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READIN
READIN started out as a place for me
to keep track of what I am reading, and to learn (slowly, slowly)
how to design a web site.
There has been some mission drift
here and there, but in general that's still what it is. Some of
the main things I write about here are
reading books,
listening to (and playing) music, and
watching the movies. Also I write about the
work I do with my hands and with my head; and of course about bringing up Sylvia.
The site is a bit of a work in progress. New features will come on-line now and then; and you will occasionally get error messages in place of the blog, for the forseeable future. Cut me some slack, I'm just doing it for fun! And if you see an error message you think I should know about, please drop me a line. READIN source code is PHP and CSS, and available on request, in case you want to see how it works.
See my reading list for what I'm interested in this year.
READIN has been visited approximately 236,737 times since October, 2007.
Playhouse lies in pieces and the bolts that once connected them
the once (and future?) construct
scattered sunlight on the lawn
scattered sunlit lifeless hollowed out
the paint like skin that's covered over
veins of douglas fir and cedar
veins of age-old wood and creeping
vitiating rot
Drill battery is charging and I look out my back window
at the stillness of the breezes blowing
pushing round the trees
pushing blowing round the green enclosure
manifold imposing over
arching, dark reality
the creeping, pungent real story
never write it down, I'll never
write it down because it's hidden
hidden dark unnameable
illicit hanging conversation
twittering between cicadas
translate text of endless grayed-out
sussurating stop.
Finished two old projects yesterday -- The playhouse I built for Sylvia in 2005 and which Bill helped me pull down a few weeks ago is now completely disassembled (and Scott has indicated he'd be interested in using the wood to build something for Sasha and Maya); and the Windsor chair I built on my 2002 trip to The Windsor Institute is finally painted, a handsome shade of green. Lee Valley milk paint is the best.
In the Democratic Republic of Congo, along the banks of the great gray-green greasy Lomami river, a new species of Old World monkey has been discovered; the Cercopithecus lomamiensis or Lesula. What a deliciously expressively cryptic face this individual has!
As Rob Helpy-Chalk phrases it over at FB, "He's offering some kind of comfort, but not the kind that depends on being delusional about the way the world is."
the automatic CAUTION door swings open and my heart beats faster panicked panting racing down the corridor I know not where
(click through for the dulcet tones of Dolph Chaney)
I'm headed what I'm fleeing whom I'll see if I look back behind me emptiness of ignorance and fear and pain and nervous sound
the automatic PANIC switch engages and I'm climbing up the walls I'm falling paralyzed and endless should have seen that coming no way back tonight my friend the waterfalls of history are soaking me I'm sweating broken searching for the path to bring me home
the automatic wicked bolt of FEAR slides home and punctures my resolve I'm quaking trembling feverish looking in the mirror what I see is sending waves of manic pity through me tell me truly help me I can't find a hand to hold a charge of hope and love and weary resignation say you'll keep me in my pit of fear and solitude and quavering frustration help me turn toward these scaly walls and understand my history my saving grace my destiny my almost unrequited FEAR
posted morning of September 9th, 2012: 1 response ➳ More posts about Poetry
The cloud formations over Oaxaca are more spectacular each time you look at them.
I've never been able to capture their grandeur on my camera, and I'm hardly enough of a poet
to describe them to you, you'll have to take my word for it. They roll in slow over
the mountains to the north-east, creep slowly toward the city, they pile up around the
edge of the sky. I can hear the thunder far off, I look nervously upward, wonder
if I can make it home before the rain gets here. I can already feel the first drops
on my shoulder.
Laura told me I was making a mistake, and she's probably right.
It's raining a little harder now. I duck in to Hernán's cafe, I'll wait here until it
passes, it usually goes by in a half hour or so. (The thunder is louder than before --
it may last longer than usual this evening.) I order an espresso and ask after Hernán's
wife. He has a distant smile as he tells me Soledad is getting better, she should be
coming home Friday at the latest. I'm leafing through the book of poetry I've been
carrying around all day, I'm looking for the piece about la madre paralizada de la noche, it caught
my eye this morning, made me think about Soledad, when the lights go out. Hernán mutters
a curse and looks down the street to see if there is a blackout everywhere. For a few
minutes now it has been raining with the fury of Poseidon over Athens.
It was in this very cafe that Laura and I met, just a few months ago -- it seems like much longer.
I'm sipping my coffee in the darkness and trying not to think about Laura. The rain
is lightening up a bit, I'll head home before too long. I'm concerned about Soledad:
Hernán's wistful confidence seems false, seems forced, and I don't think she's going to
be back any time soon. The two of them have made this cafe my favorite place in the city
over the past year that I've been here -- maybe they're the closest thing to friends
that I've found here.
Laura's glad I came over but wishes I would have called earlier. Yeah, whatever...I'm not sure what to say here. So you're serious about going back to California?
Listen, of course I am. You're coming, too.
The firmness of her tone always startles me -- the line and contour of her body always catch me off guard. She takes my hand, gives me an inquisitive look and a squeeze, turns away to the book she was reading. I'm a little edgy right now (thanks to the espresso I guess, thanks to the glint in Laura's eye) and trying to figure out what I can say. What's holding me here? What future do I see? How the fuck can I justify letting her go without me? I'm responding with my own wistful, confident smile, trying to get her attention, mumble something about a friend up in Santa Cruz, maybe I could stay with him... But she's pissed off. I'm giving her too little too late, and we aren't really talking.
...I'm worried about Soledad.
She sighs, Yeah, I know,... She turns in the soft evening light. Not to mention her husband.
I look at her more closely, she's been crying. Catch her eye, I want to be with you.
Peter, it doesn't make any sense for you to stay here. What we have is what you're looking for.
...
Laura yawns and looks away. Suddenly I flash on an image of her and Soledad, the first time I saw her at the cafe, I know I'll be leaving Oaxaca with Laura and I know I'll regret it. What to say, what to say, I don't feel like I can tell her quite what's on my mind. I'm not sure how much I have left in the bank, exactly, I may have to lean on you some while I look for work... And she's holding me, leaning against me as she shakes her head, her brown hair is rubbing fuzzy against my cheek.
paralizada
sus movimientos lentos
crecen como las nubes
que crezca hipnotica, paralizada
que sea la totalidad
que sea la madre de la noche
lejano la miro
le sonrío
a ella
paralizado
(another poem written to a prompt from La universidad desconocida...)
PoesÃa que tal vez abogue
por mi sombra
en dÃas venideros
cuando yo sólo sea un nombre
y no el hombre
que con los bolsillas vacillos vagabundeó
y trabajó
en los mataderos del viejo y
del nuevo continente
Mis sueños no tan fáciles
que tengan como antecedente
alguna trauma desconocida
alguna pesadilla anterior
los dejo y caen
no soportados de ninguna
referencia exterior, no enlentecidos
abajo de mi paracaidas, y
¿a dónde? y ¿cuándo
pararán, cuándo van a poder
descansar?
For years now I've been hearing of Baby Gramps, every now and then someone would tell me I ought to check his music out. Shockingly, reprehensibly, I ignored this great advice every time it was offered me, and I did not hear a note of his music until last weekend, when I went down to Bordentown to hear Peter Stampfel performing, with Baby Gramps on the same bill.
Turns out they have released a record together, Outertainment, and it blew my mind. There are traditional tunes freaked out beyond all recognition, some fantastic covers (Gramps singing "Surfin Bird" is truly amazing), originals sarcastic, whimsical, sincere. Every song will draw you in and through it.
posted evening of September 6th, 2012: Respond ➳ More posts about The Blues
Hm... merging a couple of the themes I've been writing about here lately. Writing/revising poetry, writing and thinking in a language not my own, the different voices of the writing process and translation process.... This is a poem I started working on in Oaxaca keying off the rhythm of the first line. (+first line should serve as a clue that I spent a lot of time in class working on imperative and subjunctive voices.) Mil gracias a Paty de ICO para sus direcciones y sugerencias. I added two more stanzas and reworked the first a bit in the past week or so, and turned it into what I think is a coherent poem, a pleasant read.
Primitivo -- sofisticado
¡canta!
que tu graznido
atraviese
vacilente
el micrófono, y los amplificadores
y las lágrimas
Me toca me bendice padre
no bendÃgasme, mi padre
aunque he pecado
Directions
(by The Modesto Kid/tr. Peter Conlay)
Listen; hear. Look: see:
What are you hearing, my friend? Hear me
screaming in my pit of terror?
Your face brings it all back, things I had forgotten:
tell me something, make me laugh, some lie
for me to remember instead of all that.
Confused man, almost blind, go look
for friendship or rejection
—seek some treatment—
Listen; hear. Look. See.
Caveman — sophisticate —
sing!
slowly your cawing
will seep
across
the mics, and the PA
and the tears
Touch me bless me o my father
Don't bless me father
Even though I've sinned
I uploaded a reading of the Spanish text to SoundCloud. That is a not-quite-final revision, I think the rhythm and clarity of it are really improved by the addition of "Oh" at the beginning of the seventh line. (If memory serves, this is an example of an edit to the original text prompted during the process of translation.)
posted morning of September third, 2012: Respond ➳ More posts about Translation
Ellen and Sylvia and I spent half of the past month in the deep south of Mexico, in the city of Oaxaca. We took language classes in the mornings, at Instituto Cultural de Oaxaca, and over the course of the days acquired some familiarity with the language and with (a small corner of) one of the most beautiful cities I can imagine. (A city which would, by the way, be absolutely baffling to Winston Rowntree's anomalies spotter.)
Lots of pictures of the trip at Flicker; take a look.
