Monday, August 27, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
A Children's Game
Listen to the poet Sanai,
who lived seculuded: "Don't wander out on the road
in your ecstasy. Sleep in the tavern."
When a drunk strays out to the street,
children make fun of him.
He falls down in the mud.
He takes any and every road.
The children follow,
not knowing the taste of wine, or how
his drunkness feels. All people on the planet
are children, except for a very few.
No one is grown up except those free of desire.
Gone, inner and outer,
no moon, no ground or sky.
Don't hand me another glass of wine.
Pour it into my mouth.
I've lost the way to my mouth.
The wine we drink is our own blood.
Our bodies ferment in these barrels.
We give everything for a glass of this
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
I've begun reading Foucault. No doubt I'll move from my overload of posts on Deleue to an overload of posts on Foucault. Hold onto to your hats...
My dad called last night to wish me happy birthday. He told me this story: Your grandmother always said she was full blooded Native American. Her dad was on the tribal elders of the Passamaquoddy tribe in the North [of Maine].
Who knows if this is true. My family is on the dark side but I doubt if my grandmother was full-blooded as my Dad claims. Someone traced her to the MacArthur's who landed in Nova Scotia from Scotland. Someone married someone name Helen Smith (who is my great grandmother) there but there's no record of her birth, etc. I'm not sure if maybe somehow she moved to Maine and hooked up with the Passamaquoddy tribe? My dad also my grandmother remembers going to the reservation with her father who is listed as an MacAruthur. It's so convulted...these memories and stories.
And finally a wonderful quote about vinyl from the dark mind of John Rebus via Ian Rankin. For a bit of context, Rebus is left his brother's albums after his brother's death.
Rebus had waved him good-bye and stared at the gift. Then he'd eased himself down onteh floor beside the boxes and started going through them: a mono Sergeant Pepper,Let It Bleed with the Ned Kelly poster, a lot of Kinks and Taste and Free...some Van der Graaf and Steve Hillage. There were even a couple of eight-track cartridges--Killer by Alice Cooper; a Beach Boys album. A treasure trove of memories. Rebus placed the sleeves beneath his nose--the very smell of them took his back in time. Warped Hollies singles, left too long on the turntable after a party...a copy of "Silver Machine" with Mickey's writing on it--This Belongs to Michael Rebus--Paws Off!!!
And Quadrophenia, of course, its corners creased, the vinyl scarred but still playable.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
And I got to dress up!
And best of all, was H. My wonderful husband who took me out, and gave me the best present of all the morning.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Virtual objects belong essentially to the past...the virtual object is not a former present, since the quality of of the present and the modality of its passing here affect exclusively the series of hte real as this constituted by active synthesis. However, the pure past as it was defined above does qualify the virtual object; that is, the past the past as contemporaneous with its own present, as pre-existing the passing present and as that which causes the present to pass. Virtual objects are shreds of pure past" Giles Deleuze in Repetition and Difference, 101.
Last night, lying in bed between sleep and dream, drunk on Chilean white wine, and the a heady sultry summer night, I remembered something which I could not quite lay my mind on. Stories, half-formed, from books vaguley remembered. Stories of time lines running beside each other where other lives were lived. I thought about how somewhere there is another Ginger and H who married but have no children. And also a Ginger and H who did not make it. And another who never meet...and on and on...repeat a little.
And my thoughts did not end there because it is more complicated than just simply pararrell lives. There is not just the possibility of parareel lives but of mulitple lives that enfringe and touch upon each other. Those framgents of a pure past in which Ginger and H did not make enrich the lives of the Ginger and H who did make it. They exisit, fragmented, to haunt the lives that live out other possibilities.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
History is our lost referential, that is to say our myth. It is by virtue of this fact that it takes the place of myths on the screen."
in conditions under which the false becomes the mode of exploration of the true, the very space of its essential disguises or its fundamental displacement: the pseudos here becomes the pathos of the True."
I enjoy reading people's responses to books and movies. The amazon readers review provide me endless delight as do the viewers reviews on yahoo movies and IMBD. It's interesting to see how people respond to various media. So when I first saw the trailers for 300 I went to check out what people were saying. The initial buzz was one of excitement. People raved about the special effects, etc. Once the movie was releases the reviewers fell into two camps. One group decried the lack of historical accuracy well the other camp said "Hey chill, it's just a movie." I find, after watching this movie, and being a fan of historical movies, that I fall somewhere between the two camps.
For the most part, I agree with Baudrillard that history is a myth. I don't mean myth as in lie nor do I think does he. Rather history has become the story that we tell ourselves about our origin. It is interesting to me that the arguments which arise over "historical accuracy" are quite similar to the arguments that arise between fundamental Christians and their liberal counterparts over the accuracy of the Bible. We seem to have a lot in stake over "fact." What really happened, and what stories are permissible about what really happened. Yet can we ever really know these answers? Are these answers even achievable? What is a date but a date?
Thus when movie goer begins a critique with "Well it was a good movie but they got this detail all wrong..." I smile a little. How can we possibly KNOW what happened when Leonidas faced the Persian army with 300 men at his back? This story comes to us from a history written thousands of years ago. It has been translated, re-translated, etc, etc. What I want to ask these reviewers is this: Whose detail? Frank Miller's? Herodotus'? This demand for historical accuracy in a movie like 300 strikes me as quite beside the point. There is no historical accuracy to be found in such a tale. Only a myth. And myths are meant to be retold.
On the other hand, I do not agree with the idea that: Hey, it's just a movie." Movies as myths are more than lies. They are the stories that we tell ourselves about ourselves. What a good historical movie does is not give us accurate facts but rather takes lies, falseness, and gives us truth. The truth does not lie in any kind of notion of what really happened. Rather it lies in the virtual as pure past. It retells history in a way that tells us something about modernity, about our world. In 300, we see reflected back at us our attitudes about war and about freedom. The words from the Spartans' mouths have nothing to do with the myth of the Spartans (how can we ever know that) but rather these words reflect our own myths, and our own views on freedom. And I say "our" as in American. A good historical movie gives us what we need from the past. It takes historical myths and reworks them into the myths of the present. The false becomes the true. The reworking in movies like 300 and Elizabeth means that they are not just movies. They are our stories. They use history to create the aura of modernity.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Considering it Carefully
They tell me I ought to eercise to lose weight,
that around 50 it's very dangerous to smoke and be fat,
it's important to keep your figure,
and fight against time and age.
Well-meaning experts and friends who are doctors
recommend diets and systems
for prolonging life for a few more years.
I thank them with all my heart but I have to laugh
at such vain dodges and petty concern.
(Death also laughs at all such things).
The one bit of advice that I consider seriously
is to find a young woman to have in bed
because at this altitude
youth can reach us only by contagion.
And suddenly the behavior of those men at the club makes sense....now does this work in reserve as well? Will those middle aged men suck away the youth and beauty of those young gazelles on their heels? Will they wake up morning, tired and wrinkled? And then the middle aged men filled with the women's vigor will seek out more youth...
Monday, August 06, 2007
At midnight, at the last moment of August, I think
sadly about the leaves that keep falling from the calendars.
I feel that I am the tree of calendars.
Every day, my child, that goes away forever, leaves me
asking: if someone who loses a parent is an orphan, if
someone who has lost a wife is a widower, what is the
word for someone who loses a child? What is the word for
someone who loses time? And if I myself am time, what is
the word for me if I lose myself?
Day and night, not Monday or Tuesday, nor August or
September, day and night are the only measure of our
duration. To exist is to last, to open your eyes and close
Every night at this time, forever, I am the one who has lost
the day. (Even though I may feel, in the heart of this time,
the dawn climbing, like the fruit in the branches of the
My one hundredth post. Wow. It came so suddenly...came approiately enough with the end of summer. This time of year when that familar panic hits. So much to do...so much shelved in favor of the pool, the park, a good book. And now the time is gone...even now I should be doing something else.
And this blog...this simple thing, this untouchable space floating in cyberspace has come to have some importance in my life. It entered me into a net of other writers, other thinkers, some known in body, others not. This blog launched feelings long forgotten. It awakened a certain sadness but also brought the joy that always lingers around sadness.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
We discovered soon, however, that our meager money wasn't going to last long in NoDa. Overpriced is an understatement. I paid seven dollars for a glass of Chilean Blanc. I expect bars to be over priced but this was a bit much. We were going to go to one of my favorite bars in another neighborhood. It's crowded on the weekends but it's relaxed, and you can talk and check people out. But one of the mom's decided she needed to go dancing. She had a cute little skirt so we agreed.
Mom2 pointed the minivan downtown (yes minivan), and we drove around trying to figure out where to go. We knew at that point we'd have to pay a cover and we didn't want to pay a cover. Mom1 knew someone who DJed this club, The Alley Cat. He was djing and got us in for free, and got us a free beer. The band sucked. His djing was standard. The crowd was young, half naked, and looking for sex. So not my scene now or ever. The only people close to our age, looked desperate (female) or with young blond things half their age (men). No one was doing much good at picking each other up. There was lots of Jr. High staring across the room. The band sucked. They played a Clash song and I was the only one bouncing. Sigh. Some gross moron tried to bounce like right on top of me, and I had to do some punk moves to get his skinny barely of the teen years ass off me. No I didn't get picked up. Okay one kid, and I do mean kid, said "You don't dance and you have a tattoo on your boob?" I said "Are you staring at my boobs?" and he shrugged and tried to sidled up. Sigh. I used my ice persona sarcasm to make him go away. And I got hit on by the 40 year old bouncer (big bald, likely drives a Harely) who told me in response to my "I'm too old for this club." "No you're not all the young girls here are douche bags."
Basically the experience was totally the same as when I was young. May be why I never went to clubs like this. What's funny is that I am much more confident now then when I was in my 20s. Those girls were so insecure and you could smell it on them. I remember feeling like. For all my insecurities now, it is nothing like it used to be. I realized that for the most part I feel sexy, act sexy, and am pretty confident that I am sexy. I'm healthier, have a better body, and eat better than I ever did in my 20s. And it scares people. I'd watch guys try to catch my eye, and when I looked directly at them they scurried. I don't think that had to do with me looking like some kind of monster. It just scared them that I didn't giggle, or act coy or hug my arms around my body. I like who I am so much more...
And I liked that I got to come home slightly drunk to my husband and my babies. Piper woke up as soon as I walked in and toddled out to me. H woke up soon after and we cuddled while I got Piper back to sleep. Made me glad I'm out of that meat market. But it was fun, and we're already planning our next night out...