So I was driving through Seaside today, on the way home, looking for a store, and thinking — “Holy moly, I live here now!” I’m stuck with south Monterey Bay’s almost perpetually misty weather! Yes, I kind of miss sunny, surfy, and most importantly, weird, Santa Cruz. Oh well. I’m at Kinko’s. Can’t wait for my laptop to arrive. In fact, I’m kind of climbing the walls, as they say.
Welcome A Poem/What Speaks?/A Day into the world, by Tom Beckett.
Welcome, also, Disappointed Psalms, by Brian Clements.
Issue #9 of Otoliths is now available, marking the beginning of its third year. Mark Young writes: “this issue marks the beginning of Otoliths’ third year, & once again contains a great variety of text & visual work. The sorrow is because Rochelle Ratner, a frequent contributor to this journal, passed away on March 31st. I’d like to dedicate this issue, in which she has new poems, to her.”
This weekend will end my posts from my e-machine, which has taken me through a lot of writing, but will now go to Oakland with my son, while I await delivery of my new computer. And on Monday, I’m turning off the AT&T juice.
I wanted to switch the old home phone number to my new address, but alas, it’s not possible without paying a high fee. So I say goodbye to Garden 423-8836, the number my parents used since the mid-1950s.
Today, while resting after the LAST garage sale (all my stuff should be out of the old house tonight), I heard a distant whistling. Not a tea-kettle whistle, or wind-under-the-door-whistle, but the sound of someone whistling a little tune. The odd thing, is that it seemed to be coming from my hip, or possibly my stomach. Well, my stomach occasionally makes odd noises, but I didn’t realize it was this talented. So I felt around, and realized it must be coming from the cell phone in my pocket. “Hello”? Someone answered. It took a moment to realize it was a friend of mine. My phone had auto-dialed his number, and when he answered there was no one at the other end! But he heard something, so, biding his time patiently, he whistled a little tune while waiting for someone to answer back!
There’s nothing like good, helpless laughter after an exhausting garage sale.
* mixed birds, terns turn, no-name gulls
* algae, salt, conical shaped things, mud
* dog cookies
* talking while driving
* driving. drifting. noticing i’m there already.
* “are you alright”? “I’m fine.” “no computer yet…”
* giving away and giving away.
* trying to think of a question.
* maybe actually writing on paper.
* i don’t want to be here.
* i want to be there.
* heat.
* not even objects, just stuff. things.
* attached to the thought, maybe,
* not the thing.
* plastic. paper. wood. fragments.
* i hate driving.
* hate is a strong word.
* i don’t care.
* tired of this driving.
* tired of sitting, too.
* well walk more then.
* ok.
* is it time to go yet?
* not quite yet.
* there are the errands.
* right. then finish up here.
* leave?
* finish up and leave. for today.
* good.
rogue canine flirting with all the fenced in dogs, finds
a cutie. racing back and forth across the fenceline.
under the oaks in the tall grass.
early morning Gracie wades into slough waters swims
emerges dog wet muddied paws. Sniffs pickleweed.
walking along shoreline, and there a woman rowing
in a white skiff. paddles askew changes direction.
look for a Safeway, but there is none. Anon
a SaveMart. Neatly organized but no turkey meatballs.
the economy of boxes to contain our things. empty
and transfer. fill and transfer. empty and transfer.
ceanothus night blue. horses. YARDSALE big barn. oh!
gigantic german shepard. Gracie jumps on groceries! no!
drive to transfer boxes to make donations to pick
up shelves to transfer shelves to transfer books
to empty boxes to transfer boxes, to move donations
waving afternoon light i want to stop. stop and eat.
This morning I participated in the local mud stomp. That is, I put on galoshes, and stomped in the slough mud to make nesting niches for teeny little snowy plovers. We were doing this in more or less gale winds. One of the stompers got temporarily stuck in the mud. I guess it’s my way of learning about my new neighborhood.
Back at the old house after a couple of days. And…glad to hear that the sequence of Daisy Chain poems by me, Michael Fink, and Margo Ponce, has been accepted for the Chained Hay(na)ku Anthology!
Last night I was looking to hook up my phone, cable tv, and internet, and found out that Comcast doesn’t serve my rural area. They referred me to the “local” service, who told me that they serve the small towns near where I love (!!) live, but they don’t serve my specific area. I have to get a satellite dish. I went to bed, and read a book before sleep. In the morning, I woke up after getting a restful 7 hours of sleep, wondering, “Why do I really need all those services anyway? I have a cell phone. I don’t need cable to watch Netflix. I can save up my posts and blog at the local internet cafe a couple times a week. I can get a library card!
Unhook from the Borg? Dare I?
Anyway, I’ve been staying in Elkhorn the last several days, and am now visiting my still “hooked up” old house, which will get unhooked in a couple weeks. Going through mail, doing some laundry, putting out the trash. But I’m anxious to go back home - which I will, in about an hour.
My weekend moving sale has officially become a dating service. Today I set up Lori, the pre-school teacher with Bob, the flooring guy. They met over the Walt Bohrer framed aviation cartoon, and my red and white vintage polka dot dress. Lori checked first, to make sure that Bob was not a surfer, and that he has a job. He owns his own flooring business, and likes her exceptionally outgoing personality, so I think we have a match!
awakening tired
blood vessels
muscles
preparing for the heat of day
Safeway parking lot; workers
having a smoke; sideways glances
safeway card?
improvise dog bowl
brown rice, chicken, vegetables no
additives
push pull push pull tilt on end
the old computer is
radio is
“that they are most likely…and not
just cutting such a broad swath…or to
really be overly intrusive of people’s privacy
rights…who might want to see these cameras
done away with altogether…I think cameras are
already in place in communities…try and think
through these issues and…from the get-go…
what are some of these civil liberties…and do
we have the right to privacy…the reality though
is that this is an area in which the law has lagged…
a fully networked digital cameras…and search that
database for a given individual…and…is that…a
very different image…do you think people are
really thinking about this…most people, no.”
get up. sell these things. let go of the past. etc.
I spent my first full night at my new place. There are a lot of bugs and insects in the country, and they all come out at night! Nevertheless, I’m so happy with the place that it makes me feel a little paranoid.
Now, after a pretty self-indulgent and pleasant morning, I’m back in Santa Cruz, preparing for tomorrow’s moving sale. The rock band across the street is practicing. LOUDLY. They are very good. They are very serious. Sort of a cross between White Stripes and Hendrix. Speak of the devil, now they are playing “Hey, Joe.” …hey, joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand…” This song is like mythology; I know it so well, every bar. It’s hellishly hot here. I want to go back to Elkhorn. I don’t know if I can stick this out…
Daniel Green on John Dewey, and experimental writing vs. adventurous writing, in The Reading Experience. Via The Morning Line.
I should’ve prefaced this post (above) with my comment that I don’t particularly agree with this message of the search for the “new.” Nor am I convinced by “adventurous.” Adventurism is nostalgia. Even (Heart of Darkness) Conrad knew it was all over. It’s the (by now) old argument for the “avant garde.” As I wrote in “The Problems, 2″ (Prau), “Nothing is new, or should be.” But I really don’t want to impose “shoulds” on writers. I just think that everything that could be done in art has already been done. That doesn’t mean that we can’t enjoy the process of “rediscovery,” or that we can’t take language apart and look at it differently. But newness in and of itself has little value (and besides, I have a peculiar relationship to time). And “adventure” to me, especially in the arts, is often suspect.
