the sofa remembers
every room its ever been in
but does it know
the color of it's skin
the pattern of it's fabric
or it's blanket of coffee and cigarettes?
does it know
that the girls
upon it
are going to sleep together tonight?
can it explain to me
the black holes, quasars
and the big bang theory?
(the big bang theory isn't close:
the creation of the universe
is more like waking up at 3am
to find your new lover staring at you
willing you awake
a thunderstorm of smooth skin
and hair that smells like
eucalyptus and olive oil
a little bit like your father's old shirts
willing you awake
because your lover is thirsty
and the book left on the bedside table
isn't satisfying
every word ever written
has only been written as a futile attempt
to explain the big bang
which itself
is our futile attempt
to explain
what it is like
to make love
with someone new
at 3am.
i am
willing you awake.)
my grandpa knows
the lake
because the lake is his memory.
the boy is trying to find
desperately trying to find
the error in his calculations
calculations which are part of
an incredibly complicated equation
(he holds his breath when he computes
he holds his breath when he asks for her number
he holds his breath when he goes underwater)
an equation which
when properly exploited
will divulge the most glorious
magical
and
dangerous secret
of all time.
he will tell her
and only her
late at night
when the moon goes dark behind clouds
and the world sleeps
their dangerous secret
will come to life
with one big
glorious
magical
dangerous
bang.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
thoughts on today, 6-24-2009
in the two hours between time zones.
rewrites
aren't we all just rewriting
all the time
every day?
what we know
what pills we take
how many people we've slept with
and whose number just came up
(an area code in texas. have you slept with somebody in texas? have i?)
because changing a line
one line
even the least important line
makes it all different
from that moment on.
that's the difference
between
being alive
and being a character in a play-
i can't change my lines,
they've been said and heard
and all i can do
is let them be forgotten or remembered.
but in the plays that we write
we can delete
drag and drop
we can even
give the line to somebody else
or everybody at once.
and just because you've heard it once before
doesn't mean
that it will be the same thing
the next time you hear it.
because what if i change it?
so i suppose that one reason that i write
is because i know that i cannot change the things
that i have said or done in my life
(they're not all right, but they're not all wrong, either)
but if i don't like what a character does
or the way that she says something
i can add a comma
or a moment for them to breathe
delete them from the world forever
or write in stage directions, something like this:
she lets down her hair. a hidden vial of poison falls to the floor, shatters. she presses her finger into the pool of broken glass and dark liquid. she holds her fingertip to her lips. she smiles. lights.
so we leave the theatre
wondering if we would lick our fingertips
if we were in her place-
so this was all just a pre-write
to a rewrite
in a place where there are no buses
or ladies with shopping carts filled with
empty wine bottles
or drugs drugs drugs
in everybody's systems
(but those things are beautiful, sometimes, when the sun is going down orange and blue)
(and there are drugs here, too)
rewrite.
rewrites
aren't we all just rewriting
all the time
every day?
what we know
what pills we take
how many people we've slept with
and whose number just came up
(an area code in texas. have you slept with somebody in texas? have i?)
because changing a line
one line
even the least important line
makes it all different
from that moment on.
that's the difference
between
being alive
and being a character in a play-
i can't change my lines,
they've been said and heard
and all i can do
is let them be forgotten or remembered.
but in the plays that we write
we can delete
drag and drop
we can even
give the line to somebody else
or everybody at once.
and just because you've heard it once before
doesn't mean
that it will be the same thing
the next time you hear it.
because what if i change it?
so i suppose that one reason that i write
is because i know that i cannot change the things
that i have said or done in my life
(they're not all right, but they're not all wrong, either)
but if i don't like what a character does
or the way that she says something
i can add a comma
or a moment for them to breathe
delete them from the world forever
or write in stage directions, something like this:
she lets down her hair. a hidden vial of poison falls to the floor, shatters. she presses her finger into the pool of broken glass and dark liquid. she holds her fingertip to her lips. she smiles. lights.
so we leave the theatre
wondering if we would lick our fingertips
if we were in her place-
so this was all just a pre-write
to a rewrite
in a place where there are no buses
or ladies with shopping carts filled with
empty wine bottles
or drugs drugs drugs
in everybody's systems
(but those things are beautiful, sometimes, when the sun is going down orange and blue)
(and there are drugs here, too)
rewrite.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
who catches the astronauts?
the flowers have no business being the color that they are
neither do your eyes
she had thick glasses when she was a kid
in the 80's
and a perm
and turned five on the day
that the challenger exploded
("the challenger did not explode," she told me. "the machine was torn apart, and the white billowing clouds were a result of escaping liquid oxygen and hydrogen." she is always telling me things like this, which makes her an excellent editor.)
she sleeps naked
even when it is very, very cold
but takes showers so hot
that i can never join her
when she opens the bathroom door
the steam pours out
and i imagine
the challenger exploding
(apologies to the editor)
and i would swim out into the atlantic
and catch her as she fell
my thick eye-glassed
curly-haired
astronaut-
but when she steps from the bath
wearing a towel, just a towel
i remember
that it is not 1986
that we are not five
and that she is in no need of being saved
editor's note: some television documentaries covering the challenger disaster actually added the sound effect of an explosion to the footage.
who needs an imagination
when you have a television?
neither do your eyes
she had thick glasses when she was a kid
in the 80's
and a perm
and turned five on the day
that the challenger exploded
("the challenger did not explode," she told me. "the machine was torn apart, and the white billowing clouds were a result of escaping liquid oxygen and hydrogen." she is always telling me things like this, which makes her an excellent editor.)
she sleeps naked
even when it is very, very cold
but takes showers so hot
that i can never join her
when she opens the bathroom door
the steam pours out
and i imagine
the challenger exploding
(apologies to the editor)
and i would swim out into the atlantic
and catch her as she fell
my thick eye-glassed
curly-haired
astronaut-
but when she steps from the bath
wearing a towel, just a towel
i remember
that it is not 1986
that we are not five
and that she is in no need of being saved
editor's note: some television documentaries covering the challenger disaster actually added the sound effect of an explosion to the footage.
who needs an imagination
when you have a television?
Monday, June 15, 2009
a story
She tells me this story early in the morning. It isn't the first time she had told it to me, but her voice moves like a dancer, and I love to listen.
"When I was a girl, there wasn't more than this room. Our entire world, a room just like this one. Only, when we looked out the window, it wasn't this lake or this sky. When we looked out the window, it was grey, and the windows, endless, of the building across from ours. It wasn't your eyes I looked into, it was my father's. And I was smaller, much smaller, and I didn't know that you existed. But my father existed. And my mother, and my brother, Piotr. Piotr always wanted to play. Nine floors down, he would run down, call up to my father from the street, run back up, and jump onto his back. But father never left the room. He would send me out, since I was the oldest, to pick up our bread. Four rations of bread, and I would bring them home proudly. In those days, where I am from, that was what we ate. Not family dinners around the tv, but bread broken into pieces, around the radio. When rockets or guns would happen outside, mother would close the window, and the world would disappear behind a black curtain. He was a big man, my father. Bigger than those rockets. Bigger than that building, and certainly bigger than that room, or this one. He had patches of hair on his shoulders. 'That is what makes him great,' my mother said to me, 'that is what makes him strong and brave, like a bear.' But he only said, 'Nonsense. That is just the way that some people are.' He was always like that. Everything he said always made sense. Pretty soon he never went out at all, unless it was late at night. I wouldn't have none he'd gone at all, except I would wake up to the smell of eggs cooking, and he would be sleeping at the foot of the stove. Piotr always ate more eggs than I did. Piotr ate more eggs, and became bigger and stronger, and soon he was running with me to collect our bread, and then running past me, and returning home with the bread, without me. 'Piotr should get the bread on his own,' my mother argued. 'He's faster, and they are shooting at children.' Father never argued with mother. He would only look at her, and a decision would be made. No words spoken. From that day on, Piotr ran for bread alone."
I kiss her as she is telling me this, inside of her knees and elbows. But some stories are too good to be distracted by kisses. She lights the candle that she keeps beneath the photograph of her family. "I am going to tell you the end of the story," she said. I had never heard the end of the story. The end of her family.
"Piotr made Mother proud. He was a finder. When I ran for bread, it was always 'bread, bread, bread,' and nothing else on my mind. But Piotr was a different kind of creature. Things that caught the sunlight, things that made noises he had never heard, a dog with three legs instead of four- all of these things took the place of bread. And often, he would bring them home with him. Usually, it was something small, like a ball of tin or half of a chocolate bar. Things we could use. 'You've done well, Piotr," Mother would say. Father would say nothing. He prayed constantly for Piotr, because Piotr needed to be prayed for. There were bullets and bombs and rockets, all eager to find a boy like Piotr. There were things we didn't know about Father. Why was he so quiet? Why did he never leave? Why didn't he fight, like the other fathers in our building? Was he a coward? I never asked these questions, and I still don't ask them. I was happy that he was there, his big arms and his hairy shoulders, and his shirts that smelled like the mechanic's shop...
Piotr took a long time to get the bread. Mother was often certain he was dead, a little boy who got caught up in a big war. His body would be pummeled by concrete and buried along with the city that used to be beautiful. But Father would always look into her eyes, and we would all know that Piotr would be home soon. Until the day that he didn't come home. It was dinner time, and we were hungry. Mother kept a piece of bread every day, in case something like this happened. But it was stale and it tasted like Piotr's voice. It was almost night, and if you weren't home by night, you disappeared into a world from which there was no way to leave. There had been no gunfire that evening. Just quiet, and stale bread. Until, we heard something we had never heard before. 'Put-a-put-a-put-' and Father spoke. 'Piotr found something.' And indeed, Piotr had. We opened the curtain, and the three of us looked down into the street, and there he was. Piotr was home, and he had found a motorcycle. It was small, and it wasn't running right, but he had brought it home. Under the window, nine stories down, he looked so small. 'Father-' he called out. 'Look what I found! But it doesn't run right and I need help carrying it up the stairs.' Father's face lit up, glowed, and became happy. We were afraid he might leap out the window. 'My coat,' he said, and flew out the door like a starling."
And here she got quiet. She ran her fingers through my hair. Her eyes were big and wet. Her mouth formed shapes that spoke for her.
"The last things I remember are sounds. The streetlights turned on. Like a hum. The put-put-put of the little motorcycle. My father pounding down the stairs. Piotr, suddenly sounding like a small boy, the small boy he really was, 'father, I didn't know if you could fix it-' A flash. Sometimes you can hear a flash. And between the flash and the gunshot, Mother pulled us to the floor. A second flash, a second gunshot. Boots on the dirty street. I remember the way the floor felt, dusty and rough and without hope. The window was open and the curtains moved with the souls of Father and Piotr, who had suddenly become part of the wind. There was a knock on the door. I hid under the table. Mother kissed the top of my head. She walked into the hallway and she is walking still. I waited until morning. They had left the motorcycle, Piotr's motorcycle, between two pools of blood, soaking into the broken pavement. I ran to it. I pushed one hand into the puddle that had been Piotr, and the other into the puddle that had been Father. It was sticky, and sandy, and warm because the sun was up. Put-put-a-put-put... I rode Piotr's motorcycle across cities, countries, rivers, and oceans..."
Some stories finish themselves, and slip away like cigarette smoke, and smell bitter but comforting but too real to have happened. This one would have ended "...all the way to you." But I kissed her before she could finish. She tasted like blood and sand and gunpowder. The sun was coming up, and there were sounds starting outside our window. A man selling papers. A small dog barking at the smell of breakfast. The dull mechanical rotation of the Earth, grinding against everything that begs it to stop. And somewhere, far off, there was a put-a-put of a small motorcycle, driven by a boy running an errand for his family.
"When I was a girl, there wasn't more than this room. Our entire world, a room just like this one. Only, when we looked out the window, it wasn't this lake or this sky. When we looked out the window, it was grey, and the windows, endless, of the building across from ours. It wasn't your eyes I looked into, it was my father's. And I was smaller, much smaller, and I didn't know that you existed. But my father existed. And my mother, and my brother, Piotr. Piotr always wanted to play. Nine floors down, he would run down, call up to my father from the street, run back up, and jump onto his back. But father never left the room. He would send me out, since I was the oldest, to pick up our bread. Four rations of bread, and I would bring them home proudly. In those days, where I am from, that was what we ate. Not family dinners around the tv, but bread broken into pieces, around the radio. When rockets or guns would happen outside, mother would close the window, and the world would disappear behind a black curtain. He was a big man, my father. Bigger than those rockets. Bigger than that building, and certainly bigger than that room, or this one. He had patches of hair on his shoulders. 'That is what makes him great,' my mother said to me, 'that is what makes him strong and brave, like a bear.' But he only said, 'Nonsense. That is just the way that some people are.' He was always like that. Everything he said always made sense. Pretty soon he never went out at all, unless it was late at night. I wouldn't have none he'd gone at all, except I would wake up to the smell of eggs cooking, and he would be sleeping at the foot of the stove. Piotr always ate more eggs than I did. Piotr ate more eggs, and became bigger and stronger, and soon he was running with me to collect our bread, and then running past me, and returning home with the bread, without me. 'Piotr should get the bread on his own,' my mother argued. 'He's faster, and they are shooting at children.' Father never argued with mother. He would only look at her, and a decision would be made. No words spoken. From that day on, Piotr ran for bread alone."
I kiss her as she is telling me this, inside of her knees and elbows. But some stories are too good to be distracted by kisses. She lights the candle that she keeps beneath the photograph of her family. "I am going to tell you the end of the story," she said. I had never heard the end of the story. The end of her family.
"Piotr made Mother proud. He was a finder. When I ran for bread, it was always 'bread, bread, bread,' and nothing else on my mind. But Piotr was a different kind of creature. Things that caught the sunlight, things that made noises he had never heard, a dog with three legs instead of four- all of these things took the place of bread. And often, he would bring them home with him. Usually, it was something small, like a ball of tin or half of a chocolate bar. Things we could use. 'You've done well, Piotr," Mother would say. Father would say nothing. He prayed constantly for Piotr, because Piotr needed to be prayed for. There were bullets and bombs and rockets, all eager to find a boy like Piotr. There were things we didn't know about Father. Why was he so quiet? Why did he never leave? Why didn't he fight, like the other fathers in our building? Was he a coward? I never asked these questions, and I still don't ask them. I was happy that he was there, his big arms and his hairy shoulders, and his shirts that smelled like the mechanic's shop...
Piotr took a long time to get the bread. Mother was often certain he was dead, a little boy who got caught up in a big war. His body would be pummeled by concrete and buried along with the city that used to be beautiful. But Father would always look into her eyes, and we would all know that Piotr would be home soon. Until the day that he didn't come home. It was dinner time, and we were hungry. Mother kept a piece of bread every day, in case something like this happened. But it was stale and it tasted like Piotr's voice. It was almost night, and if you weren't home by night, you disappeared into a world from which there was no way to leave. There had been no gunfire that evening. Just quiet, and stale bread. Until, we heard something we had never heard before. 'Put-a-put-a-put-' and Father spoke. 'Piotr found something.' And indeed, Piotr had. We opened the curtain, and the three of us looked down into the street, and there he was. Piotr was home, and he had found a motorcycle. It was small, and it wasn't running right, but he had brought it home. Under the window, nine stories down, he looked so small. 'Father-' he called out. 'Look what I found! But it doesn't run right and I need help carrying it up the stairs.' Father's face lit up, glowed, and became happy. We were afraid he might leap out the window. 'My coat,' he said, and flew out the door like a starling."
And here she got quiet. She ran her fingers through my hair. Her eyes were big and wet. Her mouth formed shapes that spoke for her.
"The last things I remember are sounds. The streetlights turned on. Like a hum. The put-put-put of the little motorcycle. My father pounding down the stairs. Piotr, suddenly sounding like a small boy, the small boy he really was, 'father, I didn't know if you could fix it-' A flash. Sometimes you can hear a flash. And between the flash and the gunshot, Mother pulled us to the floor. A second flash, a second gunshot. Boots on the dirty street. I remember the way the floor felt, dusty and rough and without hope. The window was open and the curtains moved with the souls of Father and Piotr, who had suddenly become part of the wind. There was a knock on the door. I hid under the table. Mother kissed the top of my head. She walked into the hallway and she is walking still. I waited until morning. They had left the motorcycle, Piotr's motorcycle, between two pools of blood, soaking into the broken pavement. I ran to it. I pushed one hand into the puddle that had been Piotr, and the other into the puddle that had been Father. It was sticky, and sandy, and warm because the sun was up. Put-put-a-put-put... I rode Piotr's motorcycle across cities, countries, rivers, and oceans..."
Some stories finish themselves, and slip away like cigarette smoke, and smell bitter but comforting but too real to have happened. This one would have ended "...all the way to you." But I kissed her before she could finish. She tasted like blood and sand and gunpowder. The sun was coming up, and there were sounds starting outside our window. A man selling papers. A small dog barking at the smell of breakfast. The dull mechanical rotation of the Earth, grinding against everything that begs it to stop. And somewhere, far off, there was a put-a-put of a small motorcycle, driven by a boy running an errand for his family.
Friday, June 12, 2009
done.
we've been fed after midnight
we've found loves
and lost loves
and found them again
in the most unlikely of places
between the pages of an old copy of 'to kill a mockingbird'
wrapped in a blanket stuffed inside an old bass drum
under the pile of old leaves after the winter thaw
we wear them
scratches on our arms and backs
names tattooed
and erased
and tattooed again
old love letters in the pockets of jeans
washed and folded
and opened to reveal
a map to a treasure
we've long thought we'd lost
they made a mistake
they fed us after midnight
and now we are on the loose
eating up the early morning
with too much syrup
and not enough pain
to keep us down for long.
we've found loves
and lost loves
and found them again
in the most unlikely of places
between the pages of an old copy of 'to kill a mockingbird'
wrapped in a blanket stuffed inside an old bass drum
under the pile of old leaves after the winter thaw
we wear them
scratches on our arms and backs
names tattooed
and erased
and tattooed again
old love letters in the pockets of jeans
washed and folded
and opened to reveal
a map to a treasure
we've long thought we'd lost
they made a mistake
they fed us after midnight
and now we are on the loose
eating up the early morning
with too much syrup
and not enough pain
to keep us down for long.
Monday, June 8, 2009
the tree in the park
We were in the tree, and our bikes were beneath us, tires spinning because it was windy. The tree was a noisy place to be, when it was windy. The leaves gathered up their strength and did what they could to tear themselves free, but the big tree groaned and hung on valiantly, and only a few leaves blew away. And three dozen figs, which the squirrels collected. Your legs were longer than I remembered, or your shorts were shorter. It could have been both. "You ride a bike now," I said. "Yes, in fact, I hardly drive anywhere," you said. "Your knee is bleeding," I said. At one time, I would have licked it clean, and you would have laughed. But neither of those things happened, and I watched the blood dry in the afternoon sun. The scab was shaped like a state, but I can't remember which one. A state with a peninsula. The people walking by were mad at us, and they pretended that it was because we had left our bicycles on the lawn, and that we hadn't been wearing any helmets. But it was really because we had nothing to do, and we looked like we might be lovers. Which we used to be. Lovers, but like the knee licking, that was something of the past. "Do you still have the orange tabby?" I asked. The orange tabby that slept on top of my legs, and was constantly looking for her kittens, kittens which no longer existed. "No. We had to sleep her," you said. I liked the way you said it, just sad enough but remembering that she had been a good cat, and would have been a great mother. I pulled a leaf off of the tree, and placed it on your nose. You crinkled your face, and the leaf blew away. It was a nice day. Enough time passed. "Well, I think we should go," I said. "Ok," you said, and you climbed down a branch. "It was good to see you again," I said. And then, just before we touched the ground, "Wait. Do you want to pull off my scab?" you asked. "No," I said. "Are you sure?" you asked. "Yes," I said. Even though I wasn't sure at all.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
thoughts on today, 6-06-09
Hurry up. Slow down. Wait- I want this to last. But I also want to taste it, to taste more of it. Now. But you can only taste it for so long, until it's gone. You can replay your favorite song again and again. Calorie-free. Go on a music diet, and you'll be dead in a week. But you'll die happy. Die listening to music. But this isn't time to talk about death. You will accomplish that without much effort. Ah, but living...
the magnet
is very, very useful.
and very, very beautiful
in it's smoothness
and the sound that it makes
clink (it sounds hollow, but it's so heavy)
when you set it
on the table.
Such a satisfying sound.
energy
that you can't see
but if you hold your tongue
out over it
for long enough
your taste buds
will start to dance
a wild party dance
a wilderness dance
a wild blackberry dance
and you won't be able
to get enough.
the magnet has a name.
it is hard to pronounce
and takes many years of mindful deliberation
to begin to understand.
so i choose not to wonder
how it works
or puzzle over why
but to take joy
(joy!)
in the magic
that it creates.
Basements I have been in #5.
If I were to tell you about this basement, you would say to me, "surely, that place does not exist." Behind every door, is a different world. And there are many, many doors. Shrieks, howls, laughter, crashing and banging of anything that can be thrown against a wall. Madness in the great ones and greatness in the mad ones. An underworld of imagination, where we've cut our shins in the dark and been blinded by all those lights. There is safety beneath the earth, safety in our numbers, and we ought to hang a sign for the outsiders: "Enter without your clothes (as you know them) and let us sew you something new. " Because only by being naked can we ever be clothed. A basement where we were all lovers, in every way and only occasionally involving sex. More sub, make the seats shake, if we stomp loud enough the earth will quake and shake some sense into anyone who has never been to the basement.
Galbraith Hall, 2009.
the magnet
is very, very useful.
and very, very beautiful
in it's smoothness
and the sound that it makes
clink (it sounds hollow, but it's so heavy)
when you set it
on the table.
Such a satisfying sound.
energy
that you can't see
but if you hold your tongue
out over it
for long enough
your taste buds
will start to dance
a wild party dance
a wilderness dance
a wild blackberry dance
and you won't be able
to get enough.
the magnet has a name.
it is hard to pronounce
and takes many years of mindful deliberation
to begin to understand.
so i choose not to wonder
how it works
or puzzle over why
but to take joy
(joy!)
in the magic
that it creates.
Basements I have been in #5.
If I were to tell you about this basement, you would say to me, "surely, that place does not exist." Behind every door, is a different world. And there are many, many doors. Shrieks, howls, laughter, crashing and banging of anything that can be thrown against a wall. Madness in the great ones and greatness in the mad ones. An underworld of imagination, where we've cut our shins in the dark and been blinded by all those lights. There is safety beneath the earth, safety in our numbers, and we ought to hang a sign for the outsiders: "Enter without your clothes (as you know them) and let us sew you something new. " Because only by being naked can we ever be clothed. A basement where we were all lovers, in every way and only occasionally involving sex. More sub, make the seats shake, if we stomp loud enough the earth will quake and shake some sense into anyone who has never been to the basement.
Galbraith Hall, 2009.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
thoughts about art
would i give up my citizenship to be with the person i loved?
would i choose that person over my country?
absolutely. that is the problem with patriotism- it doesn't really fit into the personal space of our lives. do we take our country for granted? absolutely. is it still the easiest place to eat, sleep, and find a job? hands down. does the freedom our laws provide make living our lives the way we want easier? sure, unless you are a woman or homosexual or not white (or any religion other than christian). and god help you if you fit into more than one of those categories.
i was thinking about artists today. in the united states, artists are free to do pretty much whatever they want, without the fear of being shot. they might end up on no-fly lists or foxnews, but if they aren't breaking any laws, they probably aren't going to have their freedom taken away. this is great, no doubt about it.
but what does all of this freedom do to the art? if the artist doesn't fear for his or her life, does that mean that the art is somehow less passionate? and what about the audience. if they know that the artist was writing their song or staging their play or painting their picture with the risk of being persecuted, would they take it more seriously?
just some thoughts.
would i choose that person over my country?
absolutely. that is the problem with patriotism- it doesn't really fit into the personal space of our lives. do we take our country for granted? absolutely. is it still the easiest place to eat, sleep, and find a job? hands down. does the freedom our laws provide make living our lives the way we want easier? sure, unless you are a woman or homosexual or not white (or any religion other than christian). and god help you if you fit into more than one of those categories.
i was thinking about artists today. in the united states, artists are free to do pretty much whatever they want, without the fear of being shot. they might end up on no-fly lists or foxnews, but if they aren't breaking any laws, they probably aren't going to have their freedom taken away. this is great, no doubt about it.
but what does all of this freedom do to the art? if the artist doesn't fear for his or her life, does that mean that the art is somehow less passionate? and what about the audience. if they know that the artist was writing their song or staging their play or painting their picture with the risk of being persecuted, would they take it more seriously?
just some thoughts.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
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