Tomorrow is a new year.
The tradition would be to make resolutions for the 'New Year', but that hasn't typically been on my to-do list (call me impatient, but I tend to not wait for a new year for big decisions/changes/etc). But, in the spirit of the holiday, here are some inspirations for those of you who make them-- StoryPeople style:
Option 1:
My New Rules For Living Simply (As of This Year) 1. When bills come, just throw them out. Who needs all that clutter & heart-ache? 2. Have a room for everything. Don't ever do anything in a room you're not supposed to. (This works best in a hotel) 3. Take a couple of days & really find out your 3 favorite foods. Clear everything but these 3 foods out of your house. After awhile, you'll be so sick of them, you'll just go out to eat for every meal. Your kitchen will stay perfectly clean. (to be continued)...
Option 2:
Maybe I don't want a Happy New Year, he said. Maybe I want an intense New Year with a lot of growth experiences & I had to admit I'd never thought of that...
I might not make the "throw out your bills" resolution, but it's food for thought. Just think of it as a brainstorming session. A lot of unpractical ideas before a few useable ones =)
However, if you've procrastinated and still don't have any by midnight but intended on making some, remember: there are plenty of other 'New Years' throughout the year that you can use to instate those resolutions when they come to you.
Resolutions or not, I say celebrate the 'New Year' when it suits you best-- and sometimes one 'New Year' per year, is just not enough.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
a long, stormy, poem...
Confessions: My Father, Hummingbirds, and Franz Fanon
by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Every effort is made to bring the colonised person to admit
the inferiority of his culture...
—Franz Fanon
And there are days when storms hover
Over my house, their brooding just this side of rage,
An open hand about to slap a face. You won't believe me
When I tell you it is not personal. It isn't. It only feels
That way because the face is yours. So what if it is the only
Face you've got? Listen, a storm will grab the first thing
In its path, a Persian cat, a sixth grade boy on his way home
From school, an old woman watering her roses, a black
Man running down a street (late to a dinner with his wife),
A white guy buying cigarettes at the corner store. A storm
Will grab a young woman trying to escape her boyfriend,
A garbage can, a Mexican busboy with no papers, you.
We are all collateral damage for someone's beautiful
Ideology, all of us inanimate in the face of the onslaught.
My father had the biggest hands I've ever seen. He never
Wore a wedding ring. Somehow, it would have looked lost,
Misplaced on his thick worker's hands that were, to me,
As large as Africa. There have been a good many storms
In Africa over the centuries. One was called colonialism
(Though I confess to loving Tarzan as a boy).
In my thirties,
I read a book by Franz Fanon. I fell in love
With the storms in his book even though they broke
My heart and made me want to scream. What good
Is screaming? Even a bad actress in a horror flick
Can do that. In my twenties, I had fallen in love
With the storms in the essays of James Baldwin.
They were like perfect poems. His friends called
Him Jimmy. People didn't think he was beautiful.
Oh God, but he was. He could make a hand that was
Slapping you into something that was loving, loving you.
He could make rage sound elegant. Have you ever
Read "Stranger in the Village?" How would you like
To feel like a fucking storm every time someone looked
At you?
One time I was
At a party. Some guy asked me: What are you, anyway?
I downed my beer. Mexican I said. Really he said, Do
You play soccer? No I said but I drink Tequila. He smiled
At me, That's cool. I smiled back So what are you?
What do you think I am he said. An asshole I said. People
Hate you when you're right. Especially if you're Mexican.
And every time I leave town, I pray that people will stop
Repeating You're from El Paso with that same tone
Of voice they use when they see a rat running across
Their living rooms, interrupting their second glass
Of scotch. My father's dead (Though sometimes I wake
And swear he has never been more alive—especially when
I see him staring back at me as I shave in the morning).
Even though I understand something about hating a man
I have never really understood the logic of slavery.
What do I know? I don't particularly like the idea of cheap
Labor. I don't like guns. And I don't even believe
White men are superior. Do you? I wanted to be
St. Francis. I took this ambition very seriously. Instead
I wound up becoming a middle-aged man who dreams
Storms where all the animals wind up dead. It scares
Me to think I have this dream inside me. Still,
I love dogs—even mean ones. I could forgive
A dog that bit me. But if a man bit me, that would be
Another story. I have made my peace with cats.
I am especially in love with hummingbirds (though
They're as mean as roosters in a cock fight). Have
You ever seen the storms in the eyes of men who
Were betting on a cock fight?
Last night, there was hail, thunder,
A tornado touching down in the desert—though I was
Away and was not a first hand witness. I was in another
Place, listening to the waves of the ocean crash against
The shore. Sometimes I think the sea is angry. Who
Can blame it? There are a million things to be angry
About. Have you noticed that some people don't give
A damn and just keep on shopping? Doesn't that make you
Angry? A storm is like God. You don't have to see it
To believe—sometimes you just have to place
Your faith in it. When my father walked into a room
It felt like that. Like the crashing waves. You know,
Like a storm. This is the truth of the matter: I am
The son of a storm. Look, every one has to be the son
Of something. The thing to do when you are caught
In the middle of a storm is to abandon your car,
Keep quiet. Pray. Wait. Tell that to the men
Who were sleeping on the Arizona when
The Japanese dropped their bombs. War is the worst
Kind of storm. The truth is I have never met a breathing
Human being who did not have at least one scar
On his body. Bombs and bullets do more than leave
A permanent mark on the skin. I have never liked
The expression they were out for blood.
There are days
When there are so many storms hovering around
My house that I cannot even see the blue in the sky.
My father loved the sky. He was trying to memorize
The clouds before he died. I confess to being
Jealous of the sky.
On Sunday Mornings
I picture Franz Fanon as an old man. He is looking up
At the pure African sky. He is trying to imagine how it appeared
Before the white men came. I don't want to dream all the dead
Animals we have made extinct. I want to dream a sky
Full of hummingbirds. I would like to die in such a storm.
by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Every effort is made to bring the colonised person to admit
the inferiority of his culture...
—Franz Fanon
And there are days when storms hover
Over my house, their brooding just this side of rage,
An open hand about to slap a face. You won't believe me
When I tell you it is not personal. It isn't. It only feels
That way because the face is yours. So what if it is the only
Face you've got? Listen, a storm will grab the first thing
In its path, a Persian cat, a sixth grade boy on his way home
From school, an old woman watering her roses, a black
Man running down a street (late to a dinner with his wife),
A white guy buying cigarettes at the corner store. A storm
Will grab a young woman trying to escape her boyfriend,
A garbage can, a Mexican busboy with no papers, you.
We are all collateral damage for someone's beautiful
Ideology, all of us inanimate in the face of the onslaught.
My father had the biggest hands I've ever seen. He never
Wore a wedding ring. Somehow, it would have looked lost,
Misplaced on his thick worker's hands that were, to me,
As large as Africa. There have been a good many storms
In Africa over the centuries. One was called colonialism
(Though I confess to loving Tarzan as a boy).
In my thirties,
I read a book by Franz Fanon. I fell in love
With the storms in his book even though they broke
My heart and made me want to scream. What good
Is screaming? Even a bad actress in a horror flick
Can do that. In my twenties, I had fallen in love
With the storms in the essays of James Baldwin.
They were like perfect poems. His friends called
Him Jimmy. People didn't think he was beautiful.
Oh God, but he was. He could make a hand that was
Slapping you into something that was loving, loving you.
He could make rage sound elegant. Have you ever
Read "Stranger in the Village?" How would you like
To feel like a fucking storm every time someone looked
At you?
One time I was
At a party. Some guy asked me: What are you, anyway?
I downed my beer. Mexican I said. Really he said, Do
You play soccer? No I said but I drink Tequila. He smiled
At me, That's cool. I smiled back So what are you?
What do you think I am he said. An asshole I said. People
Hate you when you're right. Especially if you're Mexican.
And every time I leave town, I pray that people will stop
Repeating You're from El Paso with that same tone
Of voice they use when they see a rat running across
Their living rooms, interrupting their second glass
Of scotch. My father's dead (Though sometimes I wake
And swear he has never been more alive—especially when
I see him staring back at me as I shave in the morning).
Even though I understand something about hating a man
I have never really understood the logic of slavery.
What do I know? I don't particularly like the idea of cheap
Labor. I don't like guns. And I don't even believe
White men are superior. Do you? I wanted to be
St. Francis. I took this ambition very seriously. Instead
I wound up becoming a middle-aged man who dreams
Storms where all the animals wind up dead. It scares
Me to think I have this dream inside me. Still,
I love dogs—even mean ones. I could forgive
A dog that bit me. But if a man bit me, that would be
Another story. I have made my peace with cats.
I am especially in love with hummingbirds (though
They're as mean as roosters in a cock fight). Have
You ever seen the storms in the eyes of men who
Were betting on a cock fight?
Last night, there was hail, thunder,
A tornado touching down in the desert—though I was
Away and was not a first hand witness. I was in another
Place, listening to the waves of the ocean crash against
The shore. Sometimes I think the sea is angry. Who
Can blame it? There are a million things to be angry
About. Have you noticed that some people don't give
A damn and just keep on shopping? Doesn't that make you
Angry? A storm is like God. You don't have to see it
To believe—sometimes you just have to place
Your faith in it. When my father walked into a room
It felt like that. Like the crashing waves. You know,
Like a storm. This is the truth of the matter: I am
The son of a storm. Look, every one has to be the son
Of something. The thing to do when you are caught
In the middle of a storm is to abandon your car,
Keep quiet. Pray. Wait. Tell that to the men
Who were sleeping on the Arizona when
The Japanese dropped their bombs. War is the worst
Kind of storm. The truth is I have never met a breathing
Human being who did not have at least one scar
On his body. Bombs and bullets do more than leave
A permanent mark on the skin. I have never liked
The expression they were out for blood.
There are days
When there are so many storms hovering around
My house that I cannot even see the blue in the sky.
My father loved the sky. He was trying to memorize
The clouds before he died. I confess to being
Jealous of the sky.
On Sunday Mornings
I picture Franz Fanon as an old man. He is looking up
At the pure African sky. He is trying to imagine how it appeared
Before the white men came. I don't want to dream all the dead
Animals we have made extinct. I want to dream a sky
Full of hummingbirds. I would like to die in such a storm.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Words, Wide Night
One of my favorites.
Words, Wide Night
-by Carol Ann Duffy
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I am singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you...
Words, Wide Night
-by Carol Ann Duffy
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I am singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you...
Geography
My first college roommate used to play this song, Heaven, for me when she wanted to put me in a better mood...it always worked, I don't know quite know why. Something so sweet about it.
I was thinking about this today at work while I was searching for songs to listen to on YouTube for background music.
_ _ _
I like Geography best, he said, because your mountains and rivers know the secret. Pay no attention to boundaries.
-StoryPeople
I was thinking about this today at work while I was searching for songs to listen to on YouTube for background music.
_ _ _
I like Geography best, he said, because your mountains and rivers know the secret. Pay no attention to boundaries.
-StoryPeople
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Ornithology
I stopped to photograph a bird today, and my day took an unexpected turn.
So, here's a poem for the birds.
And to New Orleans --the references are reminiscent, so it seems appropriate.
So, here's a poem for the birds.
And to New Orleans --the references are reminiscent, so it seems appropriate.
Ornithology
by Lynda Hull
Gone to seed, ailanthus, the poverty
tree. Take a phrase, then
fracture it, the pods' gaudy nectarine shades
ripening to parrots taking flight, all crest
and tail feathers.
A musical idea.
Macaws
scarlet and violet,
tangerine as a song
the hue of sunset where my street becomes water
and down shore this phantom city skyline's
mere hazy silhouette. The alto's
liquid geometry weaves a way of thinking,
a way of breaking
synchronistic
through time
so the girl
on the comer
has the bones of my face,
the old photos, beneath the Kansas City hat,
black fedora lifting hair off my neck
cooling the sweat of a night-long tidal
pull from bar to bar the night we went
to find Bird's grave. Eric's chartreuse
perfume. That
poured-on dress
I lived days
and nights inside,
made love
and slept in, a mesh and slur of zipper
down the back. Women smoked the boulevards
with gardenias afterhours, asphalt shower-
slick, ozone charging air with sixteenth
notes, that endless convertible ride to find
the grave
whose sleep and melody
wept neglect
enough to torch us
for a while
through snare-sweep of broom on pavement,
the rumpled musk of lover's sheets, charred
cornices topping crosstown gutted buildings.
Torches us still-cat screech, matte blue steel
of pistol stroked across the victim's cheek
where fleet shoes
jazz this dark
and peeling
block, that one.
Vine Street, Olive.
We had the music, but not the pyrotechnics—
rhinestone straps lashing my shoes, heels sinking
through earth and Eric in casual drag,
mocha cheekbones rouged, that flawless
plummy mouth. A style for moving,
heel tap and lighter flick,
lion moan
of buses pulling away
through the static
brilliant fizz of taffeta on nyloned thighs.
Light mist, etherous, rinsed our faces
and what happens when
you touch a finger to the cold stone
that jazz and death played down to?
Phrases.
Take it all
and break forever—
a man
with gleaming sax, an open sill in summertime,
and the fire-escape's iron zigzag tumbles
crazy notes to a girl cooling her knees,
wearing one of those dresses no one wears
anymore, darts and spaghetti straps, glitzy
fabrics foaming
an iron bedstead.
The horn's
alarm, then fluid brass chromatics.
Extravagant
ailanthus, the courtyard's poverty tree is spike
and wing, slate-blue
mourning dove,
sudden cardinal flame.
If you don't live it, it won't come out your horn.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
tables for two
tables for two
-jaymay
promise you'll meet me
send the scenery
tables for two
i'll pose so sweetly
my heartbeat
is completely for you
and, capture my color
watercolor the ocean blue
we'll seaweed each other
the seashell i save
shall be you
i was made for a painting
and you, darling you,
were made for me
your eyes are mountains
i kiss your mouth and
then i forget my mind
i climb inside your vision
just to fill the spaces
in your blind
i sleep like the ocean
i move to motion
memories of you
i awake to the notion
my sea would calm
if only you knew
-jaymay
promise you'll meet me
send the scenery
tables for two
i'll pose so sweetly
my heartbeat
is completely for you
and, capture my color
watercolor the ocean blue
we'll seaweed each other
the seashell i save
shall be you
i was made for a painting
and you, darling you,
were made for me
your eyes are mountains
i kiss your mouth and
then i forget my mind
i climb inside your vision
just to fill the spaces
in your blind
i sleep like the ocean
i move to motion
memories of you
i awake to the notion
my sea would calm
if only you knew
Saturday, December 24, 2011
two coffees
i'm calling from the diner
the diner on the corneri ordered two coffeesone is for youthe cupsare so closethe steam is risingin one streamhow are you
-the diner, ani difranco
For anyone who's having a challenging Christmas, this cup is for you.
I'm thinking of you. I hope that helps a little.
"if you should happen to see my light you can stop and ring my bell"
-recoil, ani difranco
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)