"Césaire, by redeploying the sexual and textual excess that had for so long marked his inferiority, by marketing encephalitic démesure as priapic virility, attempts to draw a profit from colonialism’s cultural and material investment – both of value and of lack – in his physical, cultural, and textual bodies."
New thing: marketing lows as highs
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
uptake update
Circuits are back in circulation, but always already post-(a )posteriori (in our postprandial world, un/fortunately, all logic is circular).
When I thought I was turning the lever all the way Off, before turning it back On, there was a tiny metal bar that kept me perpetually in passage through the middle.
Out of sheer frustration and with a glimmer of my own cleverness I plunged through it, and escaped my limbo of cold wet psychopolitical darkness, much like Cesaire.
But, much like Cesaire, I risk (re)valorizing the (masculine) body. Or I risk effacing violence? Or I'm performing figurative castration? If all women would do more weightlifting, these issues would be less pressing. Or more?
When I thought I was turning the lever all the way Off, before turning it back On, there was a tiny metal bar that kept me perpetually in passage through the middle.
Out of sheer frustration and with a glimmer of my own cleverness I plunged through it, and escaped my limbo of cold wet psychopolitical darkness, much like Cesaire.
But, much like Cesaire, I risk (re)valorizing the (masculine) body. Or I risk effacing violence? Or I'm performing figurative castration? If all women would do more weightlifting, these issues would be less pressing. Or more?
Friday, December 11, 2009
But I Had Just Taken a Crumb of Adderall, So This Has Been Fun, And Seems Like Something to Share
My apartment is freezing. Mostly I huddle under blankets next to my space heater, hoping it will start a fire as such things are apparently wont to do; for days after I burned myself with tea months ago, that splotch of leg was unfailingly warm, through and through.
My mom sent me another space heater, for the rest of my space. Being a stereotypical girl, cold and dumb (physically, mentally, sexually), I plugged it into the same outlet as my other one, which, perhaps predictably, caused the electricity to go out. I manned up and braved subfreezing (seriously! well like 31 degrees) temperature and found the fusebox and reset the thing like I saw a boy do one time.
Then this morning I did it again. I thought because I used two different outlets, one in my culinary workspace and one in my academic workspace, it would be okay. But it was, I now understand, the same circuit. It was the kind of spatial and disciplinary separation that allowed 18th-century philosophes to bemoan their spiritual slavery because the economic slavery that supported their lives of mind was displaced to the Caribbean.
Repeated attempts to reset failed. I called my landlady, whose answering machine wished me a day full of moments of joy. My phone and computer are about to die. I have very important papers due, to do, imminently. It's raining.
My mom sent me another space heater, for the rest of my space. Being a stereotypical girl, cold and dumb (physically, mentally, sexually), I plugged it into the same outlet as my other one, which, perhaps predictably, caused the electricity to go out. I manned up and braved subfreezing (seriously! well like 31 degrees) temperature and found the fusebox and reset the thing like I saw a boy do one time.
Then this morning I did it again. I thought because I used two different outlets, one in my culinary workspace and one in my academic workspace, it would be okay. But it was, I now understand, the same circuit. It was the kind of spatial and disciplinary separation that allowed 18th-century philosophes to bemoan their spiritual slavery because the economic slavery that supported their lives of mind was displaced to the Caribbean.
Repeated attempts to reset failed. I called my landlady, whose answering machine wished me a day full of moments of joy. My phone and computer are about to die. I have very important papers due, to do, imminently. It's raining.
Monday, November 23, 2009
market analysis
Some Saturdays and Sundays, I sell strawberries.
Saturday, Berkeley Farmer's Market:
Blond 8-year-old boy whose progressive parents had apparently allowed to roam the market unconstrained, like a happy free-range chicken, before conscientiously accepting a ripe late-season strawberry that I held, tantalizingly, by its long stem in front of his face: "Is it organic?"
Sunday, Oakland Farmer's Market:
Black 8-year-old boy who was, under some unclear business arrangement, "helping" the guy selling eggs, mostly by criticizing his hairstyle, manner of speaking, and choice to display publicity material for area farms: "Why you advertising for other people? You got to advertise fo YO'SELF"
As I surveyed the field of strawberries before me, culling the specimens of the appropriate size, color, and stem length for the sample selection, I couldn't help but wonder: which kid was more annoying?
Saturday, Berkeley Farmer's Market:
Blond 8-year-old boy whose progressive parents had apparently allowed to roam the market unconstrained, like a happy free-range chicken, before conscientiously accepting a ripe late-season strawberry that I held, tantalizingly, by its long stem in front of his face: "Is it organic?"
Sunday, Oakland Farmer's Market:
Black 8-year-old boy who was, under some unclear business arrangement, "helping" the guy selling eggs, mostly by criticizing his hairstyle, manner of speaking, and choice to display publicity material for area farms: "Why you advertising for other people? You got to advertise fo YO'SELF"
As I surveyed the field of strawberries before me, culling the specimens of the appropriate size, color, and stem length for the sample selection, I couldn't help but wonder: which kid was more annoying?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
From Zagat Guide to Paris Found on Street On Way Home From Yoga
Editeurs (Les)
4, carrefour de l'Odéon, 6e (Odéon), 01 43 26 67 76;
fax 01 46 34 58 30; www.lesediteurs.fr
Voici un "endroit sympa pour prendre un verre en terrasse et regarder passer le monde", de cet emplacement de choix à l'Odéon - où le "décor de bibliothèque", "rempli d'étagères de livres colorés" et "de recoins confortables" en fait un best-seller aussi; hélas la "cuisine de brasserie classique" "n'est guère plus que correcte", mais "la jeune clientèle branchée" trouve l'endroit "parfait pour un snack" ou pour "draguer la serveuse américaine", qui est "charmante" même si "elle ne parle point le français."
El Mansour
7, rue de la Trémoille, 8e (Alma-Marceau), 01 47 23 88 18;
fax 01 40 70 13 53
Ce "vrai son of de betch" ("ne vous inquiétez pas" de l'article défini du nom, il n'est "pas du tout méxicain") produit des fils qui pavoisent de leurs "belles bites", soit de "taille extraordinaire", soit de "couleur parfaite."
4, carrefour de l'Odéon, 6e (Odéon), 01 43 26 67 76;
fax 01 46 34 58 30; www.lesediteurs.fr
Voici un "endroit sympa pour prendre un verre en terrasse et regarder passer le monde", de cet emplacement de choix à l'Odéon - où le "décor de bibliothèque", "rempli d'étagères de livres colorés" et "de recoins confortables" en fait un best-seller aussi; hélas la "cuisine de brasserie classique" "n'est guère plus que correcte", mais "la jeune clientèle branchée" trouve l'endroit "parfait pour un snack" ou pour "draguer la serveuse américaine", qui est "charmante" même si "elle ne parle point le français."
El Mansour
7, rue de la Trémoille, 8e (Alma-Marceau), 01 47 23 88 18;
fax 01 40 70 13 53
Ce "vrai son of de betch" ("ne vous inquiétez pas" de l'article défini du nom, il n'est "pas du tout méxicain") produit des fils qui pavoisent de leurs "belles bites", soit de "taille extraordinaire", soit de "couleur parfaite."
Friday, October 30, 2009
temps vide
The other day I drank coffee, a rarity, and thought about how awake it made me feel. A few hours later I forced myself to eat a piece of unsweetened baking chocolate, because it is, perhaps counterintuitively, very easy for me to digest. Today I took down the spice rack from one inner cupboard door and reinstalled it on another. I had to improvise, as I have few tools.
I listen to my local public radio station as I weave and unweave at the loom of language, blend greens into pesto. These people stutter; I miss MI-chelle Norris. Because of the Internet, we may simply develop a higher tolerance for embarrassment. My skin is variously discolored, more or less explicably. I have a splotch on my hand that appeared spontaneously but looks exactly like the 2-month old burn on my knee from scalding tea. I seem to be suffering from a cognitive disorder that I can't identify...aphasia?
I listen to my local public radio station as I weave and unweave at the loom of language, blend greens into pesto. These people stutter; I miss MI-chelle Norris. Because of the Internet, we may simply develop a higher tolerance for embarrassment. My skin is variously discolored, more or less explicably. I have a splotch on my hand that appeared spontaneously but looks exactly like the 2-month old burn on my knee from scalding tea. I seem to be suffering from a cognitive disorder that I can't identify...aphasia?
Friday, September 25, 2009
onomythopoesia
As I began to read some Levi-Strauss, it occurred to me that the modern "meme" meme must have evolved, by memesis, from the "mytheme," and that this notion, far from being an insightful observation on my part, was probably, in fact, a meme.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
bk 2 bk
I like Berkeley; it's like Brooklyn but duller. I'm getting dumber. I got hit on today by a Haas student; he was the kind of gay person who in a more conservative town would pretend to be straight, because it's what you would expect of him, but who in Berkeley would pretend to be straight, because it's not what you would expect of him. I instantly regretted not giving him my number so that I could blog his accumulated messages on my voicemail. But then I figured I will have ample opportunity at such fare, as the same exact thing will doubtless happen again, tomorrow.
Earlier I went with my parents to a contemporary church service and my mom noticed on the program that, among others, John Yoo would be presiding. You might be asking, as I was, "Yoo who?", but apparently he wrote the torture memos under Bush and now teaches at Boalt. It wasn't the same John Yoo though, just a contemporary. Then we planted me a Meyer lemon tree that will soon yield golden fruit.
Earlier I went with my parents to a contemporary church service and my mom noticed on the program that, among others, John Yoo would be presiding. You might be asking, as I was, "Yoo who?", but apparently he wrote the torture memos under Bush and now teaches at Boalt. It wasn't the same John Yoo though, just a contemporary. Then we planted me a Meyer lemon tree that will soon yield golden fruit.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
this is, like, so my life
SAD TALE
(With an Even Sadder Moral)
Susan is one of those accurate cooks
—Meticulous, she, to a fault.
She follows the rules in her recipe books
And she measures, so help me, the salt.
When the rule demands lemon, she doesn't use lime;
And when it says chervil, she'd never touch thyme;
And when it says sift, Susan sifts with a fervor
And beat for 3 hours doesn't even unnerve her.
And when she begins to construct you a meal,
Interrupt her, my friend, if you dare;
For cooking to Susan is earnest and real
And compounded of patience and prayer.
Now, Katie's is one of the lighter approaches;
She moves in an easier sphere.
From the sauces she makes to the hen-fruit she poaches
She cooks, as the phrase goes, by ear.
Her way with directions is handsome and wide;
She couldn't repeat you a dish if she tried;
When the rule says Madeira, she'll reach for the brandy
Or possibly port, if she has any handy.
She'll chat of aesthetics, she'll whistle and sing
As she whips you a major soufflé,
For cooking, to Kate, is a casual thing . . .
As free as a breeze and as gay.
And which is the product that's perfectly awful?
The cordon bleu dishes are whose?
Though I hate to admit it, Kate's shouldn't be lawful
. . . While the lyric creations are Sue's.
-P. Bracken, in the December 1949 issue of Gourmet magazine, found by happenstance
(With an Even Sadder Moral)
Susan is one of those accurate cooks
—Meticulous, she, to a fault.
She follows the rules in her recipe books
And she measures, so help me, the salt.
When the rule demands lemon, she doesn't use lime;
And when it says chervil, she'd never touch thyme;
And when it says sift, Susan sifts with a fervor
And beat for 3 hours doesn't even unnerve her.
And when she begins to construct you a meal,
Interrupt her, my friend, if you dare;
For cooking to Susan is earnest and real
And compounded of patience and prayer.
Now, Katie's is one of the lighter approaches;
She moves in an easier sphere.
From the sauces she makes to the hen-fruit she poaches
She cooks, as the phrase goes, by ear.
Her way with directions is handsome and wide;
She couldn't repeat you a dish if she tried;
When the rule says Madeira, she'll reach for the brandy
Or possibly port, if she has any handy.
She'll chat of aesthetics, she'll whistle and sing
As she whips you a major soufflé,
For cooking, to Kate, is a casual thing . . .
As free as a breeze and as gay.
And which is the product that's perfectly awful?
The cordon bleu dishes are whose?
Though I hate to admit it, Kate's shouldn't be lawful
. . . While the lyric creations are Sue's.
-P. Bracken, in the December 1949 issue of Gourmet magazine, found by happenstance
Beacris
I've just returned from Beatrice, Nebraska, where my grandmother taught me bridge, so we can complete Warren Buffet and Charlie Munger's foursome. I also picked up sticks a summer storm had strewn across the lawn.
I'm moving soon to Berkeley, where the mayor maintains a population of worms on used coffee grounds. My apartment there is always cold. My grandfather kept telling this same story about his sister, reportedly rather ornery in her youth, protesting when her mother perched bows in her hair. It takes place on a plane, I think, during the years directly following World War II.
She: Where are you FROM?
They: Germany.
She: West Germany or EAST GERMANY?
They: We are from the Democratic Republic of Germany.
She: Is that EAST GERMANY?
They: Yes.
She: How did you GET OUT??
They: We are diplomats.
She: Are you COMMUNISTS?
What I like about this story is that every line seems to be the punchline, and any of several lines have served this purpose in various tellings, but none is especially satisfying, nor do they seem to have a cumulative effect; yet everyone laughs softly and knowingly afterwards.
I'm moving soon to Berkeley, where the mayor maintains a population of worms on used coffee grounds. My apartment there is always cold. My grandfather kept telling this same story about his sister, reportedly rather ornery in her youth, protesting when her mother perched bows in her hair. It takes place on a plane, I think, during the years directly following World War II.
She: Where are you FROM?
They: Germany.
She: West Germany or EAST GERMANY?
They: We are from the Democratic Republic of Germany.
She: Is that EAST GERMANY?
They: Yes.
She: How did you GET OUT??
They: We are diplomats.
She: Are you COMMUNISTS?
What I like about this story is that every line seems to be the punchline, and any of several lines have served this purpose in various tellings, but none is especially satisfying, nor do they seem to have a cumulative effect; yet everyone laughs softly and knowingly afterwards.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
new drink
Home was okay until I decided to actually read my copy of The Bell Jar instead of throwing it away or just reading it in high school like a normal person. Around this time the thick skies began to make a valley of the city, and the air everywhere grew stale. I woke to find Gucci Mane perched on the edge of my bed, gazing at me in a loving, paternal attitude. He said his name was Solomon. I said, "Did you go to Castle Heights Elementary?" He said no. I said, "There was a boy named Solomon who tortured me there; it is my only memory of the first grade." Then he turned to reveal, stretched above his bulging belly, a faded child-sized T-shirt emblazoned with the gold Castle Heights insignia, and he said, "Just kidding! I AM Solomon!" Then he apologized for the torture, explaining it was a "UN/GMO thing." I wondered if Solomon was from Somalia, and if that would be a coincidence. Then my dad was saying unto me, "See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these," and I was struck by the stark simplicity.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
after my last night of work
I dreamed I was gchatting on the Actual God's computer, and the settings were for Spanish, kind of, such that if I typed an exclamation mark, an upside-down one would appear at the beginning of the sentence, too, even if I was typing in English, and the whole interface was kind of rudimentary, like the 1994 version of gchat if it had existed then. I wondered if this really was the default setting for his computer, and then reflected that if I asked him, he would probably say yes, even if it wasn't.
I also dreamed Juan from work had a studio where he digitally (re-)represented bejeweled Asians that he controlled like marionettes, or that were marionettes. He wore glasses like Phil Jackson's, much as he does in real life. A Japanese onlooker in an ill-fitting suit mumbled that one of the girl-dolls was fat, and Juan indignantly replied, "She is not fat. She weighs 110 pounds, and she is a ballet dancer." The Japanese guy rolled his eyes, a bit miffed, and repeated, "Fat." Also in the dream, Jenn (sic) from work, who served Tom and his parents at a recent meme lunch, was dating Juan, and had a newspaper article about him posted in her locker and had highlighted, in orange highlighter, something about him being "sexy and intelligent."
Before this I entered the Exit doors at Whole Foods to nibble/excessively sample from the salad bar, so I could be barred from the store forever or until I pleaded to be let back in, and to liveblog the entire affair, but then I saw kombucha was 2/$5, which is like stealing, and I don't have a smartphone.
I also dreamed Juan from work had a studio where he digitally (re-)represented bejeweled Asians that he controlled like marionettes, or that were marionettes. He wore glasses like Phil Jackson's, much as he does in real life. A Japanese onlooker in an ill-fitting suit mumbled that one of the girl-dolls was fat, and Juan indignantly replied, "She is not fat. She weighs 110 pounds, and she is a ballet dancer." The Japanese guy rolled his eyes, a bit miffed, and repeated, "Fat." Also in the dream, Jenn (sic) from work, who served Tom and his parents at a recent meme lunch, was dating Juan, and had a newspaper article about him posted in her locker and had highlighted, in orange highlighter, something about him being "sexy and intelligent."
Before this I entered the Exit doors at Whole Foods to nibble/excessively sample from the salad bar, so I could be barred from the store forever or until I pleaded to be let back in, and to liveblog the entire affair, but then I saw kombucha was 2/$5, which is like stealing, and I don't have a smartphone.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
sturm und drag
I've been feeling literally under the weather; the sky hangs thickly over the earth. At work the gingerbearded sous-chef limps around, bares the black spreading on his foot where he dropped a bar of chocolate ("it was a big one; twenty-two pounds"). Soon, soon, I will no longer have occasion to explain with a wink, "The kitchen already split the order for you; this way you won't fight!", nor will a bepotted subaltern clang behind me, "Atrás mami, atrás!" The kitchen's Dominicans, having recently hinted at perspicacity in a charming Dickensian sort of way ("Hot one day, cold one day...make sick!"; "You sick? No...iss the people down here. They mothafuckas!"), vying to replace the maliens of my Paris restaurant in my heart/blog, remain altogether too maladroit and stout. The sous-chefs transcend race by amiably remarking on the similarities between the dishwashers and certain domestic animals, notably cats (Felix; in fairness, in name only) and hamsters (Hector). As this last ambled by, Chef Jeff offered him a scrap of lamb; Hector re-belabored his bevy of pots to free a hand; Jeff batted it away and insisted on inserting the morsel directly into Hector's mouth, and the poor round thing accepted like a baby bird.
Outside of work I'm a man's best friend. I run up and down hills, learn contours. I ask myself questions like, Am I losing my mind, or am I losing my mind? I can't wait to go home so I can breathe the air and the weather will exist about as much and as little as white heterosexual masculinity.
Outside of work I'm a man's best friend. I run up and down hills, learn contours. I ask myself questions like, Am I losing my mind, or am I losing my mind? I can't wait to go home so I can breathe the air and the weather will exist about as much and as little as white heterosexual masculinity.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
waiting for the actual god to update
Most nights Matt and Me sit around, blaze, and wait for the Actual God's totipotentiality to actualize into totality.
A country road. Some trees.
Matt: Nothing to be done.
Me: I'm beginning to come round to that opinion.
Matt: Did you ever read Winnie-the-Pooh?
Me: Winnie-the-Pooh...I must have taken a look at it.
Matt (looks around at trouser press, humidifier, Island of Manhattan): Charming spot. Inspiring prospects. Let's go.
Me: We can't.
Matt: Why not?
Me: We're waiting for the Actual God.
Matt: Ah. (violently) I'm hungry!
Me: Would you like a radish?
Matt: Is that all there is?
Me: There are radishes and turnips.
Matt: Are there no carrots?
Me: No. Anyway you overdo it with your carrots.
Matt: Then give me a radish. (Me gives him one.) It's black!
Me: It's a radish.
Matt: I only like the pink ones!
Me: I'll go and get a carrot. (Me does not move, but stares into space for a while.)
Matt: Did you ask me a question?
Me: Did I?
Matt: I've forgotten. But now I'll never forget.
A terrible cry. Matt, startled, drops the radish on the ground, then shrugs and eats it anyway.
Tom (off): On!
Crack of whip. Enter Tom and Meme.
Meme: Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Robert Moses and David Foster Wallace of a potential God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaqueequeeg who ipso facto probably hates his girlfriend who from the heights of divine Adderall divine Ativan divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment or Brooklyn whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say above 14th Street so still and calm so calm with a calm which even though moderation is better than nothing or something but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Metamimemesis it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labors of men that as a result of the labors unfinished of hipsters and blipsters it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Literature and the Law it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Law and Literature left unfinished for reasons unknown of flax into tax left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in exposure to swine flu that man in Nam that man in short that man in briefs in spite of the strides of nutrition and exercise science calories in calories out and concurrently simultaneously repetitively pleonastically redundantly what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture live active cultures the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding hot yoga connotating closereading skating foamrolling of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter we skipped spring! tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts in a word I resume flying gliding football at bucolic second homes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Al Gore Gore Vidal namely concurrently simultaneously literally litorally what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume porkbelly! literally the dead loss per head since the death of print media being to the tune of how many grams in an ounce? per head approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures not a quant! in a word in a worm for reasons unknown no matter what mateine the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of blackberry blackberry blackberry it appears what is more much more grave than symmetry under a cemetery wall that in the light the light so much light! of the labors lost of Avi and Eti that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same but better in Northern California and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord 2001 September 11 changed everything the air the earth the sea the blogosphere abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in this economy I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the foam roller on the beard the porkbelly the tears the stones so sunny! so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in spite of the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of mahbud? in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished Rainbow Brite slip 'n' slide praise the Lord chips ahoy gunshot eternal slumber (mêlée, final vociferations; falls)
Tom: Up! Pig! (Meme evolves) Faster! On! Adieu! Porkbelly! Yip! Adieu! (Exeunt Tom and Meme)
Matt: What do we Do now?
Me: I don't know.
Matt: Let's go see a movie, or go out to dinner, and pretend to enjoy it.
Me: We can't.
Matt: Why not?
Me: We're waiting for the Actual God.
Matt (despairingly): Ah (Affshit)!
Me: Why aren't you wearing a shirt?
Matt: Christ didn't.
Me: Christ! You're not going to compare yourself to Christ!
Matt: All my life I've compared myself to him.
Me: But where he lived it was warm, it was dry!
Matt: Yes. And they crucified quick.
(Silence)
Me (hitting Refresh till fingers bleed): Wait! He updated.
Matt: Who?
Me: The ACTUAL God!
Matt: Really?
Me: Actually!
Matt: What does he say?
Me: ...It's just a picture of him in Heaven.
Matt: Is that it?
Me: Yeah...it looks like he needs spoon.
A country road. Some trees.
Matt: Nothing to be done.
Me: I'm beginning to come round to that opinion.
Matt: Did you ever read Winnie-the-Pooh?
Me: Winnie-the-Pooh...I must have taken a look at it.
Matt (looks around at trouser press, humidifier, Island of Manhattan): Charming spot. Inspiring prospects. Let's go.
Me: We can't.
Matt: Why not?
Me: We're waiting for the Actual God.
Matt: Ah. (violently) I'm hungry!
Me: Would you like a radish?
Matt: Is that all there is?
Me: There are radishes and turnips.
Matt: Are there no carrots?
Me: No. Anyway you overdo it with your carrots.
Matt: Then give me a radish. (Me gives him one.) It's black!
Me: It's a radish.
Matt: I only like the pink ones!
Me: I'll go and get a carrot. (Me does not move, but stares into space for a while.)
Matt: Did you ask me a question?
Me: Did I?
Matt: I've forgotten. But now I'll never forget.
A terrible cry. Matt, startled, drops the radish on the ground, then shrugs and eats it anyway.
Tom (off): On!
Crack of whip. Enter Tom and Meme.
Meme: Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Robert Moses and David Foster Wallace of a potential God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaqueequeeg who ipso facto probably hates his girlfriend who from the heights of divine Adderall divine Ativan divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment or Brooklyn whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say above 14th Street so still and calm so calm with a calm which even though moderation is better than nothing or something but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Metamimemesis it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labors of men that as a result of the labors unfinished of hipsters and blipsters it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Literature and the Law it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Law and Literature left unfinished for reasons unknown of flax into tax left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in exposure to swine flu that man in Nam that man in short that man in briefs in spite of the strides of nutrition and exercise science calories in calories out and concurrently simultaneously repetitively pleonastically redundantly what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture live active cultures the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding hot yoga connotating closereading skating foamrolling of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter we skipped spring! tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts in a word I resume flying gliding football at bucolic second homes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Al Gore Gore Vidal namely concurrently simultaneously literally litorally what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume porkbelly! literally the dead loss per head since the death of print media being to the tune of how many grams in an ounce? per head approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures not a quant! in a word in a worm for reasons unknown no matter what mateine the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of blackberry blackberry blackberry it appears what is more much more grave than symmetry under a cemetery wall that in the light the light so much light! of the labors lost of Avi and Eti that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same but better in Northern California and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord 2001 September 11 changed everything the air the earth the sea the blogosphere abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in this economy I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the foam roller on the beard the porkbelly the tears the stones so sunny! so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in spite of the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of mahbud? in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished Rainbow Brite slip 'n' slide praise the Lord chips ahoy gunshot eternal slumber (mêlée, final vociferations; falls)
Tom: Up! Pig! (Meme evolves) Faster! On! Adieu! Porkbelly! Yip! Adieu! (Exeunt Tom and Meme)
Matt: What do we Do now?
Me: I don't know.
Matt: Let's go see a movie, or go out to dinner, and pretend to enjoy it.
Me: We can't.
Matt: Why not?
Me: We're waiting for the Actual God.
Matt (despairingly): Ah (Affshit)!
Me: Why aren't you wearing a shirt?
Matt: Christ didn't.
Me: Christ! You're not going to compare yourself to Christ!
Matt: All my life I've compared myself to him.
Me: But where he lived it was warm, it was dry!
Matt: Yes. And they crucified quick.
(Silence)
Me (hitting Refresh till fingers bleed): Wait! He updated.
Matt: Who?
Me: The ACTUAL God!
Matt: Really?
Me: Actually!
Matt: What does he say?
Me: ...It's just a picture of him in Heaven.
Matt: Is that it?
Me: Yeah...it looks like he needs spoon.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Germinal
Despite or because of the fact I've moved across a bridge, most of my activity in the past month has been in slow-sprouting mental events, studied attempts not to parse per se, but, perhaps, to bridge certain spatio-temporal, socio-economic, textual-contextual zones. After musing how the strange hot classicism of the Stanford campus put me in (mind of) a di Chirico painting, I listened to a professor of psychoanalytic hermeneutics describe the feeling one gets from a di Chirico painting, how something has just happened, or is about to happen, one doesn't know which; is such an uncanny description of the uncanny itself uncanny, or rather perfectly canny? It made me miss Leah. Everyone at Stanford spoke of being "diastolic," or quoted from that plodding Celan poem. For synchrony, I kept track of my supplies and arrangements, but only provisionally. I kept wondering if repetition was poetic or pathological.
I felt like filling in calendars, making time graphic. I took signs for what they were. I wondered if the difference between myself and others was qualitative or quantitative, and if that was still a distinction I could make. I decided that because errancy suits me, I should err from that, and become more orthodox. Yesterday, I spilled kombucha on Amalia's floor; I hope nothing grows there.
I felt like filling in calendars, making time graphic. I took signs for what they were. I wondered if the difference between myself and others was qualitative or quantitative, and if that was still a distinction I could make. I decided that because errancy suits me, I should err from that, and become more orthodox. Yesterday, I spilled kombucha on Amalia's floor; I hope nothing grows there.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
sushi sambar
I'm becoming more articulate; my sneezes sound almost exactly like "achoo." At the restaurant, meanwhile, porters warn "Hot" or "Behind," but more often, "Be-Hot!" Kevaughn in pastry underwent a painful teeth-bleaching and can now consume only white substances: milk, bread, apples with no skin. I recommended cocaine, topically. The market is green again, ramps are rampant, but it turns out the oxalic acid in spring spinach inhibits the absorption of its (considerable) calcium. I learn from my German textbook that an ostrich egg contains the equivalent of 24 chicken eggs. Fat George stampedes through the galley with trays sloshing, shouting, "Chicken blooood, chicken bloood!" Things are becoming more themselves, more or less. Who is where, where is who, will is want.
Other than that, I've been on a yoga retreat. The throaty melody of my bald teacher's German plays on in my head. Das Straußenei! I'm sick of the internet. Sasha Frere-Jones posits that the internet and real life are planes of consciousness comparable to those of speech and the written word. I wish someone else had said that, so that I could feel less embarrassed considering it. I get drunk off kombucha most nights. Some day I'll make my own, or at least talk about it. In India, a Chinese girl told me, whenever you ask how long it will take to get somewhere, you are told, "five minutes." Five minutes later, you ask someone else, who says, in turn, "five minutes," and so on, for hours, until, eventually, you have a beautiful metaphor.
Other than that, I've been on a yoga retreat. The throaty melody of my bald teacher's German plays on in my head. Das Straußenei! I'm sick of the internet. Sasha Frere-Jones posits that the internet and real life are planes of consciousness comparable to those of speech and the written word. I wish someone else had said that, so that I could feel less embarrassed considering it. I get drunk off kombucha most nights. Some day I'll make my own, or at least talk about it. In India, a Chinese girl told me, whenever you ask how long it will take to get somewhere, you are told, "five minutes." Five minutes later, you ask someone else, who says, in turn, "five minutes," and so on, for hours, until, eventually, you have a beautiful metaphor.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
dear wanda
In winter all I could think was how cold I was, but it is in spring, Abram reminds us, that the villagers emerge from their frozen stupor and remember that they are hungry. Or, alternatively, they briefly bake in front of the bread-toasting station and think of how miserably hot summer will be. I dreamed I was the mistress of a silver-haired man with smile lines like etchings in raw clay. In fact he was a cross between Bernie Madoff, Tony Danza, and my friend's dad, Duncan. His wife caught him in bed with two men, and as I attempted to console her I asked if she would have felt better had it been a woman. She said she knew he had a mistress, too, and would find her. During this conversation a messenger arrived for me with a 20 euro bill. I offered a 20 dollar bill in return, then felt silly; I have no idea what the exchange rate is.
Some days ago, I had a layover in LA, and my parents came to meet me at the airport. My mom brought me the spring's first strawberries. My dad gave me cab fare.
Some days ago, I had a layover in LA, and my parents came to meet me at the airport. My mom brought me the spring's first strawberries. My dad gave me cab fare.
Monday, March 16, 2009
grammattical questions
March fucking fifteenth and il pleut toujours...but the Ides turn tax into food. Meanwhile I'm paring and comparing, as I have to decide about grad school by Tax Day; Berkeley has nice farmers markets (peanut sprouts, in turns out, taste like peas, except slightly nutty), but everyone seems to be on Xanax, and they're not sharing. The pizza establishment Fat Slice advertises a Fat Salad, which strikes me as honest. Is there an apostrophe in "farmers markets"? If so, where does it go? I feel apostrophic, but who am I addressing? I don't care about grammar anymore, just rhetoric. I feel a not-quite calm, a punctuated equilibrium that yet might at any moment be punctured. The girl next to me in the computer lab has just been kicked out of the program because, she claims, of issues related to sexual harassment, which makes it feel like a real school, with all the problèmes avec. Also she sounds really annoying and keeps saying how "ree-dick-you-loos" her situation is, and now she won't be here anymore.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
snowmatt
I miss work. The bread man, Ramon, is always saying, inexplicably, "Big one, big one!" and seems to know no one's name but his own ("Hola sexy Ramon!"). As far as I can tell the bread is all the same size.
Everything in Aspen tastes like milk. Lactic acid? If I ski properly, my legs don't hurt. What's the point?
Everything in Aspen tastes like milk. Lactic acid? If I ski properly, my legs don't hurt. What's the point?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
ashes to ashes, wednesday to wednesday
Winter will never be over, but I'm over time; in the new eternal now I'm opening up to space. Can a woman blog without a room of her own? The disparate contents of my winter include apples months from the tree and as many texts as I can muster. When they pile up too much, we'll use them as wrappings, burn them for heat; a thousand and one things. At work the general manager logs in to OpenTable and gleefully calls out, for my benefit, the gaping openings that evening at my former place of employment. While my new restaurant is not, we are reminded, "recession-proof" per se, it is surely "recession-resistant." In the cramped kitchen carrying plates I warn "behind, behind," even when I am in fact in front or on the side of someone. A French guest murmurs "merci" to ever-jovial Jermaine, who responds, "derriere!"
In these lean loanless times I can't think of a thing to give up for Lent; the state of the seas being what it is, even Fish Fridays seem decadent. At Whole Foods I helped a shrunken old man reach the last tin of sardines in the back of the shelf, which made me feel better about having picked up a container of grapes, walked around eating out of it for half an hour, and then put it back as if I had decided not to buy it.
In these lean loanless times I can't think of a thing to give up for Lent; the state of the seas being what it is, even Fish Fridays seem decadent. At Whole Foods I helped a shrunken old man reach the last tin of sardines in the back of the shelf, which made me feel better about having picked up a container of grapes, walked around eating out of it for half an hour, and then put it back as if I had decided not to buy it.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Top 10 failed work pick up lines
10. Hi! I would love to be a jello shot girl! I'm really fun and can sell ANYTHING!
9. I'm friendly, professional, and excellent at checking names off guest lists.
8. I'm 23, live near Union Square, and traffic in words, sex, and cash money.
7. I am highly organized and have excellent communication skills, as well as a taste for the exotic.
6. I have restaurant experience and a superior phone voice.
5. My knowledge of French will be especially useful for tourists who will be flooding your store as the dollar collapses.
4. I am also interested in doing jeans research.
3. I'm not intimidated at the prospect of hordes of frat boys.
2. I'm fascinated by the semiotics of fine dining.
1. My fridge looks like a garden.
But there's still hope; if Billy calls back, I'll be serving jello shots next weekend.
9. I'm friendly, professional, and excellent at checking names off guest lists.
8. I'm 23, live near Union Square, and traffic in words, sex, and cash money.
7. I am highly organized and have excellent communication skills, as well as a taste for the exotic.
6. I have restaurant experience and a superior phone voice.
5. My knowledge of French will be especially useful for tourists who will be flooding your store as the dollar collapses.
4. I am also interested in doing jeans research.
3. I'm not intimidated at the prospect of hordes of frat boys.
2. I'm fascinated by the semiotics of fine dining.
1. My fridge looks like a garden.
But there's still hope; if Billy calls back, I'll be serving jello shots next weekend.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
pharma-con
Indisposed by one illness, I troll the internet for information about various other things that are wrong with me. Why, even in LA, where il y a beaucoup de circulation, do my fingers turn bright white in the cold? The internet doesn't know, but recommends mittens, Viagra, or considering moving to a warmer climate.
My antibiotics cost $37 per pill, and they don't even get me high. Nothing's real in the modern age, except Mad Men, which isn't modern, or real. Next thing you know they'll farm Akon out to the computer.
My antibiotics cost $37 per pill, and they don't even get me high. Nothing's real in the modern age, except Mad Men, which isn't modern, or real. Next thing you know they'll farm Akon out to the computer.
Friday, January 2, 2009
truffaux
In the New Year I'm trying to be more reductive in my thinking; surely the year will only get older. For example, which is superior? "Truffle Hog: Keen sense of smell; Innate ability to sniff out truffles; Tendency to eat truffles once found. Truffle Dog: Keen sense of smell; Must be trained; Easier to control; may urinate on truffles." The female pig's natural affinity for truffles is, unsurprisingly, directly linked to her tendency to eat them upon discovery, because they smell like pheremones and she will confuse alimentary satiety with sexual satisfaction. So is truffle oil made from pig pheremones? Which is the original, and which the copy? What would Judith Butler say? The truffles respond synecdochally: "We shall by morning / Inherit the earth. / Our foot's in the door." Verily, such fungus may one day eat us.
My linguistic landscape is increasingly peopled by those syntactical leaps that approximate what grammarians might call anacoluthon, whatever that is. I feel, perhaps illogically, like a logical scandal. Having this irregular schedule was fun at first, but now it's getting ridiculous; my alarm clock is just for decoration.
My linguistic landscape is increasingly peopled by those syntactical leaps that approximate what grammarians might call anacoluthon, whatever that is. I feel, perhaps illogically, like a logical scandal. Having this irregular schedule was fun at first, but now it's getting ridiculous; my alarm clock is just for decoration.
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