How does this guy get away with this? I love it.
1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.
2
We laughed at the hollydecks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.
3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.
4
Last evening we were dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!
-William Carlos Williams
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
ruminations on the southeast
My flatmate lies on the kitchen floor.
"I think he's gone into a state of hiberation."
"Yeah, the other roommates have left. Nate-Dawg went to a party."
"Yeah I am hanging out here this weekend."
"Dude, yeah it is like before 11. We should get me a pizza."
"So what do you want on your pizza?"
"Like pepperoni. I don't really care."
"Yeah, you'll eat most of it."
"No, I'll eat half. And you'll eat the other half."
A Wednesday night before 11. Things seem remarkably provincial and unimportant on nights like this. My mind is drifting. And I remember a conversation from earlier on in the day, about making money.
"You know, I know it sounds obvious. But some people are just motivated by making money-- it's amazing. Also amazing just how much money they have."
It is amazing. I still don't understand the detachment you feel-- when you agree with yourself that you exist day in and day out to get money. surely it's a means but an end in itself, how?
And then there are those conversations about places like Anacostia.
"Dude, it's like a third world country out there in southeast." This is a nurse in a DC hospital speaking. His comment has some foundation if the stories you hear about violence are true. There is an AmeriCorps program that cleans out the Anacostia River, dragging out all kinds of trash from the river. The team is about 18-19 people. Every year they lose a member, a young person who is shot as a result of gang violence. Every year, at least one or two members.
Anacostia is on the Green line of the metro, southeast region of the city. The Rough Guide recommends you don't walk around the area alone-- something like-- "Take a taxi. Go to the historical sights you want to see and then leave."
I am looking for ways to volunteer in DC. I want to find something to do near Anacostia. Just because I cannot stand when neighborhoods are talked about that way, when it seems like the rest of the city, chock full of NGOs and "young professionals", has given up on them. I don't like it when in my mind, neighborhoods become urban legends of death and despair and streets where none that value their life should walk. When even the name of the neighbourhood conjures up twisted, dripping images of hopelessness. That cannot be!
Maybe I am naive. Maybe I'll return in two months to this entry and laugh at myself. Maybe. Well, so be it. I'll let you know.
"I think he's gone into a state of hiberation."
"Yeah, the other roommates have left. Nate-Dawg went to a party."
"Yeah I am hanging out here this weekend."
"Dude, yeah it is like before 11. We should get me a pizza."
"So what do you want on your pizza?"
"Like pepperoni. I don't really care."
"Yeah, you'll eat most of it."
"No, I'll eat half. And you'll eat the other half."
A Wednesday night before 11. Things seem remarkably provincial and unimportant on nights like this. My mind is drifting. And I remember a conversation from earlier on in the day, about making money.
"You know, I know it sounds obvious. But some people are just motivated by making money-- it's amazing. Also amazing just how much money they have."
It is amazing. I still don't understand the detachment you feel-- when you agree with yourself that you exist day in and day out to get money. surely it's a means but an end in itself, how?
And then there are those conversations about places like Anacostia.
"Dude, it's like a third world country out there in southeast." This is a nurse in a DC hospital speaking. His comment has some foundation if the stories you hear about violence are true. There is an AmeriCorps program that cleans out the Anacostia River, dragging out all kinds of trash from the river. The team is about 18-19 people. Every year they lose a member, a young person who is shot as a result of gang violence. Every year, at least one or two members.
Anacostia is on the Green line of the metro, southeast region of the city. The Rough Guide recommends you don't walk around the area alone-- something like-- "Take a taxi. Go to the historical sights you want to see and then leave."
I am looking for ways to volunteer in DC. I want to find something to do near Anacostia. Just because I cannot stand when neighborhoods are talked about that way, when it seems like the rest of the city, chock full of NGOs and "young professionals", has given up on them. I don't like it when in my mind, neighborhoods become urban legends of death and despair and streets where none that value their life should walk. When even the name of the neighbourhood conjures up twisted, dripping images of hopelessness. That cannot be!
Maybe I am naive. Maybe I'll return in two months to this entry and laugh at myself. Maybe. Well, so be it. I'll let you know.
a plastic bag in harlem
I wrote this about a month ago but the blog system was down:
Well I was going to write a blog entry but the blog system was down. What trauma man. Not sure if I can stand it.
So…life in the US of A rolls on…am feeling rather exhausted after quite a busy workweek followed by a weekend in that mad city up north of here. And for some reason I seem destined to sit and watch American football until midnight. No wait, it gets worse. I am actually watching analysis of American football. Tragic.
I now want to live in New York…that city is one of the few places that just inspires complete awe in me. I am not sure why just New York has this effect on me. I think I just don’t know what to feel when I see it. One of the first feelings to hit me is how small I am. I like it—it’s reassuring to know that without you the world will just keep spinning on and on. You will never be so important that if you stop to take a breath the world will not keep whirling. You can relax and just watch the world—you’re allowed to sit in the audience from time to time. Sit with everyone else as they pass in and out of the sphere of watching, then leaving and returning to the stage, brushing through the velvet red curtains.
But then down some streets things are small again and you feel sheltered…fooled into thinking like the city cares for you, would deign to protect you for a few hours as awnings shade you and warm air drifts out of café doors.
Then quickly turn another corner and you are in a land detached from Americana. Languages from other lands, open air markets, stalls with strains of music outside the do-re-mi of your ear.
Yes, I love that city. Driving in on Friday, I felt nervous, imagined the streets of gold that would awe me, the alleys that would tempt me and confuse me, the avenues that would swallow me. I love how naïve it makes me feel, how new to the world I am when I walk down its streets. A child walking through the sun as it bounces off glass windows seventy stories up; a newborn watching the sun rise slowly in Harlem as a plastic bag flies high in the air, twirling, a strange stillness on a Sunday morning after a live Saturday night.
Well I was going to write a blog entry but the blog system was down. What trauma man. Not sure if I can stand it.
So…life in the US of A rolls on…am feeling rather exhausted after quite a busy workweek followed by a weekend in that mad city up north of here. And for some reason I seem destined to sit and watch American football until midnight. No wait, it gets worse. I am actually watching analysis of American football. Tragic.
I now want to live in New York…that city is one of the few places that just inspires complete awe in me. I am not sure why just New York has this effect on me. I think I just don’t know what to feel when I see it. One of the first feelings to hit me is how small I am. I like it—it’s reassuring to know that without you the world will just keep spinning on and on. You will never be so important that if you stop to take a breath the world will not keep whirling. You can relax and just watch the world—you’re allowed to sit in the audience from time to time. Sit with everyone else as they pass in and out of the sphere of watching, then leaving and returning to the stage, brushing through the velvet red curtains.
But then down some streets things are small again and you feel sheltered…fooled into thinking like the city cares for you, would deign to protect you for a few hours as awnings shade you and warm air drifts out of café doors.
Then quickly turn another corner and you are in a land detached from Americana. Languages from other lands, open air markets, stalls with strains of music outside the do-re-mi of your ear.
Yes, I love that city. Driving in on Friday, I felt nervous, imagined the streets of gold that would awe me, the alleys that would tempt me and confuse me, the avenues that would swallow me. I love how naïve it makes me feel, how new to the world I am when I walk down its streets. A child walking through the sun as it bounces off glass windows seventy stories up; a newborn watching the sun rise slowly in Harlem as a plastic bag flies high in the air, twirling, a strange stillness on a Sunday morning after a live Saturday night.
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