist rising from a silver pond as lilies float peacefully along in slow motion. I would say Flesh and Blood is the most eastern, ambient, fantasy oriented album by Roxy Music.
I saw the red numbers on my digital clock tell me I had a good half hour before I had to rise. The urge in the dark that precedes dawn was palpable and more than I could contend with. I had to hear this album. So the blackness would eventually evaporate to the misty grey of dawn. The spindly fingers of dawn creeping into the bedroom window so rudely interrupting the calm and carelessness of night.
I would have to say Roxy Music is the most romantic band in my catalogue. So glamorous, so enchanting... Bryan Ferry singing like a dark prince beckoning a lost nymph into the glass... It's only fitting that he sang the theme song for the film 'Legend'.
I can't exactly wax poetic... but I would like to let the words drip out of my fingers in liquid diamonds, relieving my sore mind...I miss my long-hand but I think I am wounded for writing in pen and ink for now. Should I write about the strange delights of masochism? Or the healing blood of Christ? It's far too late for thinking...
and I thought of his glittery tuxedo jackets as I lay in bed and his seductive blue eyes and black hair. I thought of how he dated tall blonde super-models and I wondered what it must be like to be so very British... whatever that means... world-weary? perhaps... But to be well into your 60s and still dating 20 something supermodels... the man must have something...
I thought of his voice, and in a dreamy lull and I had to reach for my ipod. The black room was illuminated with an eerie bluish light as I switched the dial to Roxy Music. The light reminds me of a porcelain ghost... but I had to hear that song... and think of the album cover and the comely pair of women depicted therein, pouting and clutching spears. They must be golden haired Spartans and I wonder what outer world they come from. As if they come from the sea, sailing on a long journey in their billowy white gowns exposing toned sun-kissed arms and pushing the bottom lip out in a heroic pout.
Oh, to be so winsome, full-bodied and enigmatic. Why did it grow out of fashion to put heavenly looking women on the covers of albums... could it even be appreciated now?
I can imagine staring at this album cover for hours had I seen it in 1980. But my parents weren't cool enough to listen to Roxy Music. Cool enough for The Cars, yes, but not cool enough for Roxy Music...
Bryan Ferry's voice inspires thoughts of rainbow colored mist rising from a silver pond as lilies float peacefully along in slow motion. I would say Flesh and Blood is the most eastern, ambient, fantasy oriented album by Roxy Music.
I saw the red numbers on my digital clock tell me I had a good half hour before I had to rise. The urge in the dark that precedes dawn was palpable and more than I could contend with. I had to hear this album. So the blackness would eventually evaporate to the misty grey of dawn. The spindly fingers of dawn creeping into the bedroom window so rudely interrupting the calm and carelessness of night.
I would have to say Roxy Music is the most romantic band in my catalogue. So glamorous, so enchanting... Bryan Ferry singing like a dark prince beckoning a lost nymph into the glass... It's only fitting that he sang the theme song for the film 'Legend'.
I can't exactly wax poetic... but I would like to let the words drip out of my fingers in liquid diamonds, relieving my sore mind...I miss my long-hand but I think I am wounded for writing in pen and ink for now. Should I write about the strange delights of masochism? Or the healing blood of Christ? It's far too late for thinking...
Friday, August 12, 2011
Lake Tahoe
I collected pine cones and it was the first two weeks of October. I didn't realize the summer was really gone. I tried to lay by the pool at the mountain time share but the wind just blew through my bones and I had nothing but this little pink book and a pen. The cover was growing grey from gripping it with a tear stained palm for night after night when sleep escaped me.
Staring at the ghostly mountains the wind created a loud swoosh though the pines. It reminded me of the hiss of the ocean.
I sat in the wooden sauna at the spa in the time share condo in the mountains in the woods
and my bones just felt so cold from too much crying and not enough sleep. Very little sleep never made anything right.
The views and the air, collecting the pine cones as if my name was Heidi and burning them in the fire place.
Cleaned the ashes...
It was time to go away.
The mountains haunted me with strange ideas of kidnappings, being carried upside down and seeing the city lights blurry through six year old tears, orange and red and green...
stop lights
yellow lights slowing down the thoughts and the cars and the temperament
but the temperament does not slow
the body is not claimed and I was still carried upside down
through tears
a tightened seat belt
a one horse town...
the rain came and turned to snow in October
and memory brought tears
memory brought a voice that said
"you better believe it"
when I asked...
Is there any way I could have really forgotten you?
...I felt an ache in my body and brain
Staring at the ghostly mountains the wind created a loud swoosh though the pines. It reminded me of the hiss of the ocean.
I sat in the wooden sauna at the spa in the time share condo in the mountains in the woods
and my bones just felt so cold from too much crying and not enough sleep. Very little sleep never made anything right.
The views and the air, collecting the pine cones as if my name was Heidi and burning them in the fire place.
Cleaned the ashes...
It was time to go away.
The mountains haunted me with strange ideas of kidnappings, being carried upside down and seeing the city lights blurry through six year old tears, orange and red and green...
stop lights
yellow lights slowing down the thoughts and the cars and the temperament
but the temperament does not slow
the body is not claimed and I was still carried upside down
through tears
a tightened seat belt
a one horse town...
the rain came and turned to snow in October
and memory brought tears
memory brought a voice that said
"you better believe it"
when I asked...
Is there any way I could have really forgotten you?
...I felt an ache in my body and brain
Friday, August 5, 2011
An extra blanket...
I know I am beating the whole subject of summertime over and over in the head but it is a subject that fascinates me, charms me, enchants me with joy and carelessness. I have looked forward to it all year. So last night I watched 'Taxi' as Joel drank red wine and we laughed the way we did when we were children. Joel inherited the largest portion of our mom's paranoid neurosis so he anxiously asked me if red wine was OK to drink. "Is it really good for your heart? Well which kind of red wine should you drink? Does it make a difference? Calories? What? Deeni! Does it have more calories than beer?"
Fortunately after a few sips he was blushing and laughing and it felt like we were kids laughing all over again, cackling at Louie DePalma and James Ignatowsky.
Then I realized I couldn't really leave the window wide open anymore. Last night it was nearly three quarters of the way closed. And... I had to add an extra blanket; an afghan Becky Swan knitted for us in 1988. Blankets were a must in my house in the mid 80s to early 90s. Intent on saving every dime imaginable, my mom would forestall turning on the heater until mid-December. I remember one morning in December ambling down the hallway early in the morning, sleep-drunk and unwilling to get ready for the school day I saw a foggy, chilly mist was hovering two feet above the floor. I was 14 and had grown accustomed to being poor so I thought it was kind of romantic. It reminded me of the scene in Doctor Zchivago when Yuri and Lara break into the abandoned house in the snow, like a frozen fairy tale palace in white. I wondered, as I made my way to the kitchen, if I would one day have a dark haired poet like Yuri write me a love poem in December with shivering fingers in tattered gloves. Lara crept up behind him in her long white shift, golden hair tousled from sleep, and wept at his words. I wondered if her tears turned to ice in the cold. I have memorized that scene when I was 8 and it stays with me all the time.
But we needed the blankets, as many as we could have... in my frozen house...So last night realizing the weather has been telling me that the summer is nearing it's demise, I pulled on this old afghan Sister Becky Swan from our congregation had knitted in 1988. It was a gorgeous, dreamy peach color when she first presented it to us at the Kingdom Hall. It seemed so fancy. We never wanted to use it and it remained folded gently at the foot of mom's bed. I have it now. The yarn has faded from glowing peach to a pale beige...Faded, sturdy and very warm...sometimes it reminds me a lot of me...
Fortunately after a few sips he was blushing and laughing and it felt like we were kids laughing all over again, cackling at Louie DePalma and James Ignatowsky.
Then I realized I couldn't really leave the window wide open anymore. Last night it was nearly three quarters of the way closed. And... I had to add an extra blanket; an afghan Becky Swan knitted for us in 1988. Blankets were a must in my house in the mid 80s to early 90s. Intent on saving every dime imaginable, my mom would forestall turning on the heater until mid-December. I remember one morning in December ambling down the hallway early in the morning, sleep-drunk and unwilling to get ready for the school day I saw a foggy, chilly mist was hovering two feet above the floor. I was 14 and had grown accustomed to being poor so I thought it was kind of romantic. It reminded me of the scene in Doctor Zchivago when Yuri and Lara break into the abandoned house in the snow, like a frozen fairy tale palace in white. I wondered, as I made my way to the kitchen, if I would one day have a dark haired poet like Yuri write me a love poem in December with shivering fingers in tattered gloves. Lara crept up behind him in her long white shift, golden hair tousled from sleep, and wept at his words. I wondered if her tears turned to ice in the cold. I have memorized that scene when I was 8 and it stays with me all the time.
But we needed the blankets, as many as we could have... in my frozen house...So last night realizing the weather has been telling me that the summer is nearing it's demise, I pulled on this old afghan Sister Becky Swan from our congregation had knitted in 1988. It was a gorgeous, dreamy peach color when she first presented it to us at the Kingdom Hall. It seemed so fancy. We never wanted to use it and it remained folded gently at the foot of mom's bed. I have it now. The yarn has faded from glowing peach to a pale beige...Faded, sturdy and very warm...sometimes it reminds me a lot of me...
Thursday, August 4, 2011
CURSES!!! CURSES!!! CURSES!!!
Posted a long and self-expository blog... pressed the wrong key and it got erased...I shouldn't compose at work...
It's probably for the best. I don't want to expose myself to the online world anyway...
But yeah, digital composition is a catastrophe!
It's probably for the best. I don't want to expose myself to the online world anyway...
But yeah, digital composition is a catastrophe!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tennessee Williams reflections
Well, the time is nigh for me to bid a heavy-hearted farewell to my summer school class. How sorely I will miss the dear, treasured experience. I stood outside the classroom for a long time and spoke with my teacher. The August breeze blew across my bare legs and I felt the tinge of coolness the signals, ever so slightly, the approach of fall. The sunset comes earlier, adorning the sky in it's glimmering tangerine gown. The clouds look like the scarlet innards of a Texas grapefruit against the paling sky, succumbing to a deeper navy shade of night. To steal the words of Tennessee Williams the moon was hardly a moon at all "only a small, sliver slipper of a moon."
Can the blaze of September compete with the embers of August? Summer gives one last blow of might and heat and force before it is vanquished by the brown hands of fall...
It is an awful feeling...
Yet it is a pleasure to know I can feel. So I will savor the silver slipper of melancholy, embrace the end and find inspiration in the ashes...
Can the blaze of September compete with the embers of August? Summer gives one last blow of might and heat and force before it is vanquished by the brown hands of fall...
It is an awful feeling...
Yet it is a pleasure to know I can feel. So I will savor the silver slipper of melancholy, embrace the end and find inspiration in the ashes...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
ahhhhhh....
Homework is cleared and now I can sail for the rest of the afternoon. Who keeps a diary in longhand these days? Why, I do! I truly believe I will never go completely digital. I am far too in love with my Victorian penmanship. Sometimes I just love to make curly-q's and spins and twists with my pen. I used to think my ultimate dream would be to live in a time when I might write with a quill and a bottle of ink by candlelight. I never wanted to be a part of this time as I was growing up. When I pretended to be sick to stay home from school I would lay in bed for long moments in fantasy. I dreamed and imagined that I would wake up one day and I would find my feet on a hardwood floor. There would be a wood burning stove and a light snow falling outside. It would be 1887 instead of 1987 and I was so content.
I wanted that dream to be real... so real, it haunted my mind. I woke up one morning ad thought I felt the Opera Ghost in my room. I felt this hard, pressing suffocation in my chest and I was certain the 100 years hence had come flying into my bedchamber.
Who keeps a diary in long-hand? Why, I do, of course! How else would the ghosts find me? If I could fascinate the spectre of a dashing, brilliant mind departed many years ago, the cool caress of a wicked disembodied rake would slim the fears I feel at the closeness of another earthly soul. Phantom lips, sepulchral love...
I wanted that dream to be real... so real, it haunted my mind. I woke up one morning ad thought I felt the Opera Ghost in my room. I felt this hard, pressing suffocation in my chest and I was certain the 100 years hence had come flying into my bedchamber.
Who keeps a diary in long-hand? Why, I do, of course! How else would the ghosts find me? If I could fascinate the spectre of a dashing, brilliant mind departed many years ago, the cool caress of a wicked disembodied rake would slim the fears I feel at the closeness of another earthly soul. Phantom lips, sepulchral love...
Friday, July 29, 2011
Dedication to Writing 10
I have an ambitious plan. Well, shall I say I "had" an ambitious plan? The plan has already been executed, now I have to wait and see what the results will yield. I hope I can stir emotions and not just for the sake of dramatic flair. I sincerely love these kids. I want to show them how deeply they moved me so I decided to write an epic poem using fragments of all of their poetry and read it on the last night of school. The summer is such an enchanting time of year. I have been transfixed by obsessions, preoccupations, text, meter, dialogue...I love the world and I love writing...I am so deeply enjoying this feeling of melancholy as I bid my summer school class farewell. I haven't felt this way since I was 13 and it is such a relief to know I can feel again. It is such a relief to know that five years ago didn't kill every chance of ever falling in love with life again... I mean truly in love. In love where you find wonder and sincere astonishment at the beauty around you. I think the astonishment I had written about for these past 5 years was sort of a half-life. I wasn't fully feeling.It's as if I was pretending to emote, to connect, to appreciate the reality of life for the past 5 years. Three quarters of my day was spent in 2004, it's been that way for so long...then the fall-out of 2006...It's been heart-breaking, feeling only half alive. I had grown so accustomed to the heartbreak it was the only tangible thing that reality was wrapped up in. All music, movies, poems, dreams...all things were lensed through the green bottle glass of love and longing for him, for his brown eyes...How amazing to be free of that after so long. How amazing it is to laugh and lay in the sun, to get summer crushes and make new friendships. I can't express any more deeply how much this summer has changed me. It is amazing to no longer be in love with a decade gone by... to be in love with nothing more than the flaming orange of the sunset on campus, the cool of the pillowcase in the morning, lounging with bare legs...I could never begin to comprehend this moment 5 years ago... even pain has an expiration date. I never would have know this...
So all in all I hope my class enjoys the poem I wrote for them. I hope they can see that despite all of the ambiguity, I love them all...so very much...
So all in all I hope my class enjoys the poem I wrote for them. I hope they can see that despite all of the ambiguity, I love them all...so very much...
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The definition of "good"
I suppose I can be free-form with today's entry but I prefer to be crafty. I prefer to say something acute yet amusing, canny but fun... All day at work I fight the urge to be impertinent. I don't quell the urge as much as I once did. Or perhaps I am becoming bitter. This is not something I wish to succumb to. So many people in this work-a-day world give in to bitterness and dissatisfaction. Why? There are so many things to enjoy about life everyday, what is the point in spending the entire day moping about not being at home? So many people are home-bound, no job, no money, no sense of peace.
To me, life is good...
The dreams I dreamed last night were good. The hot water pounding my naked back in the shower was good as the stream arose and swirled around my skin. A scrambled egg, a small bowl of strawberries and cup of coffee nourished me. It was good. The sun and sky: warm and cheerful. Everything is well, pleasant, happy, satisfying...good. It stays this way because I stay humble. When I look at the world with eyes longing for poetry, everything I see takes on a romantic hue. The sweat from the gym at work is good, my heart pounding from cardio, my muscles burning from lifting weight, it's good, it makes me happy...
I think of the suffering of those around me and I just feel so satisfied with the blessings God has given me. I don't have to grapple with a broken heart. It is all so calming and good. I got a call from my best friend back in San Franciso last night and she is still grappling with a break-up that tore her heart to shreds. I feel such empathy for her. I am so lucky to be safe and wrapped up in the warmth of a cheerful season, a hopeful outlook. The misery of lost love can be so harrowing; to labor under the shackles of a discouraged heart.
How good life is. How good it is to be unchained and optimistic; to see the world as limitless and marvellous as a child does. It is with the eyes of a child that we can find true joy in this life...
To me, life is good...
The dreams I dreamed last night were good. The hot water pounding my naked back in the shower was good as the stream arose and swirled around my skin. A scrambled egg, a small bowl of strawberries and cup of coffee nourished me. It was good. The sun and sky: warm and cheerful. Everything is well, pleasant, happy, satisfying...good. It stays this way because I stay humble. When I look at the world with eyes longing for poetry, everything I see takes on a romantic hue. The sweat from the gym at work is good, my heart pounding from cardio, my muscles burning from lifting weight, it's good, it makes me happy...
I think of the suffering of those around me and I just feel so satisfied with the blessings God has given me. I don't have to grapple with a broken heart. It is all so calming and good. I got a call from my best friend back in San Franciso last night and she is still grappling with a break-up that tore her heart to shreds. I feel such empathy for her. I am so lucky to be safe and wrapped up in the warmth of a cheerful season, a hopeful outlook. The misery of lost love can be so harrowing; to labor under the shackles of a discouraged heart.
How good life is. How good it is to be unchained and optimistic; to see the world as limitless and marvellous as a child does. It is with the eyes of a child that we can find true joy in this life...
Monday, July 25, 2011
The last week of July
Hot as blazes. Hot as Hell...Hades on the back of your neck, the sun on your bare arms, the white light in your eyes. It has always been my memory that the end of July is when we near the climax of our summer heat. I have said over and over how much I love the heat. Thus, today's heatwave is a handsel for days to come. It is a good luck token, a talisman of the coming fall...
Maybe I am getting ahead of myself but I think it is useful to keep one's mind in a forward moving motion whenever one can... although I am certain in a few words I will contradict myself...
What am I dreaming of for these last summer days? For the days to come? More balmy days...more secret scandals... more mindless infatuations...I like the wide-eyed lack of realism these 90 days sink into my soul. I love being brayed to by the beguine and shouting back in quiet moments of fantastical reverie... Outings to the museums...attacked by colors and blackness; high brow or otherwise...
This weekend the Tim Burton exhibit was so phenomenal. I cannot describe enough how immensely moved I was to read his original hand written outline for the opening scene of Edward Scissorhands. The whole exhibit was either exploding with color or mystifying in blackness. Then I went to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary art and saw a large exhibit about the history of street art. It was steamy and crowded inside the gallery but the artwork was so arresting and I felt as though I was one of the Warriors scouring the streets of New York City. I love going to galleries...
So my mind and imagination are lured by the wondrous green trees, the extraordinary and delicate fragility of a spider's web, the sensual darkness and coolness of a movie theater...waiting in the afternoon matinee for a superhero to whisk you away to bizarre and extravagant adventures... So lured am I by the illusory qualities of summer and stars and moonlight...
Maybe I am getting ahead of myself but I think it is useful to keep one's mind in a forward moving motion whenever one can... although I am certain in a few words I will contradict myself...
What am I dreaming of for these last summer days? For the days to come? More balmy days...more secret scandals... more mindless infatuations...I like the wide-eyed lack of realism these 90 days sink into my soul. I love being brayed to by the beguine and shouting back in quiet moments of fantastical reverie... Outings to the museums...attacked by colors and blackness; high brow or otherwise...
This weekend the Tim Burton exhibit was so phenomenal. I cannot describe enough how immensely moved I was to read his original hand written outline for the opening scene of Edward Scissorhands. The whole exhibit was either exploding with color or mystifying in blackness. Then I went to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary art and saw a large exhibit about the history of street art. It was steamy and crowded inside the gallery but the artwork was so arresting and I felt as though I was one of the Warriors scouring the streets of New York City. I love going to galleries...
So my mind and imagination are lured by the wondrous green trees, the extraordinary and delicate fragility of a spider's web, the sensual darkness and coolness of a movie theater...waiting in the afternoon matinee for a superhero to whisk you away to bizarre and extravagant adventures... So lured am I by the illusory qualities of summer and stars and moonlight...
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Good morning Sunday
It is so late... I spent the entire day in Los Angeles in a pair of fashionable torture devices called "high heels". Why did I wear black 4 inch heels when I was going to be walking around the Los Angeles art community today? Well, being aptly inspired by my second viewing of Captain America, I had a decidedly 1940s glamour streak and wore a curve hugging black dress and black silk stockings. I thought the heels would be perfect. They looked fantastic but hour after hour, gallery after gallery... I was beginning to swoon.
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE going to art shows in LA and I try to do it as often as I can... And I NEVER seem to wear the appropriate shoes. What can I say? I'm a tall girl and I love making myself even taller so I can tower over unsuspecting men like an amazon Barbie doll. Why would I want to be a small little girl that cowers in the shadows? Armed with my red lipstick, 4 inch heels, and black clinging dress I was ready to take on the city this afternoon.
It was a rare treat. There is a Tim Burton exhibition at LACMA this summer. It was so amazing to see Tim Burton's sketches, paintings and sculptures that display his boundless imagination. I read, under glass, a binder paper outline, in his own handwriting, for the opening scene of Edward Scissorhands and I started to cry.
So now I must rearrange my room. I must take down my UFC poster to make way for my poster for the exhibit. I love museum gift shops. I have so much more to say but it is terribly, terribly late...
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE going to art shows in LA and I try to do it as often as I can... And I NEVER seem to wear the appropriate shoes. What can I say? I'm a tall girl and I love making myself even taller so I can tower over unsuspecting men like an amazon Barbie doll. Why would I want to be a small little girl that cowers in the shadows? Armed with my red lipstick, 4 inch heels, and black clinging dress I was ready to take on the city this afternoon.
It was a rare treat. There is a Tim Burton exhibition at LACMA this summer. It was so amazing to see Tim Burton's sketches, paintings and sculptures that display his boundless imagination. I read, under glass, a binder paper outline, in his own handwriting, for the opening scene of Edward Scissorhands and I started to cry.
So now I must rearrange my room. I must take down my UFC poster to make way for my poster for the exhibit. I love museum gift shops. I have so much more to say but it is terribly, terribly late...
Monday, July 18, 2011
A source of debate...
Artistic compromise and the way I eschew obviousness with a fierce passion has become a bone of contention in my creative writing workshop. I just don't want to change a word. Any word I change would somehow cheapen the entire thing... but the sweet boy who sits behind me with the wavy brown hair and every exacting diction said: "Don't change a word, Claudine. Your poem is perfect."
So... here it is..
"I love you". "You're sweet", "Be mine"
the end of the second week of the second month of foggy winter
still and unassuming in the wake of the new year
a day of chalky pastel candy and construction paper hearts
passed unnoticed as a little girl.
seven year old hands never gripped the chain as the sand
grew farther away
and the grey February sky
grew closer
I wanted to be launched forward,
say 'hello' to the Grand Publisher
and fall back again
to the grainy sand below.
the second week fervor of cupids and arrows
inflamed the minds of the surrounding little girls,
passed though my eyes unnoticed- never noticed the capricious ways in which little girls
were supposed to hate boys
without constancy
or integrity
seven year old hands gripped the little scissors
laying on the carpet at home
with the latest issues of Bible Literature
piled on the table
my seven year old hands so carefully edited each card
tremulously careful should the child-like blade touch the words
"I love you."
"You're sweet."
"Be mine."
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard with holes
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard bits
bearing the word "valentine"
-C. Woodard
...nope, sorry class. I'm not gonna change a word...
So... here it is..
"I love you". "You're sweet", "Be mine"
the end of the second week of the second month of foggy winter
still and unassuming in the wake of the new year
a day of chalky pastel candy and construction paper hearts
passed unnoticed as a little girl.
seven year old hands never gripped the chain as the sand
grew farther away
and the grey February sky
grew closer
I wanted to be launched forward,
say 'hello' to the Grand Publisher
and fall back again
to the grainy sand below.
the second week fervor of cupids and arrows
inflamed the minds of the surrounding little girls,
passed though my eyes unnoticed- never noticed the capricious ways in which little girls
were supposed to hate boys
without constancy
or integrity
seven year old hands gripped the little scissors
laying on the carpet at home
with the latest issues of Bible Literature
piled on the table
my seven year old hands so carefully edited each card
tremulously careful should the child-like blade touch the words
"I love you."
"You're sweet."
"Be mine."
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard with holes
one stack- a red and pink pile of cardboard bits
bearing the word "valentine"
-C. Woodard
...nope, sorry class. I'm not gonna change a word...
Friday, July 15, 2011
Food for thought and soul
I have this perverse longing to be both enigmatic and open. I want to be mysterious yet at the same time understood. I want to be obscure and yet blatant. How does a poet reconcile themselves with a plethora of contradictions? Is being understood a necessary evil? Would I rather be understood posthumously?
Posthumous artistic achievement is much like my attitude towards online blogging in general. I don't know who reads my blog. I don't know if anyone reads it. Or ever will read it... it might be that someone genuinely takes a peek into my thought life or...it could be that a computer glitch is my ex-boyfriend stalker... obsessed with my poetry and prose... could a computer fall in love with content?
In any case, no one is understanding my poetry so I might as well let my invisible machine lover feast on my thoughts and eat up my soul...
Here is a new poem:
Low battery
fingers tremble
quivering in the flesh
fingers expectantly caress...the ghost of machinery beneath
the skin
the slick gloss of a machine caresses your skin
applying pressure
a soft click and the room illuminates
glowing electronic fruit
the manipulations of buttons, clicks, letters and numbers
the glow, the man made materials that are nothing like nature
seamless and correct
its psychic conduit, its life line ties the mind together
zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones
is my inbox empty?
-C. Woodard
Posthumous artistic achievement is much like my attitude towards online blogging in general. I don't know who reads my blog. I don't know if anyone reads it. Or ever will read it... it might be that someone genuinely takes a peek into my thought life or...it could be that a computer glitch is my ex-boyfriend stalker... obsessed with my poetry and prose... could a computer fall in love with content?
In any case, no one is understanding my poetry so I might as well let my invisible machine lover feast on my thoughts and eat up my soul...
Here is a new poem:
Low battery
fingers tremble
quivering in the flesh
fingers expectantly caress...the ghost of machinery beneath
the skin
the slick gloss of a machine caresses your skin
applying pressure
a soft click and the room illuminates
glowing electronic fruit
the manipulations of buttons, clicks, letters and numbers
the glow, the man made materials that are nothing like nature
seamless and correct
its psychic conduit, its life line ties the mind together
zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones
is my inbox empty?
-C. Woodard
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Oh, fie! Fie upon thee, thou cursed working day!
Well.. it's not THAT bad... I certainly doubt any work day is so awful it merits an incantation of Elizabethan era curses and oaths. But it stands to reason, wouldn't everyone rather be at home?... sleeping away the morning moments of sunlight and pressing snooze an infinitesimal number of times... One time after another after another...in seven minute increments of bliss. Were I to have the work day off perhaps I would still like to set my alarm. Each time I rise to hit the snooze I can smile to myself that I am a time thief, stealing minutes away from the day and returning to a delicious sleep under my delicious blanket and softly inviting pillow case.
But it's summer now... I am so grateful for the balmy heat, for the warm breath of July caressing my ear and the way the warm summer air sweeps over my body as I sleep with the window open. That is my favorite part of summer; sleeping with the window open. When I lived in the big city is was the sound of cars that lulled me to sleep. I grew accustomed to an eerie orange glow filling my room from the countless streetlights in San Franciso. Now my ears are tickled by the melody of crickets. I feel a music in the air of insects and crawly things outside my window... the night birds that nest in the trees. Stars and moonlight I couldn't see before because of light and fog.
A light sweat breaks out on my neck and the backs of my knees. A strange dream possesses my half-conscious thoughts in the middle of the night. Half awake and half asleep, the ghost of a machine intoxicates the phantom softness of my skin...
But it's summer now... I am so grateful for the balmy heat, for the warm breath of July caressing my ear and the way the warm summer air sweeps over my body as I sleep with the window open. That is my favorite part of summer; sleeping with the window open. When I lived in the big city is was the sound of cars that lulled me to sleep. I grew accustomed to an eerie orange glow filling my room from the countless streetlights in San Franciso. Now my ears are tickled by the melody of crickets. I feel a music in the air of insects and crawly things outside my window... the night birds that nest in the trees. Stars and moonlight I couldn't see before because of light and fog.
A light sweat breaks out on my neck and the backs of my knees. A strange dream possesses my half-conscious thoughts in the middle of the night. Half awake and half asleep, the ghost of a machine intoxicates the phantom softness of my skin...
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Beastly Boys
Joe is outside and listening to "Sure Shot" with his buddies in what is now the wee hours of Saturday morning. I enjoy the presence of company so late at night. I think it middle on the night guests make the house feel alive. I can hear the distant whistle of the train and I am not necessarily sorry to have canceled my long trip up north. I just don't know if I can countenance the return voyage... all of those long stretches of green, wide, open California to the tune of an old lover in my ipod is enough to break my heart every holiday. Why go on vacation if you are only going to perversely glut yourself on his music on the way home? Boys can be beasts but they are beautiful beasts. They are mysterious in their simplicity, multi-layered in a two dimensional way, and it is so titillating to be in the clutches of their conundrum. There is something savory and warm in the air tonight. It is like a breath of cinnamon mystery. I hear the light jingle of the insects in the dark sky humming love songs to each other in the thick stillness. I like being up late. I like being deliciously confused and yet at peace with the long, forever stance of not knowing. We never know...we never, ever know...
Sunday, June 5, 2011
uneventful.
Isn't it nice when the notes of a piano strike in your heart? Isn't it nice to wake up from a nap with an idea in your head? Isn't it nice when that idea makes you forget something else that ha been preying on your mind. I often marvel at the nature of love yet I demur from admitting it. It seems like such a pedestrian concern. I wonder why I consider it so much. I must have a better book to read. I must have a better song to listen to.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The glisten of fresh fruit
This has been an interesting week. I was at Disneyland yesterday for the first time in 2 years. I felt immersed in a world of pristine fantasy and was surrounded by children who were either weeping or laughing. I had a photograph taken with a winsome Peter Pan who lovingly squeezed my waist and asked how old I was.
I patted his elfish shoulder and said "I'm sorry, I'm too old for you."
He squeezed me again and asked "How old are you?"
I replied "Old enough to have been your babysitter."
He smiled devilishly at me and said"Oh, are you a grown up?"
I couldn't stop myself from giggling girlishly and I had felt flirty all day in my purple dress with the thin, slinky straps that left a pale line on my slightly sun-pinked shoulders. Perhaps it was the purple,heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses that threw him off. In any case I have felt fluttery and contemplative about the questions of youth.
I got a little tipsy this weekend at the barbeque I held at my house. Cherry Sailor Jerry spiced rum is wonderful!
I sort of feel like a bright red apple. Sink your teeth into me and you might be poisoned forever...
I patted his elfish shoulder and said "I'm sorry, I'm too old for you."
He squeezed me again and asked "How old are you?"
I replied "Old enough to have been your babysitter."
He smiled devilishly at me and said"Oh, are you a grown up?"
I couldn't stop myself from giggling girlishly and I had felt flirty all day in my purple dress with the thin, slinky straps that left a pale line on my slightly sun-pinked shoulders. Perhaps it was the purple,heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses that threw him off. In any case I have felt fluttery and contemplative about the questions of youth.
I got a little tipsy this weekend at the barbeque I held at my house. Cherry Sailor Jerry spiced rum is wonderful!
I sort of feel like a bright red apple. Sink your teeth into me and you might be poisoned forever...
Friday, May 27, 2011
A new chapter of an old book...
... a facebook that is. After nearly 3 years of ranting and raving against the narcissistic decline of modern day civility, whose blame I placed squarely on the shoulders of social networking, I have once again acquiesced and made a facebook profile. I can see why people find it so engrossing. It is astounding to have all of your friends at your finger tips and all in one place. My sleep has diminished. I hope my blog does not follow suit. I have two weeks until summer school is to commence so I am certain I will have more interesting things to say.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sleepy and a new dress...
I took a very long walk in the sun tonight. As I rounded the corner and neared my house I came upon a scrawling in what was once wet cement. It said succinctly and enigmatically "summer '05". So many images can flood the mind, the reveries of my own summer of 2005, or simply the intrepid sense of importance this person felt when solidifying eternally in cement the summer of 6 years ago. I wonder if it was written at the beginning of summer. Perhaps it was early June and school had not let out yet. The warm air makes your pencil sticky in your palm as the seconds tick away until 3 o'clock. Maybe it was in the middle of the summer... long morning languishing in bed until late, staying out until well past sunset, shrieking giggles among the moist green grass. Perhaps that summer was so lovely at it's mid-July apex the scrivener wanted to commemorate it forever on the sidewalk, so everyone treading over would know summer '05 was wonderful, powerful, something to remember. Perhaps this person knew that as it was happening...
Or maybe... maybe it was written on the very last day. Perhaps it was labor day weekend and with heavy hearts the children were sluggishly making their way back to school. Maybe the warmth and flash of summer slipped away too soon and there was nothing but the wet cement left behind...
I remember my summer of 2005. It consisted of barbeques in the sultry night air in a back yard thick with insects and balmy dust, quenching the arid evening with sweet rum and strawberry juice, the backs of my knees sticky on the mattress, new dresses coming in the mail, riding my bike to work without make-up, 'Dear You' by Jawbreaker and fresh, cold salad at lunch.
Here's a pic I took tonight. I was feeling punk or something in a new dress...
Or maybe... maybe it was written on the very last day. Perhaps it was labor day weekend and with heavy hearts the children were sluggishly making their way back to school. Maybe the warmth and flash of summer slipped away too soon and there was nothing but the wet cement left behind...
I remember my summer of 2005. It consisted of barbeques in the sultry night air in a back yard thick with insects and balmy dust, quenching the arid evening with sweet rum and strawberry juice, the backs of my knees sticky on the mattress, new dresses coming in the mail, riding my bike to work without make-up, 'Dear You' by Jawbreaker and fresh, cold salad at lunch.
Here's a pic I took tonight. I was feeling punk or something in a new dress...
But then I felt a little more sweet...
Goodbye summer 2005....hello summer 2011...
Monday, May 23, 2011
"I miss the comfort in being sad..."
Nirvana is always a nice exclamation point to a day... well, perhaps more like a semi-colon. It is always a nice band to continue a very old thought. I was surfing dictionary.com yesterday and came across a lovely word with a dubious double meaning... imago
Show IPA
i·ma·go
[ih-mey-goh, ih-mah-] Show IPA–noun, plural -goes, -gi·nes [-guh-neez] Show IPA.
Show IPA.1.
Entomology . an adult insect.
2.
Psychoanalysis . an idealized concept of a loved one, formedin childhood and retained unaltered in adult life.
but it is not just an adult insect. Further definition reveals that it is more exactly an insect that has reached sexual maturation... in addition to this idealized archetype of adoration. I like the idea of an idealized concept. I don't know how helpful it is that the imago stays stolid in our hearts and subconscious minds into our latter years. Perhaps the imago isn't the most forthright person. Perhaps it is an obsession with a villain or at the very least an anti-hero... someone whose flaws are enthralling, like the mopey aspect of Kurt Cobain or the vengeance of Heathcliff... the helplessness of Louis de Pointe du Lac... the lurid obsessiveness of Robert Lovelace... I have such a long list of imagoes that have made me comfortably sad.
It's something in the eyes. It's something in the way the lock gets tucked behind the ear. It's a gravelly sigh or just the way a young man clears his throat between cigarettes that makes my toes curl the way the guitar solo does in Frances Farmer Will have her Revenge on Seattle. Maybe it's the way the laces of black Converse sneakers turn grayish after a few months that makes my eye lashes flutter. Whatever it is I know I will find it again.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
"I can't get laid in Germany."
wow! That is the best three letter word I can conjure up to emote a proper reaction to Friday night. I was taking my morning constitutional Friday when I received text from my younger brother, Jordan. "I have an extra ticket to Rammstein tonight. Can you go?" Well, why not? If anything it would be great to people watch and size up the goth-industrial wardrobe in SoCal. Lord knows I had plenty of black garb in my SF goth days. I was curious to see the Los Angeles interpretation of a scene I still snobbishly deem exclusive to San Francisco. I still feel like a bit of an ex-pat down here.
Jordan picked me up at work and we scooted over to my house as quickly as possible. I threw on a skin tight, sleeveless black dress over my black nylon leggings and pulled on my tank-girl Doc's reminiscent of Simon Gallup in 1991. The dress was perfectly accessorized with a low slung silver, chain loop belt around my hips and then a white studded belt half an inch above it, still kissing the lower part of my navel. I pulled my hair into a high pony tail so it looked like a fountain of blond hair spouting out from the top of my head and I tousled my thick bangs a bit.
The old goth days will always linger in my make-up skill. I was able to paint a mystical picture of my eyes with deep royal blue eyeshadow blended in with glittery sliver and black. I painted my lips a deep burgundy, pulled on a slim fitting black leather jacket and was ready to roll.
The show was phenomenal. I thought I had descended into the pits of Hell as the singer bellowed German lyrics in a rich baritone and flames roared from a massive pair of iron wings extending from his back. It was easily a 16 foot wingspan. The crowd was thrown into a manic frenzy for 'Du Hast', one of the few songs I knew. It was certainly fantastic spectacle. I was alarmed to realize I did not bring earphones, but I am a girl of industry. I chewed two pieces of strawberry gum, carefully squished them into their magenta foil wrappers and carefully pushed them into my ears. Fortunately the gum stayed put and in light of the shotgun blasts of fireworks and pounding drums I think I acted wisely.
So now I can invent a new phrase for a person who has to improvise at the last minute, kind of like MacGyver, I'm a "gum ear." I like that phrase if I do say so myself...
Jordan picked me up at work and we scooted over to my house as quickly as possible. I threw on a skin tight, sleeveless black dress over my black nylon leggings and pulled on my tank-girl Doc's reminiscent of Simon Gallup in 1991. The dress was perfectly accessorized with a low slung silver, chain loop belt around my hips and then a white studded belt half an inch above it, still kissing the lower part of my navel. I pulled my hair into a high pony tail so it looked like a fountain of blond hair spouting out from the top of my head and I tousled my thick bangs a bit.
The old goth days will always linger in my make-up skill. I was able to paint a mystical picture of my eyes with deep royal blue eyeshadow blended in with glittery sliver and black. I painted my lips a deep burgundy, pulled on a slim fitting black leather jacket and was ready to roll.
The show was phenomenal. I thought I had descended into the pits of Hell as the singer bellowed German lyrics in a rich baritone and flames roared from a massive pair of iron wings extending from his back. It was easily a 16 foot wingspan. The crowd was thrown into a manic frenzy for 'Du Hast', one of the few songs I knew. It was certainly fantastic spectacle. I was alarmed to realize I did not bring earphones, but I am a girl of industry. I chewed two pieces of strawberry gum, carefully squished them into their magenta foil wrappers and carefully pushed them into my ears. Fortunately the gum stayed put and in light of the shotgun blasts of fireworks and pounding drums I think I acted wisely.
So now I can invent a new phrase for a person who has to improvise at the last minute, kind of like MacGyver, I'm a "gum ear." I like that phrase if I do say so myself...
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Sweet liberty!
Ah, to bask in the glow of finalizing a semester of toil. Trudging through rainy nights with books getting soaked at the bus stop I persevered. The long lectures, the frenzied panic, scrambling for resource material, cramming my brain with dates, authors, literary terms.. denouement? enjambment? pajamas? huh? It was a great 16 weeks and now a bit of relief before summer school begins! I will be taking creative writing so with any luck this blog will take a more interesting turn. Sleepy time!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Sleepy celebration...
My professor returned my research paper about the Coal Mines Act of 1841. I got an 'A'! yipee! Now 'tis time to close these weary brown eyes. I have one more final tomorrow and then I am free for a month until summer school. Praise Jehovah!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Truly early, truly time for sleep...
I just put the finishing touches on my study outline for tomorrow's final in World Civilizations. I decided to write about the ramifications of the Industrial Revolution. The bare bones outline I came up with is about 5 pages. The in-class essay itself must be no less than six pages. Given my affinity for rambling I think I will make short work of the project and impress Professor Emo for the last time. Yes, that is my nick name for him and all his Buddy Holly bespecatcled cuteness. Who can't love a professor in a v-neck mohair sweater, plaid shirt, waif-like and with a tousled devil-lock? Ah, Professor Emo, how you shall be missed! But it was a very fun semester. I think I am now a champion for the child labor rights in the
industrial era. I wrote my final paper about the strife and struggle of child laborers in the coal mines of Northern England in the 1840s. Those coal town stories were no joke. I wonder if that is partly why Northern England is so forlorn... I hope to go to Manchester one day. I wish I could live in England... I will leave things like this in God's capable hands. California will suffice for the time being.
Goodnight...
Sunday, May 15, 2011
"Move like this"
Ah, the matchless elation! When I was a tiny child one of my earliest memories was lying on the floor of the front room in my house staring at the album cover for Candy-O by The Cars and wondering if I could ever be as gorgeous as the strawberry-blonde girl laying sensuously vanquished on the hood of a white ghost car. She looked like a fantastic Barbie doll and I wanted to be her. From that moment on The Cars remained the soundtrack of my libido.
Every Friday and Saturday night before hitting the city lights I played Candy-O as I applied my make-up, always finishing just in time for Ric Ocasek to croon Dangerous Type as I applied cherry red lipstick in a flirty pout. I am especially partial to Candy-O because of the image of the fainting sex symbol in her diamond studded black high heels, but I love all of The Cars albums and their provocative covers. I wanted to be the exuberant blonde on 'Shake it up' red lipped open mouthed laugh hair flying wildly in the wind like golden tassles and perfect red nails holding a spray can ready to burst. I loved the first album cover, too. It was a photograph of a luscious brunette with brown eyes, the flat of her hand caressing her forehead as she held the clear steering wheel of a car with risque recklessness with the other elegantly careless hand. She looked like someone I wanted to be, driving an endless joyride, an eternal Barbie doll, young forever. The profound new-wave simplicity of 'Panorama' impressed me as well. No nubile girl in a state of sexual abandon was portrayed, rather a stark black and white checkered flag waved against a midnight blue backround. It was bauhaus. It was futuristic. I wanted to join the race...
Beyond the album covers, Ric Ocasek's syncopated cooing vocals sent shivers through my body. His art-house lyrics excited my imagination. The grinding guitars made my toes curl in ecstasy and the synthesized keyboards caused palpitations. It was the perfect music for going out, the perfect music for flirting, the perfect music for raising an eyebrow. It made me want to be scandalous. It made me want to be glamourous, painted, primed, ready to toss my hair and dance in high heels.
Years passed in my life and The Cars was always a band I came back to. So when I learned they had made a new album I was extensively thrilled. Last night I lay in my bed and played the new album in the dark...fantastic...
Every Friday and Saturday night before hitting the city lights I played Candy-O as I applied my make-up, always finishing just in time for Ric Ocasek to croon Dangerous Type as I applied cherry red lipstick in a flirty pout. I am especially partial to Candy-O because of the image of the fainting sex symbol in her diamond studded black high heels, but I love all of The Cars albums and their provocative covers. I wanted to be the exuberant blonde on 'Shake it up' red lipped open mouthed laugh hair flying wildly in the wind like golden tassles and perfect red nails holding a spray can ready to burst. I loved the first album cover, too. It was a photograph of a luscious brunette with brown eyes, the flat of her hand caressing her forehead as she held the clear steering wheel of a car with risque recklessness with the other elegantly careless hand. She looked like someone I wanted to be, driving an endless joyride, an eternal Barbie doll, young forever. The profound new-wave simplicity of 'Panorama' impressed me as well. No nubile girl in a state of sexual abandon was portrayed, rather a stark black and white checkered flag waved against a midnight blue backround. It was bauhaus. It was futuristic. I wanted to join the race...
Beyond the album covers, Ric Ocasek's syncopated cooing vocals sent shivers through my body. His art-house lyrics excited my imagination. The grinding guitars made my toes curl in ecstasy and the synthesized keyboards caused palpitations. It was the perfect music for going out, the perfect music for flirting, the perfect music for raising an eyebrow. It made me want to be scandalous. It made me want to be glamourous, painted, primed, ready to toss my hair and dance in high heels.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
"Who loves the sun?"
All week I have made ample note of the radiant sun and blossoming openings of late spring. Did my spirit drop since today, on a Saturday no less, slate and smokey clouds dappled sky? Not specifically. I was reminded of San Francisco so the leaden hues warmed me a bit. Homework has been galloping apace and I am trying to cram in as much history and literature into my feathered brain as I possibly can. Reformations and revolutions are battling with tone, plot and setting for a place in the forefront of my memory.
In the interim I am amusing myself with The Velvet Underground. Lou Reed has one of the most interesting biographies I have ever perused. His parenst tried to shock the gay out of him and submitted him to electro-shock therapy to cope with burgeoning suspicions of homosexuality. He was a complete schizophrenic, at one moment introspective and sensitive, at the very next acerbic and cruel. He was vehemently opposed to the ideals of conformity and consumerism and yet in the mid-1980s his song 'Take a Walk on the Wild Side' was used for a Mazda commercial... He flip flops from being an affable fellow to one of those "this interview's over" brutes.
After reading 'Transformer' and learning of all his caprices and abuses I thought myself as one who narrowly escapes a burning building. I met him at a show backstage in the summer of 2003. It was a terrifically foggy night in San Francisco and an overweight stage hand with a thick Southern accent took a shine to me. He let me in the back door as I was lingering on the side ally off Market Street by The Warfield. I had only been backstage at a show three times before and never at The Warfield. There was a terrific spread of delectable hors d'oeuveres and that my chubby hillbilly escort was trying to tempt me with. My eyes searched the room for Lou but someone told my hick roadie friend that Lou had left. I assumed it would be time for me to leave as well. I turned to the stairs that would return me to the misty street level. Just then, lurking by himself in a shadow was Lou. I turned and started.What could I say but the typical "You put on a wonderful performance. It's a pleasure to meet you. Have a nice evening."?
Well, I went a little off book for this particular performance.
"Oh, hi" I tried to sound composed as I ran a hand through my long strawberry blond hair doing my best Jerry Hall impersonation minus the Texas accent.
"Hi." He replied in a dulcet fashion.
"I really enjoyed your performance tonight." I smiled as though I was a beauty queen with a Phd.
"Thanks." His eyes met mine and they seemed vague and a little sad yet not in the least bit hostile or arrogant.
"My name is Claudine." I extended my hand with warmth.
His forlorn frost melted for a moment as he took my hand and clasped it surely saying ; "I'm Lou."
"Well, I have to go now Lou. Have a wonderful night. It was nice to meet you."
"It was nice to meet you, too." He replied in his softly attentive way.
I was completely giddy for the rest of the night. I got a ride from another guy named Chris who was waiting at the stage door. Cleatus the stage hand, tried to get my phone number so he could keep me apprised of Lou's hotel arrangements for the night but I declined. The brief exchange in the half shadow by the staircase was enough to last me for quite some time. Chris and I went up to Polk St. in the Tenderloin district to buy a bottle of rum and drink it at The Lumiere.
The Lumiere was an art house movie theater and I was tight friends with David, the bohemian manager who dressed all in black, wore thick Buddy Holly glasses and a black beret. Despite being 65, David and I flirted shamelessly. The 40 year age difference was only mildly amusing when I was drunk. As I was near passing out on one of the lobby cushions of the movie theater David would caress my hair in long, tender strokes and it felt like heaven. David and the rest of the artsy slackers who worked at the movie theater would kick back and play the cards for hours after closing, sometimes until sunrise. I would make rum and cokes using the lobby soda machines.
The Velvet Underground used to remind me of being a teenager in the 90s but listening to 'Loaded' right now I think more of the nights I spent drinking at the movie theater after hours in San Francisco in my mid-20s. Maybe a bit of the music reminds me of limbs entangled with my boyfriend and stuffed animals I was too old to still give residence on my bed at by the age of sixteen. I asked my boyfriend on one of those sweaty afternoons if he minded the stuffed animals on my bed. He replied "No. I just imagine you are one of the dolls."
Boys can sometimes say shockingly sweet things when you are 16.
In the interim I am amusing myself with The Velvet Underground. Lou Reed has one of the most interesting biographies I have ever perused. His parenst tried to shock the gay out of him and submitted him to electro-shock therapy to cope with burgeoning suspicions of homosexuality. He was a complete schizophrenic, at one moment introspective and sensitive, at the very next acerbic and cruel. He was vehemently opposed to the ideals of conformity and consumerism and yet in the mid-1980s his song 'Take a Walk on the Wild Side' was used for a Mazda commercial... He flip flops from being an affable fellow to one of those "this interview's over" brutes.
After reading 'Transformer' and learning of all his caprices and abuses I thought myself as one who narrowly escapes a burning building. I met him at a show backstage in the summer of 2003. It was a terrifically foggy night in San Francisco and an overweight stage hand with a thick Southern accent took a shine to me. He let me in the back door as I was lingering on the side ally off Market Street by The Warfield. I had only been backstage at a show three times before and never at The Warfield. There was a terrific spread of delectable hors d'oeuveres and that my chubby hillbilly escort was trying to tempt me with. My eyes searched the room for Lou but someone told my hick roadie friend that Lou had left. I assumed it would be time for me to leave as well. I turned to the stairs that would return me to the misty street level. Just then, lurking by himself in a shadow was Lou. I turned and started.What could I say but the typical "You put on a wonderful performance. It's a pleasure to meet you. Have a nice evening."?
Well, I went a little off book for this particular performance.
"Oh, hi" I tried to sound composed as I ran a hand through my long strawberry blond hair doing my best Jerry Hall impersonation minus the Texas accent.
"Hi." He replied in a dulcet fashion.
"I really enjoyed your performance tonight." I smiled as though I was a beauty queen with a Phd.
"Thanks." His eyes met mine and they seemed vague and a little sad yet not in the least bit hostile or arrogant.
"My name is Claudine." I extended my hand with warmth.
His forlorn frost melted for a moment as he took my hand and clasped it surely saying ; "I'm Lou."
"Well, I have to go now Lou. Have a wonderful night. It was nice to meet you."
"It was nice to meet you, too." He replied in his softly attentive way.
I was completely giddy for the rest of the night. I got a ride from another guy named Chris who was waiting at the stage door. Cleatus the stage hand, tried to get my phone number so he could keep me apprised of Lou's hotel arrangements for the night but I declined. The brief exchange in the half shadow by the staircase was enough to last me for quite some time. Chris and I went up to Polk St. in the Tenderloin district to buy a bottle of rum and drink it at The Lumiere.
The Lumiere was an art house movie theater and I was tight friends with David, the bohemian manager who dressed all in black, wore thick Buddy Holly glasses and a black beret. Despite being 65, David and I flirted shamelessly. The 40 year age difference was only mildly amusing when I was drunk. As I was near passing out on one of the lobby cushions of the movie theater David would caress my hair in long, tender strokes and it felt like heaven. David and the rest of the artsy slackers who worked at the movie theater would kick back and play the cards for hours after closing, sometimes until sunrise. I would make rum and cokes using the lobby soda machines.
The Velvet Underground used to remind me of being a teenager in the 90s but listening to 'Loaded' right now I think more of the nights I spent drinking at the movie theater after hours in San Francisco in my mid-20s. Maybe a bit of the music reminds me of limbs entangled with my boyfriend and stuffed animals I was too old to still give residence on my bed at by the age of sixteen. I asked my boyfriend on one of those sweaty afternoons if he minded the stuffed animals on my bed. He replied "No. I just imagine you are one of the dolls."
Boys can sometimes say shockingly sweet things when you are 16.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Tuesday night reflections...
Today began with a pray and a bowl of strawberries. The coffee was nice and the bus ride to the office was satisfactory. I could sleep whilst listening to The Walkmen's masterpiece 'Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone'. I used to think it was ethereal suicide music right up there with Mazzy Star's 'So Tonight that I Might See' or Slowdive's 'Soulvlaki'. It is very beautiful but a little too choppy. It has a recurring theme, this sad jingle jangle of a mournful glockenspiel that brings to mind images of a dying snowflake process... I suppose I was profoundly touched by the story of the man who had the first successful face transplant in the United States. He said his little girl kissed him and said:"Daddy, you're so handsome." It is enough to bring to tears to your eyes.
These past two days I have been persistently listening to music from the 90s, namely Lush, The Ocean Blue, Teenage Fan Club and The Charlatans... The Ocean Blue always touches me more deeply than most. They remind me of old friends and foggy nights in the Bay Area. Apparently David Schezel is a lawyer now. That is fantastic. I wonder if he still has the journal I gave him in 2001. It amazes me that ten years ago I shared a cab with him and my dear friend Erin.
Finals are coming next week and I just found out that tuition is being raised next fall. I will simply grit my teeth and weather out the storm.
The flowers of the late spring are hovering on the gleaming brink of summer and ready to explode in a full, florid spectacle of colour. Their fragrance sings a hushed melody to my senses as I stroll through the neighborhood on my way home. Flowers have an essence of divinity. Contemplating beauty that is not man made imparts the kind of peace all restless souls seek. I wish I could sit and ruminate among the flowers for hours at a time. Their purity and perfection is like sugar to the palate. The pale lavender petals of a certain blanket of posies beside my house sends me into a certain humor as I reach the door step at dusk. It is soothing like the caress of the last pale gleam of sky before it is set ablaze by sunset. I love the caresses of light and warmth found in the late spring. The air is filled with expectancy for lazy times and nights when one can sleep with the window wide. That has to be the best part of this time of year, sleeping with the window open.
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