Three tomatoes are walking down the street — a poppa tomato, a momma tomato, and a little baby tomato. Baby tomato starts lagging behind. Poppa tomato gets angry, goes over to the baby tomato, and squishes him… and says,
-MS. UMA THURMAN, PULP PULP PULP FUCKING FICTION
CATCHUP CATCHUP ima catchup on my blogage. bondage via insipid blog verbage. word play, etc. you missed me? didnt you? vicious vignette
sounds good, but is self indulgent. blogging is self indulgent too, but i like sounds and i like to report things on a blog because i like to hoard. blogging is really a symptom of hoarding compulsions. everything is a symptom of something these days. AUden started it by declaring THE AGE OF ANXIETY. and things have only gotten worse since.
WH! EE! TS!
if only I had some good syllables to work with and then i might be a writer someday. AE ABRAHAM sounds like it belongs on old Mcdonald’s farm. but maybe thats a good place to start.
I could write a satyr of Animal Farm. satyr of a satyr. and then declare myself a new post feminist profit. and then i could write a sound opera just like Christian Bok, mock his bathos and barely register on his radar because he’s so depressed and exhausted from performing his concept of himself. CHRISTIAN BOK READS HIS NONSENSE. reading from his book EUNOIA.
long time no post said the baby rabbit to the mama rabbit, mama rabbit was simmering a borscht on the stove and humming softly.
I Faulkner binged and now I can’t find no motivation. I’ve crashed. I’ve watched a lord of the rings extended version marathon and then a lord of the rings extended version plus commentary marathon. plus intermittent harry potter screenings. The Hotness of Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson is no excuse. The hotness of the dude who plays Ronald Weasley does not register high enough degrees to even justify watching a harry potter movie two nights in a row. totaling two harry potter movies total. I am ashamed of myself.
in other news, I went to Rhode Island and got to wear William Faulkner’s Blazer.
NOW. heres some Galway Kinnel.
Read it and be blessed.
BY GALWAY KINNELL
At intermission I find her backstage
still practicing the piece coming up next.
She calls it the “solo in high dreary.”
Her bow niggles at the string like a hand
stroking skin it never wanted to touch.
Probably under her scorn she is sick
that she can’t do better by it. As I am,
at the dreary in me, such as the disparity
between all the tenderness I’ve received
and the amount I’ve given, and the way
I used to shrug off the imbalance
simply as how things are, as if the male
were constituted like those coffeemakers
that produce less black bitter than the quantity
of sweet clear you poured in–forgetting about
how much I spilled through unsteady walking,
and that lot I threw on the ground
in suspicion, and for fear I wasn’t worthy,
and all I poured out for reasons I don’t understand yet.
“Break a leg!” somebody tells her.
Back in my seat, I can see she is nervous
when she comes out; her hand shakes as she
re-dog-ears the top corners of the big pages
that look about to flop over on their own.
Now she raises the bow–its flat bundle of hair
harvested from the rear ends of horses–like a whetted
scimitar she is about to draw across a throat,
and attacks. In a back alley a cat opens
her pink-ceilinged mouth, gets netted
in full yowl, clubbed, bagged, bicycled off, haggled open,
gutted, the gut squeezed down to its highest pitch,
washed, sliced into cello strings, which bring
an ancient screaming into this duet of hair and gut.
Now she is flying–tossing back the goblets
of Saint-Amour standing empty,
half-empty, or full on the tablecloth-
like sheet music. Her knees tighten
and loosen around the big-hipped creature
wailing and groaning between them
as if in elemental amplexus.
The music seems to rise from the crater left
when heaven was torn up and taken off the earth;
more likely it comes up through her priest’s dress,
up from that clump of hair which by now
may be so wet with its waters, like the waters
the fishes multiplied in at Galilee, that
each wick draws a portion all the way out
to its tip and fattens a droplet on the bush
of half notes now glittering in that dark.
At last she lifts off the bow and sits back.
Her face shines with the unselfconsciousness of a cat
screaming at night and the teary radiance of one
who gives everything no matter what has been given.
WILLIAM FAULKNER’S NOBEL PRIZE ACCEPTANCE SPEECH.
“I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work–a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed–love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.”