…something I wouldn’t normally read, but as I was again procrastinating an essay, I glanced at this article because the blurbed words “badly behaved moms” piqued my curiousity. It was interesting to find out that Courtney Love’s grandmother is Paula Fox. I’ve had the opportunity to read Desparate Characters, and I wouldn’t mind reading it again (except that I think it is out of my library–and I’m not sure where). It was an interesting read.
And, for those who like cupcakes as they read, something special.
Here’s to celebrate cupcakes,
not pancakes, and all
those other kinds of cake
as well as people that came to
Talk Fresh with and about
words that tasted as sweet as cupcakes
in March of 2006.
I liked this so much, that I literally (and I like that word too) stole the idea (like stealing a word from a poem, or a line said one day in a room full of people, or a note from an artist tucked behind a left ear, or just the way the words move before my eyes, entities now released on their own) thanks for the idea Ken, this is kinda fun …
…but who’s dream of the world was it? Or was it both: his/hers? Does it matter? (“There’s no place like home-there’s no place like home”). I’ve been waiting to watch Blue Velvet in film class for a couple of weeks, ever since it was bumped for another movie. I had watched it when it first came out, but, understandably, understood not very much, except how much I thought Kyle MacLaughlin looked like KD Lang. Tonight I came home and started reading the screenplay and noticed how much was left out–the beginning is a bit different–and what was put in. Naturally, as I watched it again tonight, I was fascinated with everyone’s ears in the movie, but in the first half, I was more fascinated with the trees. Everytime Sandy and Jeffrey were together they were either flanked by rows of trees, (in one scene they are walking down the street and each has a row of trees over their shoulder) or cut logs were being hauled away on the back of trailers (two scenes show a shot of the outside of the diner, but it gets interrupted by double-trailer trucks hauling away(or bringing in) logs). It came as no surprise to see Jeffrey awake at a lumber mill after he is beaten, and the end of the movie moves back into the trees. “Now it’s dark” Frank says, more than once as if the quality of the dream really could be the white picket fence, the idyllic life, the perfect house, the perfect town, and not the “strange world”. And, everything being double like it is, who’s to say which is the dream and which is reality? I’m going to go with Sandy, and say: “It’s my dream now.”
…these days, I keep waiting for things to arrive in the mail. Yesterday I finally received the parcel of books I had been waiting for. The one I eagerly awaited arrived–I will say more on it later–and two others. One is a birthday present, so I will say nothing about it (one never knows who reads these posts), and the other is C. K. Williams‘s Pulitzer Prize winning poetry: Repair. The language of Williams is startlingly deceptive in its effortless style, almost prosey at times, but riveting as each poem carries with simplicity powerful stories.
Also, don’t forget to check out Talking Fresh. It should be a blast. I hear there may be cupcakes, and Brenda Schmidt.
…or memory. Following a trip to the archives at the University of Regina, I immediately thought about how much information I’ve shredded, or tossed, or simply deleted. I’m left wondering how much I will remember years from now, and how much I will forget. The UofR archives are home to numerous writers, but the most famous are Lorna Crozier and Patrick Lane. How much do we save, and why do we need to save it? This question has been on my mind longer than the archive session. The question goes back to the Ancient Civilization class I took in the fall, when there was some discussion over the human memory, and the advent of writing. I remember the discussion revolved around some fact– that 70% of the world’s population exhibits a particular mutation in the genetic code. The theory of the mutation–I think, as I didn’t write it down–was an anti-memory, or to be more precise, now that we write most of our information down, we no longer have the capability to remember it. This, I believe, is based on the oral storytelling tradition. Of course, it may be completely untrue (who can really believe what they teach us nowadays anyway), but it was brought back to my memory (see, it wasn’t lost) by the visit to the archives, and by this article (which also reminded me of Rhona’s blog post from Austin–March 08/06).
…this post over a month ago, but that somehow, somewhere, it disappeared into blogger air/history. What I had blogged about was ordering these books: David Berman’s Actual Air , Ted Kooser’s Delights and Shadows, of which there is a review here, and last,but not least, I orderd something a little unusual in Paul Auster‘s Disappearances . What I’m enjoying most is their diversity. Each book has a room of the house: Berman is beside my bed for a late night poem, Kooser bakes in the kitchen, and Auster does the bathing. This unique arrangement, besides letting me read more than one book of poetry at a time, enables me to separate each reading experience. Auster’s book of poems, many of which were written early in his career, has been the most surprising. The lyrical quality of each piece shows movement and reminds me of the prairie in some strange way, while Kooser’s work is so well-crafted and controlled it is interesting to read, but Berman, well, what can I say? His freshness and unique voice have kept me awake for too many nights. Need I say more?