A small collection

...of things I have read, seen, or heard recently.

"You're an absolutest then."

"What's one of those?"

"All or nothing."

"What else is there?"

"The middle ground. Ever been there?"

"I've seen it on a map."

"You should take a trip."

"And then I can go round and round, like everyone else."

-The Powerbook

Are you a millionaire?  I am oddly entertained by this commercial. I'm sure that was the point, and it worked on me. Except I'm not going to visit my Honda dealer.

An anecdotal song... by Charlotte Martin, who also does a beautiful, rather haunting, cover of Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.

And finally, a family of pink plastic flamingos, living in the tree next to my apartment building.  There are really two families of pink plastic flamingos, but the other picture didn't turn out as well. 

Winter

Winter is right around the corner. Here are a few songs that always make me think of winter:


The Plateau - Nirvana


Far Behind  - Candlebox


The Scientist  - Coldplay


Winter Song  - Sara Bareilles & Ingrid Michaelson


Let it Snow  - Dean Martin


The Ice is Getting Thinner  - Death Cab for Cutie


There are more... but that's enough You-Tube for one night.

A Very Amusing Bottle of Wine

Ah, the wonders of wine:  A Very Amusing Bottle of Wine.

Euphemisms, the more the merrier.

If you don't already know, I am a big fan of euphemisms. I almost put the wikipedia link connected to euphemisms, but then decided it had more detail than I needed to provide. Look it up if you wish, but a simple definition suffices in this case. The nicer you can say something, the better. The less crass it sounds, the more kosher it is with me. With very few exceptions (yes, there are some exceptions and extenuating circumstances).  Let's consider a few euphemisms...wow, I sound boring- never mind. You can google some if you want them.
In addition, I love double entendres. A well-played pun, innuendo, or 'that's what she said' joke (ahh, I miss my Best Cellars days with certain co-workers), is also appreciated under the right circumstances. But that's a topic for another day.

Matter and Time

Matter, that thing the most solid and the well-known, which you are holding in your hands and which makes up your body, is now known to be mostly empty space. Empty space and points of light. What does this say about the reality of the world?

The Hopi, an Indian tribe, have a language as sophisticate as ours but no tenses for past, present, and future. The division does not exist. What does this say about time?

Excerpts following the 'dedication' page of a Jeanette Winterson novel.

p. o. p.

                                                            - k. thostenson

Push

Push. Just a little.


Pull, too.


You want to know.


Inhibition gives way.


Your impatience wins out every time.


Passivity is not in your nature.


But this is different--

no pushing, no pulling.


This time you cannot try to
 coax sentences to completion.


Partial explanations, fractured thoughts


sit suspended, unfinished.

You will yourself to wait.

****

Occupied, preoccupied

Occupied, preoccupied-

Thoughts and questions collect until the red light blinks, gracefully silent.

Wine is poured.

Fingertips form sentences, half rethought, revised, rewritten.

In the third person, life is a simpler place. You can be omniscient.

Answers to questions are on the next page.

More wine is poured.

Instead, we live in the first person. The unknowns collect and reverberate--

occupy, preoccupy.

****

Peeling

peeling, revealing

articulating ‘just so’

covering, coating

as phases go

sentences, phrases

both define and obscure

layer after layer

daring, demure

Maybe I Should Become a Hipster

I’ve been tossing around the idea of becoming a hipster. I’m not sure if that’s the way it’s done- that you think about it for a while and wake up one day and say, “Yes, I’ve decided. I will now be a Hipster.”  Instead, maybe you watch a documentary, and it opens your eyes to the merits of “hipster-dom.”  Or you Wikipedia it. 

Maybe it doesn’t happen any of those ways. But, I’ve been thinking who doesn’t want to wear:

Skinny jeans:

A basic fitted T (or better yet, one with a 1980’s cartoon character):

A plain navy cardigan:

And fleece lined loafers (I think the fleece is optional, but perfect for fall):

It looks like the most comfortable outfit on the planet. Maybe we should all give it a shot. So pull out your skinny jeans, fitted t-shirt, cardigan,  & loafers, put it all on and go get some groceries. See how it feels. You might like it.  Let me know...

Mother Jones

This is a good story.  I wish you could hear Utah Phillips tell it.  Well, technically you can.  I have the audio version.  So, let me know if you want me to burn you a copy.  I'm sure you could google it too. He has another good story about Norwegian immigrants in the northwest (Spokane Free Speech Fight)- the track is called 'Direct Action' on the Fellow Workers CD...  Anyway,  here is the Mother Jones story.


Mother Jones (as told by Utah Phillips).

I was traveling through Illinois when I was invited to stop and sing at a
memorial, there in the little town of Mount Olive. Now, who of note in
American history is buried in the cemetary at Mount Olive, Illinois? I'll give
you a hint: it was a woman, it was the Union Miners' Cemetary. D'you have it
yet? Mary Harris. Mary Harris Jones. Mother Jones.

It's hard for the mind to encompass a life that embraced the presidencies
between Andrew Jackson and Herbert Hoover; why, when Mother Jones was a little
girl there were people still alive who remembered the Revolutionary War. And
she died on the eve of the New Deal. Her millinery shop burned down in the
Chicago fire, and she had heard Abraham Lincoln speak - in person.

Mostly though, Mother Jones was the miners' friend. Down in Kentucky,
Tennessee, West Virginia. Well, the men'd be organizing the underground
workers, the miners; Mother Jones had already organized their wives and led
them over the snow-covered game trails down into the hollows, where, armed with
mops and brooms, they drove the scabs out of the coal pits.

Now, Mother Jones wasn't an organizer; she was an agitator. Which meant often
enough she was hated as much by the organizers as by the bosses. One time
Mother Jones was out in Colorado at the great Ludlow strike. Now that was a
strike to enforce the eight-hour day, which the state of Colorado had made a
law; but they couldn't enforce it, cause Rockefeller owned the militia. Now,
the governor promised not to send the militia into the coal fields, but he
lied, and he did. Mother Jones was in the union hall down there at Ludlow and
word came that the militia had entered the coal fields. Well, she leapt up and
she screamed, "Let's go get the sons of bitches!" and she stormed out. She
didn't look to see if anybody was following her.

Nobody was following her. She just flounced up the road alone and confronted
the militia. And that was the year that president Theodore Roosevelt called
Mother Jones "the most dangerous woman in America." And she was eighty-three
years old. That's some kind of dangerous.

Strawberries and Cream

Starbucks has temporarily become my new hang-out. Yes, I'm only here for the free wifi. The strawberries and cream drink I have right now is quite tasty though... Hopefully after tomorrow, Starbucks will see less of me. But I've been saying that for days now.  Moving has its challenges. I especially dislike the ones that involve spelling my name over the phone. I should be able to laugh at how predictably bad it goes every time, but still haven't quite gotten to that point.  But that's another story. Anyway, as I unpack I come across items that bring back memories. I have folders of poetry, both stuff I've written and collected. Here are a few old ones that I flipped through recently.

****

Summer 

    -kari thostenson

  

In certain hours of the slow evening,

she considers her…

She is alone

         cooking, rearranging objects.

She has been alone for some time.

It is not clear how long.

At least weekly she wakes, finding her shape self-conscious.

         Nothing but the quietness of her own actions:

the muted scenes of showering, then breakfast.

Daily she slips among the crowds, in streets, stores

camouflaged, comfortable.

Here this independence is celebrated,

her solitariness forgotten.

Then, in certain hours of the slow evening,

rush hour begins for some, but not her.

She walks home, drops her bag, removes her shoes,

and the silence settles in…

She is alone,

         cooking, rearranging objects.

she has been alone for some time now

It is (almost) clear how long.

  

****

Auroras

                             -Joanna Klink

It began in a foyer of evenings
The evenings left traces of glass in the trees
A book and a footpath we followed
Under throat-pipes of birds

We moved through a room of leaves
Thin streams of silver buried under our eyes
A field of white clover buried under our eyes
Or a river we stopped at to watch
The wind cross it. Recross it

Room into room you paused
Where once on a stoop we leaned back
Talking late into daylight
The morning trees shook off twilight
Opening and closing our eyes auroras

Beyond groves and flora we followed a path
Dotted with polished brown bottles,
Scoured furrows, a wood emptied of trees

It was enough to hollow us out
The evenings left grasses half-wild at our feet
Branches with spaces for winds

The earth changes
The way we speak to each other has changed
As for a long while we stood in a hall full of exits
Listening for a landscape beyond us

Science

The Sciences Sing a Lullaby

                  -Albert Goldbarth

Physics says: go to sleep. Of course

you're tired. Every atom in you

has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes

nonstop from mitosis to now.

Quit tapping your feet. They'll dance

inside themselves without you. Go to sleep.

Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch

by inch America is giving itself

to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness

lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.

You aren't alone. All of the continents used to be

one body. You aren't alone. Go to sleep.

Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow,

Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,

Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so

Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town

and

History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

Post-Turkey or Tofurky

If you need some entertainment, post-turkey or tofurky (or pizza or chinese food)... Pour another glass of wine and check out these two short YouTube videos.

Revenge of the Black Prius

Tea Partay

Time For A Little Garfunkel & Oates

Yes, that's right. Garfunkel and Oates. No, I'm not confused and combining the names of two separate, well-known, musical duos.

If you are yet unaware of the quirky greatness of Garfunkel and Oates, here's your chance to make yourself acquainted.  Both musical and humorous, they've often brightened an otherwise dull hour.  **Disclaimer: if you're easily offended or put-off, I suggest you skip clicking on the links this time, and take my word for it. It's not for 'everyone', and you might be 'everyone' this time. I believe it's all in good fun, but I don't want hate mail and to some they might be crossing the line. And as always, some are better than others.

For the rest of you, click away... Here are two to start:

1) You, Me, and Steve

2) Present Face  (for the impending holidays)

And as always, some are better than others. I won't tell you which are which though...

nomad, no more.

So, I'm finally moving into a new apartment after being a nomad (staying in different places and with different friends) for about two weeks. I'm appreciative to have such generous friends but looking forward to being in my own space again.

Here are a few things that I've missed the most, not being in my own place:

 1. My typical morning routine. It usually consists of some combination of the following things: eggs on toast, chocolate milk, NPR, the Daily Buzz (love that morning show), and a reliable sense of how long the commute to work will take me.
 2. My shower. It doesn't matter that I will have a new shower starting tomorrow. The fact that it will be my shower and have all my 'things' in it, without toting them in and out, makes it mine. Oh how I've missed my shower.
 3. Reliable internet, without having to mooch off of someone else, or use my blackberry. Having my blackberry for email has been great, but it's just not the same.
 4. My kitchen. With all of my stuff- spices, utensils, dishes, wine... Sometimes I take full advantage and spend hours cooking. Sometimes I’m just throwing together anything that takes under 5 minutes and will prevent me from being soooo hungry I snap at smallest thing. Either way, it’s a luxury to have access to your own kitchen, and I can’t wait.
5.  All of the things I have packed up in a box, which really belong in my office. Since it is my home away from home, it’s been frustrating to also not have access to all of those other little things –some functional, some decorative—that help make my office more organized, and less boring. I have numerous nondescript or slightly puzzling items that will find a permanent place in my office for reasons no one will understand but me. I like it that way.


There are others too- favorite books, my bed, band-aids (everyone knows how accident prone I am) knowing where (almost) anything is that I might ‘need’ … but those are my top 5.  

Jeggings

Jeggings- love 'em, or hate 'em, this is the funniest clip you'll see about them. 

Clink on the link -- Conan in Jeggings -- and have a good laugh. Hilarious. Well-worth 5 minutes and 44 seconds of your time. It's not new, but it doesn't disappoint.

Fink

A few years ago, I went to a gallery showing of Larry Fink's Photography with my dear friend, the very lovely Ms. O.  We had a terrific time drinking wine and exchanging stories as we wandered around the exhibit. The photography definitely left an impression on me and the following quote pretty adeptly sums up the style of photography.

“Fink’s photographs provide the opportunity to study a gesture, a smile, a surreptitious glance, even the sweat on an arm or a wrinkle of skin – comprising a kind of desire, sensuality, disappointment, or ennui.  They record the tension between one’s keenly felt public identity and the inner exigencies of the emotional psyche.”

— Susan Kismaric, Curator of Photography, The Museum of Modern Art

Okay, so I probably wouldn't have put it exactly that way, but I think you'll get the picture if you go to this website, Larry Fink Photography, and see for yourself.  Let me know if you have a favorite... 

About time...

I thought it was time to add another post to support other feminists. Sometimes I agree with them, sometimes we're not quite on the same page. However, the idea is to stimulate conversation and keep moving forward.
Here's one of the latest articles posted on SPARK.

The topic is feminist media criticism: feminist-media-criticism-and-media-creation-even-awesome-er-than-you-think.

Take a moment to take a look.

Her Morning Elegance

This morning the video for this song popped into my head. Click on the link to see the video: Her Morning Elegance

Also, here's a view of Boston from the harbor.

That's What I Said

the brisk fall weather reminds me of this poem...

That's What I Said

by April Bernard

It pricks the arms like poison,

knowing that some things, once chosen,

are yours and that meanwhile the night comes

much too soon this time of year.

There are things you will not be allowed to say.

You think them anyway, until they become you.

The two boys in shirt sleeves are in the street

again, skateboards balking

where the sidewalk buckles in geologic fault.

They seem mirthless, as they yell and fall

and the cold mist tries to veil them from passing cars.

Yesterday’s storm slammed the leaves to the ground.

Hiss, hiss, the tires go, against the scraps

of piano music, not Chopin today, from upstairs.

Someone tried to understand you once

and he’s dead, though not from trying.

Clunk, clunk, goes the landlady’s daughter,

trying out her new boots on the back stairs.

Things have narrowed to a point

and no gorgeous diction can get you out of it.

There’s just the flats of your feet,

willing each new step out of empty pockets

where change, keys, pens once rattled.

You threw them into the bushes on the next block

and then came home with the grey linings hanging

from your jacket like socks.

You forgot to check the mail

and when you opened the door

you brought the night in with you.

90% metaphor

yes,

us people are just poems

we're 90% metaphor

with a leanness of meaning

approaching hyper-distillation

and once upon a time

we were moonshine

rushing down the throat of a giraffe...

(taken from Self-Evident, by ani difranco)

Situations I, II, III

                                       -k. thostenson

I.

She

writes.

He sees,

understands.

Tension continues

as they hide beside their insight.

II.

It

slows,

circles,

comes again.

Hours blink, far from her.

Something beckons: reaches in, stirs.

III.

She

walks,

sees light,

smiles briefly

her vision veiled, then

one more day collects between them.