Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
You'll wait a long, long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.
It is true the longest drouth will end in rain,
The longest peace in China will end in strife.
Still it wouldn't reward the watcher to stay awake
In hopes of seeing the calm of heaven break
On his particular time and personal sight.
That calm seems certainly safe to last to-night.
-- Robert Frost
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
There was a bobcat in my apartment
that wasn't a bobcat, really, but a stand-in for something else, and perhaps
that something else is the something else
that I don't want to discuss, but I do discuss,
in the guise of a bobcat conversation, a conversation in which
the bobcat is not you.
-- Allison Contey
As Found Here
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
“Baby, I hope you got snuggle insurance because I am about to file a claim”
- Homer Simpson
"Surface View creates prints, blinds, and wall murals for your home or office."
I blab on about the book in my review for Feminist Review. I don't want to be one of those writers who posts links to her work -- isn't that just a tad masturbatory? -- but if you want to know more about why I enjoyed the collection, then feel free to click the link. Below is an excerpt of my review to give you a feel for the subject matter covered in Smith's poems (i.e. the lazy way to tell you what some of the poems are about).
"This book is more than a marker for the dead. The people in this book don’t die; they live on well past the rotting of their bodies. I dare you to read Smith’s poems about Luther B, a dog left tied up during Katrina, without feeling goose bumps. Smith allows everyone the chance to speak past the images that still haunt us. She writes about the stories we don’t always see or experience: Ethel Freeman, a woman whose body was left to rot in her wheelchair; the thirty-four bodies of the men and women left to drown in St. Rita’s Nursing Home; and the nameless who talk about what it’s like to leave one’s life behind."
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Her website is a smorgasbord of materials, pieces, and great ideas.
Friday, March 13, 2009
"To understand where the compulsion to doodle comes from, the first thing you need to do is look more closely at what happens to the brain when it becomes bored. According to Jackie Andrade, a professor of psychology at the University of Plymouth, though many people assume that the brain is inactive when they're bored, the reverse is actually true.
"If you look at people's brain function when they're bored, we find that they are using a lot of energy — their brains are very active," Andrade says.
The reason, she explains, is that the brain is designed to constantly process information. But when the brain finds an environment barren of stimulating information, it's a problem.
"You wouldn't want the brain to just switch off, because a bear might walk up behind you and attack you; you need to be on the lookout for something happening," Andrade says.
So when the brain lacks sufficient stimulation, it essentially goes on the prowl and scavenges for something to think about. Typically what happens in this situation is that the brain ends up manufacturing its own material. "
The shadow of the Venetian blind on the painted wall,
Shadows of the snake-plant and cacti, the plaster animals,
Focus on the tragic melancholy of the bright stare
Into nowhere, a hole like the black holes in space.
‘In bra and panties she sidles to the window:
Zip! Up with the blind. A fragile street scene offers itself,
With wafer-thin pedestrians who know where they are going.
The blind comes down slowly, the slats are slowly titled up.
Why must it always end this way?
A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hair
And all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with her
Into the silence that night alone can’t explain.
Silence of the library, of the telephone with its pad,
But we didn’t have to reinvent these either:
They had gone away into the plot of a story,
The “art” part—knowing what important details to leave out
And the way character is developed. Things too real
To be of much concern, hence artificial, yet now all over the page,
The indoors with the outside becoming part of you
As you find you had never left off laughing at death,
The background, dark vine at the edge of the porch.
Special thanks to One Poet's Notes for posting the poem and reminding me how great it is.
crayon stub shoe (photo by riitta ikonen)
puzzle shoe (photo by riitta ikonen)
Riitta Ikonen Website
Thursday, March 12, 2009
This image and the one that follows are from Dallas Clayton's An Awesome Book.
(i.e. the images are much larger and easier to see).
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
I'm tempted to drive there to see it. I can't imagine what it would be like to see this work in person. I'm moved and interested while looking at it on a computer screen. Incredible.If only, if only seems to be my mantra: there's so much to see and do before I head out of New Orleans for the summer and head north to New York, Boston, and Cape Cod. Still, I can't imagine what it would feel like to stand in front of these salvaged wood pieces. Talk about a sensory experience.
"oliveira uses tapumes, which in portugese can mean fencing, boarding, or enclosure, as a title for many of his large-scale installations. the term makes reference to the temporary wooden construction fences seen throughout the city of são paulo where oliveira lives."
"Henrique Oliveira was born in Ourinhos, Brazil in 1973. He received a BFA in painting in 2004 and a masters in visual poetics in 2007 from the university of São Paulo, Brazil. He lives and works in São Paulo."
Larger Image Available via Artist's website
Artist = Squidspot
Source via Here
"As with traditional periodic tables, this table presents the subject matter grouped categorically. The Table of Typefaces groups by families and classes of typefaces: san-serif, serif, script, blackletter, glyphic, display, grotesque, realist, didone, garalde, geometric, humanist, slab-serif and mixed. Each cell of the table lists the typeface and a one or two character 'symbol' , the designer, year designed and a ranking of 1 through 100."
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Argument from Design
The failing kidney is a portal — the leaky
heart valve, the clot, the lesion in the brain:
All doors unlocking themselves. Likewise
outside the body: the razorblade,
The bottle of barbiturates, the utility pole
beside the curve in the icy highway,
The rifle over the mantelpiece (it must
go off). He understands the radio
On the shelf by the bath in particular
as a crystal hatchway, hermetically unsealing,
Leading, after a prelude of unspectacular
fireworks, to a region beyond
The invention of the hinge and the hasp,
where jamb and lintel are less
Than ugly rumors, and nobody has
a key to worry over, wear out,
Misplace, twist off, or jangle obsessively.
-- T.R. Hummer
Head to the website if you want to hear a recording of the poem!
Not going to lie: I'd like a roll to write on.
Wouldn't that be one hell of a poem? Talk about metaphor!
Click the link to see more cool as heck products (I also enjoy the sugar packets).
Monday, March 9, 2009
I was watching a robin fly after a finch—the smaller
chirping with excitement, the bigger, its breast blazing, silent
in light-winged earnest chase—when, out of nowhere
over the chimneys and the shivering front gardens,
flashes a sparrowhawk headlong, a light brown burn
scorching the air from which it simply plucks
like a ripe fruit the stopped robin, whose two or three
cheeps of terminal surprise twinkle in the silence
closing over the empty street when the birds have gone
about their business, and I began to understand
how a poem can happen: you have your eye on a small
elusive detail, pursuing its music, when a terrible truth
strikes and your heart cries out, being carried off.
This pretty much sums up what happens to me when I am naive or cocky enough to think that I know what my poems will be about. Side note: I was supposed to study with this poet this past October but life got in the way.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Go here to make your own font!
For those who know me, you know the font would be small and precise or a linked scrawl of near-indecipherable letters. A pal once said this was because I was an Aquarius: I like to think it's because I'm sometimes irritable or in a hurry.