Seen on the side of a highway in South Jersey: a group of ninjas paying their respects to a fallen comrade. A small ninja mournfully twirling small nunchucks. Another (priest?) holding a bible or its martial arts equivalent. Two setting themselves on fire, rolling to put it out in synchronized sad motion.
Let no ninja fight on this day; let no wall be climbed. Let none defy gravity; nor no individual shoot lasers from her or his eyes. In the secret outpost the reading torch has gone out and no one bats an eye. There's one I know who usually tells jokes; today he's got nothing to say and when you rouse him he just wants to point out that death takes each man but why this man now? Why is death selective?
Leave the graveyard razed and burning to the ground; it wasn't on purpose so much as fallout from a stop drop and roll gone wrong. Tomorrow there'll be another funeral; soon the ninjati may only live in memory, the stuff of faded, forgotten myth.
I knew it had gotten bad, but I had no idea it had gotten this bad.
8.13.2009
8.12.2009
mariposa
You're sitting on a warm bench in an isolated garden at the edge of town, a garden that seems so empty it could be an abyss until this butterfly catches your attention.
One thing about this creature is the mode of its flight, recombined on itself in stop-time at complementary angles as though G-d were cutting and pasting sloppy animation. Then you notice the colors, the black circles that decorate the tips of its wings. The form of its abdomen.
Its flight path's lit by a green ray of spring. Where could it want to fly, only recently drunk on dew or pollen, now with its back to you, intent on a flower.
And if it disappears beyond the wall (because it's a small garden or through excess speed), make a mental picture. Trace its path along the green ray, where it stretches to the horizon. Or picture where it and the ray diverge paths; now the ray proceeds forever and the butterfly could be anywhere, you'll never find it. Maybe it'll flicker back or leave you here, in this garden at the edge of town, at the edge of the known world.
(for/at/from Nicanor Parra)
One thing about this creature is the mode of its flight, recombined on itself in stop-time at complementary angles as though G-d were cutting and pasting sloppy animation. Then you notice the colors, the black circles that decorate the tips of its wings. The form of its abdomen.
Its flight path's lit by a green ray of spring. Where could it want to fly, only recently drunk on dew or pollen, now with its back to you, intent on a flower.
And if it disappears beyond the wall (because it's a small garden or through excess speed), make a mental picture. Trace its path along the green ray, where it stretches to the horizon. Or picture where it and the ray diverge paths; now the ray proceeds forever and the butterfly could be anywhere, you'll never find it. Maybe it'll flicker back or leave you here, in this garden at the edge of town, at the edge of the known world.
(for/at/from Nicanor Parra)
155 emails
Today I sent 155 business-related emails and I can't remember the content of a single one I'd made plans to have lunch with my brother but by the time I'd finished emailing it was 3pm my brother was gracious and agreed to meet me for a late late lunch I finally got underway but on the way I hit a flash flood and got there at more like 4 by that point my sister her son and our kid brother had arrived and I sent a few more emails and then somebody wanted to talk on the phone in reply to the email so we talked on the phone and made plans to talk longer on the phone tomorrow then I set my phone and my computer on fire extinguishing the fire in a cloud of piss and fury and we all went for something like early dinner.
What it was was excellent Chinese the home-style bean curd perfectly soft my siblings and I don't always sit together in one place these days there are usually thousands of miles preventing that I was mad not to have the brain space to focus on this rare rainbow comet confluence and this is why I dislike the architecture of Microsoft software so much because I have unwittingly come to live inside it and in my sent items is a sad history of affirmations logistical coordinates occasional flashes of humor or warmth recommendations for fixing words fixing words and grovelingly polite requests for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I was at just about the mental level where smiling and making goofy faces at my nephew felt ambitious but achievable then in a flash he transcended my mental age and wanted more than I could possibly provide conversationally my brothers and my sister started a game where in at least one word per sentence you alter the pronunciation to make that word sound utterly different though still recognizable, to avoid cliche. It was almost nice to be so slow and fried I couldn't drive the game much myself, because I could just appreciate how smart, how present, how memorable they were.
What it was was excellent Chinese the home-style bean curd perfectly soft my siblings and I don't always sit together in one place these days there are usually thousands of miles preventing that I was mad not to have the brain space to focus on this rare rainbow comet confluence and this is why I dislike the architecture of Microsoft software so much because I have unwittingly come to live inside it and in my sent items is a sad history of affirmations logistical coordinates occasional flashes of humor or warmth recommendations for fixing words fixing words and grovelingly polite requests for hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I was at just about the mental level where smiling and making goofy faces at my nephew felt ambitious but achievable then in a flash he transcended my mental age and wanted more than I could possibly provide conversationally my brothers and my sister started a game where in at least one word per sentence you alter the pronunciation to make that word sound utterly different though still recognizable, to avoid cliche. It was almost nice to be so slow and fried I couldn't drive the game much myself, because I could just appreciate how smart, how present, how memorable they were.
8.11.2009
advice for the interviewee
You've just landed an interview for a seemingly wonderful job! Now what? Successful interviewing will be essential in order for you to lock in an offer. Here are some tips and strategies for effective interviewing from preparation through follow up.
1. Smile, be polite, and try to relax. The economy sucks and your kids are dying of malnutrition. What can you do? Put that shit out of your mind. Picture yourself on your first vacation from the new job, in the Bahamas with a whore fluent in American Sign Language, a line of coke the size of a jungle cat and all the god-damned Ovaltine you can drink.
2. Don't shit on the table -- yet. Avoid shitting on the table during the opening moments of the interview. It can even be a risk later, when first impressions are being cemented into firm evaluations. By the same token, if you're going to do it, own it, bring a newspaper and squat comfortably and pronouncedly, as if you do this all the time. Make them doubt their grip on consensus reality and the job's yours.
3. Be upbeat and make positive statements. If you're going to bring a gun it's important to think about what kind of message you're going to send. Conventional wisdom will tell you the bigger the gun, the more effective the message, but that isn't always true. A well-aimed .22 magnum mini revolver can leave much more of an impression than a haphazardly fired Negev light machine gun. According to recent research from Accenture, nearly half (40 percent) of major corporate decisions are based on the good 'ole gut.
4. Make frequent eye contact. Do not blink even once.
5. Tell a feel-good story about a prostitute with a heart of gold. Preferably early on; declare that you'd like to use it as a formal introduction to yourself and your work, then refer to it throughout the interview for emphasis.
1. Smile, be polite, and try to relax. The economy sucks and your kids are dying of malnutrition. What can you do? Put that shit out of your mind. Picture yourself on your first vacation from the new job, in the Bahamas with a whore fluent in American Sign Language, a line of coke the size of a jungle cat and all the god-damned Ovaltine you can drink.
2. Don't shit on the table -- yet. Avoid shitting on the table during the opening moments of the interview. It can even be a risk later, when first impressions are being cemented into firm evaluations. By the same token, if you're going to do it, own it, bring a newspaper and squat comfortably and pronouncedly, as if you do this all the time. Make them doubt their grip on consensus reality and the job's yours.
3. Be upbeat and make positive statements. If you're going to bring a gun it's important to think about what kind of message you're going to send. Conventional wisdom will tell you the bigger the gun, the more effective the message, but that isn't always true. A well-aimed .22 magnum mini revolver can leave much more of an impression than a haphazardly fired Negev light machine gun. According to recent research from Accenture, nearly half (40 percent) of major corporate decisions are based on the good 'ole gut.
4. Make frequent eye contact. Do not blink even once.
5. Tell a feel-good story about a prostitute with a heart of gold. Preferably early on; declare that you'd like to use it as a formal introduction to yourself and your work, then refer to it throughout the interview for emphasis.
8.10.2009
vision
I got home late from work and everyone was out late too, so I took a walk to unwind. To the center of town. It was hot and the streets were pretty empty. A woman walking a dog, a kid on a bike, not much else.
I thought about buying some cigarettes and headed in the general direction of Wawa, but that felt like too momentous of a decision (buying smokes in Paris is one thing, buying them in Jersey would be a level of commitment I'm not ready for).
So I cut the circuit short, turning back toward our street. Pines and crooked concrete, vaguely functional street lighting. A cicada fell to a dark patch of sidewalk, skittering in frustration to bury itself in the concrete like a piece of a sound wave falling out of the sky and I had this vision for the rest of my walk of all the creatures on earth stricken sudden with that death dance, every living creature fallen to the ground and twitching its last.
When I got home I felt better.
I thought about buying some cigarettes and headed in the general direction of Wawa, but that felt like too momentous of a decision (buying smokes in Paris is one thing, buying them in Jersey would be a level of commitment I'm not ready for).
So I cut the circuit short, turning back toward our street. Pines and crooked concrete, vaguely functional street lighting. A cicada fell to a dark patch of sidewalk, skittering in frustration to bury itself in the concrete like a piece of a sound wave falling out of the sky and I had this vision for the rest of my walk of all the creatures on earth stricken sudden with that death dance, every living creature fallen to the ground and twitching its last.
When I got home I felt better.
8.09.2009
social engineering
There are a few books Nat likes. His taste is for action adventure -- for short novels with exaggerated plot curves and without introspection. Not yet 2, our son has his finger on the pulse of the current literary milieu. Career moves: freelance literary agent, or internship with Dial Press. Open question of whether ESA standards for child labor apply to infants in publishing.
At bedtime tonight I was trying to read him something a little too long for his taste. Then I picked up another one. It must have read to him like the kid equivalent of tax forms, or the Necronomicon or something. He kept throwing the books on the ground, then he squirmed out of my lap, lowered himself to crawl and bee-lined for the bedroom door. It was shut so I just watched him. First he reached for the handle, which he realized was out of reach.
He turned and sized up the crib, for whether he might climb it, then open the door. Then he looked to the footrest for the rocker, and the night stand. He came back and started pulling books from the night stand. But I wouldn't let him take the lamp down. For reasons that weren't clear (I think to distract me) he tried to pull the child-proof caps out of the electrical socket. Then he went back to unpiling books from the night stand.
Finally, realizing that he had a much easier option in sight, Nat held up his hand. I took it and walked him out of the room. Social engineering: some doors you open yourself; sometimes the best way around locked doors is to ask someone to open them.
At bedtime tonight I was trying to read him something a little too long for his taste. Then I picked up another one. It must have read to him like the kid equivalent of tax forms, or the Necronomicon or something. He kept throwing the books on the ground, then he squirmed out of my lap, lowered himself to crawl and bee-lined for the bedroom door. It was shut so I just watched him. First he reached for the handle, which he realized was out of reach.
He turned and sized up the crib, for whether he might climb it, then open the door. Then he looked to the footrest for the rocker, and the night stand. He came back and started pulling books from the night stand. But I wouldn't let him take the lamp down. For reasons that weren't clear (I think to distract me) he tried to pull the child-proof caps out of the electrical socket. Then he went back to unpiling books from the night stand.
Finally, realizing that he had a much easier option in sight, Nat held up his hand. I took it and walked him out of the room. Social engineering: some doors you open yourself; sometimes the best way around locked doors is to ask someone to open them.
8.08.2009
ghost girl
I'm always finding stuff when I mow the lawn, particularly in the back yard. Last time it was some kind of bone--which I put in the rose bed to look at more closely later and then couldn't find. (There are a couple of bricks and flat big stones in one corner of the yard, which probably represent where the outhouse used to be, but also always seem to demarcate a miniature graveyard, markers of lives far past, energy long from active but faintly humming or glowing at the periphery of perception).
This most recent time I found a rusty pin about 2.5 inches in diameter from Walt Disney World. Top to bottom it read as follows:
1. Happy Birthday (pre-printed, arc across top)
2. Cake, three layers with "9" written in magic marker.
3. Tablecloth or snow-topped hillside supporting the cake, with the name "Kate" written in the same marker, flanked by Mickey Mouse heads on either side.
4. Cursive "Walt Disney World," pre-printed.
5. Where Dreams Come True, pre-printed.
The pin was rusted and discolored, but I couldn't figure out in an image search what year it dated from.
Spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a treacly novel called "Kate's Room," about a couple who move out to the suburbs, to an old house they soon discover is haunted by the ghost of a 9 year old girl. They can't have children of their own, see, and for whatever reason adoption isn't their bag. At first fright the ghost just seems like a final insult from the world.
The ghost has a young girl's taste and objects until they furnish her room properly, etc. Eventually the couple and the ghost girl become friends. The novel doesn't end happily ever after, but it ends brightly enough, with the couple realizing that they might find happiness in the suburbs, a woman, her husband, and a bright little ghost girl with a world of potential. A sort of magic realist response to "Revolutionary Road."
This most recent time I found a rusty pin about 2.5 inches in diameter from Walt Disney World. Top to bottom it read as follows:
1. Happy Birthday (pre-printed, arc across top)
2. Cake, three layers with "9" written in magic marker.
3. Tablecloth or snow-topped hillside supporting the cake, with the name "Kate" written in the same marker, flanked by Mickey Mouse heads on either side.
4. Cursive "Walt Disney World," pre-printed.
5. Where Dreams Come True, pre-printed.
The pin was rusted and discolored, but I couldn't figure out in an image search what year it dated from.
Spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a treacly novel called "Kate's Room," about a couple who move out to the suburbs, to an old house they soon discover is haunted by the ghost of a 9 year old girl. They can't have children of their own, see, and for whatever reason adoption isn't their bag. At first fright the ghost just seems like a final insult from the world.
The ghost has a young girl's taste and objects until they furnish her room properly, etc. Eventually the couple and the ghost girl become friends. The novel doesn't end happily ever after, but it ends brightly enough, with the couple realizing that they might find happiness in the suburbs, a woman, her husband, and a bright little ghost girl with a world of potential. A sort of magic realist response to "Revolutionary Road."
8.06.2009
idea for pharmaceutical
RePatria, the drug to restore one's inner patriot.
RePatria may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking it and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat.
RePatria can cause side effects that may impair your thinking or reactions. Until you know how this medication will affect you during waking hours, be careful if you drive, operate machinery, pilot an airplane, or do anything that requires you to be awake and alert. You may feel sleepy for one or more election cycles.
Some people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating, or human history and later have had no memory of the activity. If this happens to you, stop taking RePatria and talk with your doctor about another treatment for your grave national doubt.
Ad campaign: before and after RePatria. Unlikely spokespersons (Bin Laden, Charles Manson, etc.)
RePatria may cause a severe allergic reaction. Stop taking it and get emergency medical help if you have any of these signs of an allergic reaction: hives; difficulty breathing; swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat.
RePatria can cause side effects that may impair your thinking or reactions. Until you know how this medication will affect you during waking hours, be careful if you drive, operate machinery, pilot an airplane, or do anything that requires you to be awake and alert. You may feel sleepy for one or more election cycles.
Some people using this medicine have engaged in activity such as driving, eating, or human history and later have had no memory of the activity. If this happens to you, stop taking RePatria and talk with your doctor about another treatment for your grave national doubt.
Ad campaign: before and after RePatria. Unlikely spokespersons (Bin Laden, Charles Manson, etc.)
8.05.2009
travel yarn
When you go to Cortázar's grave you have to bring something. I thought about leaving a motivational note or a little stone, a Metro Card or a Lonely Planet guide. Nat didn't weigh in, he just munched on a piece of French bread. In the end I couldn't figure anything out and it started to rain.
On this trip we learned that Nat and French bread are soul mates. You can take the kid anywhere in Paris in any weather condition and if he has a piece of bread, he's fine. No bread, another story entirely. Though Nat likes French bread, he dislikes gendarmes, and dislikes French prison yet more.
In fairness to my son (and for the benefit of my fellow travelers) I should also note that, contrary to the spirit of family bonding, Napoleon III's bed is no longer suitable for use as a changing table, nor is his chamber pot intended for use by the general public.
Confinement allowed for meditation. Upon our release it struck me that I could leave a ball of yarn on JC's grave. Though we spent our remaining week wandering Paris, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, on our last day, L. took us to the Montparnasse Monoprix. In place of yarn I could only find a spool of thread, but it would have to suffice. Nat selected a pan viennoise.
When we got back to the gravesite I laid the spool on the grave. Nat had eaten most of the viennoise but he threw down the piece he had left, in case our man was hungry.
On this trip we learned that Nat and French bread are soul mates. You can take the kid anywhere in Paris in any weather condition and if he has a piece of bread, he's fine. No bread, another story entirely. Though Nat likes French bread, he dislikes gendarmes, and dislikes French prison yet more.
In fairness to my son (and for the benefit of my fellow travelers) I should also note that, contrary to the spirit of family bonding, Napoleon III's bed is no longer suitable for use as a changing table, nor is his chamber pot intended for use by the general public.
Confinement allowed for meditation. Upon our release it struck me that I could leave a ball of yarn on JC's grave. Though we spent our remaining week wandering Paris, I couldn't find one anywhere. Finally, on our last day, L. took us to the Montparnasse Monoprix. In place of yarn I could only find a spool of thread, but it would have to suffice. Nat selected a pan viennoise.
When we got back to the gravesite I laid the spool on the grave. Nat had eaten most of the viennoise but he threw down the piece he had left, in case our man was hungry.
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