30 октября 2006

Mairead Byrne

It has come to my attention through The Square of the Hypotenuse that I must pay attention to the work of Mairead Byrne. Her work includes Nelson & The Huruburu Bird , a chapbook titled An Educated Heart, and the ebook China Dogs. From a not so thorough glean I notice she's funny. She's Saarcastic. She's traditional. She's avant garde. And she has a sense of truth in her writing that allows this reader to see that behind the wit there is an immense respect for what is sacred. Reading her work is entirely too enjoyable: like candy, or watching someone fall down on the ice.

Her blog is what I am currently looking at thanks to the suggestion of King Coffey and his ultimate and dynamic hair.


[From an interview we can see Mairead Byrne as a true visionary:

6) What is your favorite food?
Guinness.

7) Sports Team? or Activity?
Driving in Providence.

8) Vacation spot?
Galway.

9) Curse word?
Would you ever / Shut the fuck up. It’s not really a question.]


Being newly introduced to her work, I will give you my favorite poem so far. The blog I am using might not allow for the proper line breaks, so I apologize to the poet right now. The words are intact just the same:

When You Kiss The World

in a poem

you take its long throat

& fuck

so deep

you come

out

laughing

straight up

into

the bright face

of

God


© Mairead Byrne

bath tub blues

About 8 years ago I was renting this apartment at the top of a very old Victorian home. The landlord was nuts, but the place was great. The only problem was that I had a bathtub, no shower. I don't get baths, really. I mean, I do if you are real small and agile, but if you are aren't, then you have to deal with water displacement which makes bathtub sitting really awkward. I have tried, too. But I have to be really still because the water goes right to the top. The brim! And if I move too much, or at all, then the water pours over the side. And I see commercials where ladies are sitting in their tubs, with candles and wine, reading books and stuff! What is that? I tried to read one time in the tub, but my book got wet, and I just got irritated. Not to mention the fact that my legs sort of float to the top and then my body naturally rolls to the side, so I have to constantly reposition myself. Not to mention the reality that when you sit in a tub you are really sitting in dirty water; and I think to cover up the dirty water is the real reason for bathtub soap. I don't think it is soap at all, actually. So fuck the tub. (Disclaimer: the honeymoon suite on my wedding night had the greatest tub in the world. And thus began the idea that I, too, can enjoy tubs like the ladies).

Anyway, I quickly figured out a system which included a daily, morning head dunk. I would wash my hair by dunking my head into a tub of water because taking a full bath in the morning is satanic at best. I am not too cool in the morning either. I usually can't talk very well, and I am mean and grumpy. I would probably fall asleep in the tub and drown anyway. So I dunked out of safety and convenience. But what happened was shocking. I started noticing large amounts of hair in the tub after the head wash. I was losing my fucking hair!

And the tub head dunk reminded me of this...everyday! It was a vicious reminder akin to Roskolnikov's punishment. Anyway, the hair thing went on for a while and then it sort of stopped, and now I have balding patterns to prove it. And my hair is thinning as well. I am fucked for ever having a full head of hair again. Damn you Hastlehoff, Coffey, or anyone else with a dynamic head of hair.

Over the weekend Boogah reminded of my thinning hair. Boogs was kind enough, but I couldn't help notice a subversive grin underneath it all. And in between Jolie Holland and confronting aggressive squirrels, the conversation's tone was this:

Boogah: "oh, I wouldn't cut your hair too short. Not yet anyway. I mean, you might as well enjoy it while you have it cause I am sure it won't last forever."
Me: "yeah, right. I know. I need to learn how to enjoy my hair."
(squirrel approaches and harangues us with nitty little noises comprised equally of disgust and vitriol.)
Me: "I think that squirrel wants to eat us; But look at all the hair that squirrel has!"
Boogah: "Yeah, but rodents have to endure winter and hunger."

And then everywhere I looked I saw squirrels, balding men, or men with full heads of hair. So I was encouraged and mocked, all day long.

And now I notice I make old man noises when I get out of my chair. And I am really bothered by the fact that I even have a chair. To all my neighbors and loved ones: when you see me purchase a rack for my chair: to hold the remote, magazines, and a drink, please put me down quickly. For there is no mercy in a drink holder, and a balding man with a drink holder is no man at all.

17 октября 2006

Hitchens Redux.

First off, this entry is completely unorganized and boring. So read on at your own risk:

In recent weeks, between getting married and moving in the Russians, I have been reading some really interesting stuff.
It started with an interest in Richard Feynman and his travels to Tuva, and then I read a book about Einstein's brain that my brother gave me. This all culminated and withstood a resurgence of Russian history by way of Orlando Figes and The People's Tragedy, and has emerged in American Prometheus, a history of Robert Oppenheimer, written by Kai Bird and Martin Sherwin.

Anyway, in an effort to update this blog I will discuss some of this here. The book on Oppenheimer has challenged me to reassess the politics of today as we trudge through this war in Iraq, heading toward a new political season of elections, promises, and pundits. I am a political junky and look forward to the days approaching. I am also interested in our subversive government and the power of the Bush/Cheney junta. These are very interesting and terrifying times. Nobody can be trusted. The Bush regime has infected the American people with a scourge of political abuses and lies. An unfocused war with seemingly no end in sight. And yet Bush dressed up in flight garb on an aircraft carrier that day long ago, declaring victory and "mission accomplished." A bit premature? All of this has been said before, but I am constantly amazed how little the American public speaks up, out, or at all. Nothing but silence as we continue this war fueled by fear and lies; and against a phantasmagoria that has no face or central identity. Hatred is invisible. It exists everywhere and nowhere. We cannot fight it with linear tactics. The complexities of this age are astounding.

This brings me to three things: Robert Oppenheimer, Tom Paine, and Christopher Hitchens.

All are brilliant thinkers (even Hitch's article in Vanity Fair on the history of the blow job was really, really interesting...believe me!). And all live(d) in extraordinary times. Thus I dig what they do. I have used Tom Paine in the classroom in an effort to challenge student perceptions by presenting ideas regarding responsibility, citizenship, and democracy. After all, as Jill Lepore writes in this months New Yorker, Tom Paine's Common Sense would "convince the American people of what more than a decade of taxes and nearly a year of war had not: that it was nothing less than their destiny to declare independence from Britian." Not bad for a radical.

But behind the presence of Oppenheimer, Paine, and Hitchens, it is their ideas that explode like bombs. And it is their ideas which make them targets to a larger populace. I do not pretend to align Hitchens with Paine and Oppenheimer’s accomplishments and contributions, but I do align the originality of their thoughts.

This brings me to the question of Christopher Hitchens. Ever since my brother turned me onto Hitchens's Letters to a Young Contrarian I have been interested in his work and ideas as they drastically change and challenge those who read and know him. He was once a scrapper for the Left and now a strong supporter of the Bush regime and the war in Iraq. He is now one of the only right wing journalists I read and respect. He has clarity, intelligence, and a gift for writing arguments. What is challenging, for me, is tracing the shifting thoughts of Hitchens while understanding my own. It seems that Hitchens jumped ship in order to sell books. I know this is cynical, but even though I enjoy his work immensly, he seems to be an opportunist. Ian Parker nails it right when he writes, “did Hitchens maintain high principles while the left drifted from him, or did he lose himself in vanity and ambition?” I do not praise the right nor support it, but have moved further and further to a center, independent ground where there are no walls of identity to any party. Democrats are a pathetic party with no center. The only chance they have is in Obama and the fall from grace the Republicans have been facing in the last half year. But these are just idle musings. So how does one go about embracing such a monolithic GOP? To complicate the Hitchens’ question even further, and to show you what a cool writer he is, I will quote at length from Letters to a Young Contrarian:

"There is a saying from Roman antiquity: "Fiat justitia - ruat caelum"; "Do justice, and let the skies fall." In every epoch, there have been those to argue that "greater" goods, such as tribal solidarity or social cohesion, take precedence over justice. It is supposed to be an axiom of "western" civilization that the individual, or the truth, may not be sacrificed to hypothetical benefits such as "order". But such immolations have in fact been common. Zola could be the pattern for any serious and humanistic radical, because he not only asserted the inalienable rights of the individual, but generalized his assault to encompass the vile roles played by clericalism, racial hatred, militarism and the fetishisation of "the nation". His caustic and brilliant epistolary campaign of 1897-8 may be read as a curtain-raiser for most of the great contests that roiled the coming 20th century . . .
I think often of my late friend Ron Ridenhour, who became briefly famous when, as a service-man in Vietnam, he exposed the evidence of the hideous massacre of the villagers at My Lai in March 1968. One of the hardest things for anyone to face is the conclusion that his or her "own" side is in the wrong when engaged in a war. The pressure to keep silent and be a "team player" is reinforceable by the accusations of cowardice or treachery that will swiftly be made against dissenters. Sinister phrases of coercion, such as "stabbing in the back" or "giving ammunition to the enemy" have their origin in this dilemma and are always available to help compel unanimity.
I have had the privilege of meeting a number of brave dissidents in many and various societies. Frequently, they can trace their careers to an incident in early life where they felt obliged to take a stand. Sometimes, too, a precept is offered and takes root. Bertrand Russell records in his autobiography that his Puritan grandmother "gave me a Bible with her favourite texts written on the fly-leaf. Among these was 'Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil.' Her emphasis upon this text led me in later life to be not afraid of belonging to small minorities." It's affecting to find the future hammer of the Christians being "confirmed" in this way.
There is good reason to think that such reactions arise from something innate rather than something inculcated: Nickleby doesn't know until the moment of the crisis that he is going to stick up for poor Smike. Noam Chomsky recalls hearing of the obliteration of Hiroshima as a young man, and experiencing a need for solitude because there was nobody he felt he could talk to. It may be that you, my dear X, recognize something of yourself in these instances; a disposition to resistance, however slight, against arbitrary authority or witless mass opinion, or a thrill of recognition when you encounter some well-wrought phrase from a free intelligence.
Do bear in mind that the cynics have a point, of a sort, when they speak of the "professional nay-sayer". To be in opposition is not to be a nihilist. And there is no decent or charted way of making a living at it. It is something you are, and not something you do."

02 октября 2006

Falling to Earth

This isn't going to be a lame entry about fate, love, or any of that other non-scientific stuff. No way! This is all about Madonna nearly getting the chance to go to the moon via Russian space craft. Seems the chance is still open, only she will have to wait a few years.

The headline from Russian News and Information Agency reads:

Madonna could be sent into space in 2009.

I can't have that. I can't have Madonna just leave us for space. She already left us for London, now she wants to orbit the earth? No way. I have been through some seriously tough times in my 30 years. I watched as she went from "lucky star" to "borderline" to the jarring "material girl" bit which only proved less jarring by the "papa dont preach" bit which was only proved a little less jarring by the video for "live to tell" from the 1986 epic picture "at close range" where I think she wore a Laura Ashley dress and it messed with my 10 year old sensibilities so badly. I forgot all about lucky star and shit.

Maybe she should go to the moon. I mean, after all, she is in great shape. And she could do a lot for the moon and its people. As of right now, we go to space a lot, and the Russians do too. They have to, I think. After all, they are constantly living in the shadow of space dogs like Dezik and Tsygan who are really awesome space dogs! They rock and they know it. Part of their problem became the ego, but that is for another story. These dogs are wicked cause they withstood some serious shit. I mean, space travel is not as easy as you think it is. For instance, wikipedia gives a pretty good example of how badass these dogs are. Check this out:

"Their training included standing still for long periods of time, wearing space suits, being placed in simulators that acted like a rocket during launch, riding in centrifuges that simulated the high acceleration of a rocket launch and being kept in progressively smaller cages to prepare them for the confines of the space capsules. Dogs that flew in orbit were fed a nutritious gel."

I bet that Gel they ate was the best! I wonder what color it was? I love these dogs. They eat gel and shit and stand for long periods of time. That's awesome!

But we go to space a lot too. We go up there all the time and fix stuff. We don't do much else up there but tinker around. Sometimes they go up there to fix the space station, and sometimes they just tinker around with the shuttle itself cause whenever that thing goes real fast things start to fall off of it. And so they patch it up and then when they are done they get online and send messages back to the CBS evening news. They wave a lot too, and it all looks like some serious space shit. They are really smart. And they pee in their pants! I love that. I wish I could do that. I can see why planets get changed and stuff. It gets really techincal in space.

I guess Madonna going up there wouldn't be the worst thing. I mean, she could come home and make a movie about it. And, her dude husband could make a really interesting movie about it too cause that is what he does, and maybe Brad Pitt could be in it? He could play Angelina Jolie's husband, and fly fish in a river or something. That would be really emotional and cool. Crying is cool when it involves movies and space. But I dont think they can cry in space cause there is no oxygen so there are no tears; and if you did cry in heaven they would float off your face anyway so it doesn't even matter about it.

At the end of the day I guess I am just jealous. I want to pee my pants in space and hang out with dogs and stuff. I want to be a hero like that. Space is cool as hell.

Deer diary...

I hate Deer. I will never understand the phenomenon of people stopping and saying, "oh look, a deer!" Oh, look, nature. I mean there is a real hierarchy with animals, and I don't like it. Nobody talks about squirrels (except this nurse I once knew, and she saw some shit, 3rd shift). Nobody stops to look at raccoons. It is the same principle behind people stopping and looking at planes flying. Who cares? Planes quit being cool after Kitty Hawk or some shit, and even then they were only cool cause some dude was strapped in and running, and you knew he was going to crash; but dudes still stare when jets fly over, and you can feel the thinking: "oh yeah, back in 1977 I used to fly Corsairs. Damn good bird. She and I used to log hundreds of hours, and honestly, if I hadn't a lost my eyes while arm wrestling at the Fair (He did. 1983, my dad's eyes popped out of his head at the Fair. To this day we still don't go, not cause it is sad, but he can't really drive anymore either), that steel beauty coulda been my lover forever!" Or so the story goes that one fishing trip in 1991. But whatever, mom and dad's relationship doesn't change the fact that I'm going to kill a Deer. Has nothing to do with how I was raised or that I listened to Ozzy or D.R.I. as a child. What it has to do with is death promises.

So last night I found myself driving and I noticed it was getting dark. Then I noticed I was being held hostage in my car by Deer on the road. They were everywhere last night. I slowed to a crawl in an effort to not disturb the perfect balance and harmony I had achieved careening through nature in my Nissan, but then it occurred to me, somewhere around Eddyville, that the Deer don't even care about it. They don't care about balance. They only care about eating, mating, and jumping over fences. In a way, they remind me of myself on the weekend. Except jumping over fences is sometimes really difficult for me, especially in the winter time when the cold sets in on my pants, and Deer never seem to have this trouble; but maybe that is because they don't wear pants. If they did they would probably value their life more than they do.

So I was held hostage for 2 hours on highway 163. At one point this skinny Deer ran out in front of me and then jumped over a fence. I thought it was really inapropriate timing. I decided from that point that I would speed up in an effort to drive through them. To destroy them. I am an American. I don't run from nothing, and since you aren't a horse you aren't American and you deserve to die. So I sped up, holding on at ten and two.

I cried when I saw Bambi as a kid. But Bambi represents an older generation of Deer. A more sensible generation of Deer. They were the greatest generation; Bambi's generation. They knew who they were and what their lot was in life. If you look at pictures from antiquity you will notice that the Deer has not changed that much, so they were really ahead of their time in that. In fact, they used to be flame retardent until the 1980s rolled around. Then they got all freaked out about fire and stuff. This is the reason, some Deer people have suspected, for the changing attitude of Deer, especially when around fire. They just don't have any perspective anymore.

So here I am, was. Driving. Held hostage by Deer. The good thing is my car is red, so when I do kill them, the blood won't show. It will just mesh with the rest of the stuff I have run over. And believe me, I don't run over that much stuff, but sometimes I just find myself thinking about America and Columbus, and I don't care anymore. I just don't like things running out in front of me. I tend to think of myself as a lover of sorts, but I lose all that when you run in front of me. Even at the mall, on foot. I hate it. Let me summarize: even if, let's say, 347 retarded people (or Iraqis) ran in front of me, I would have a problem with it. My car is red, and this keeps me focused.

So fuck you, Deer. If there are any Deer reading this, remember: get out of nature what you put into it. Don't be so dumb to think that your father's father was flame resistant for nothing. So the next time you are engulfed in flames think about the logical progression and hierarchy of the horse, the zebra, and yourself. I didn't make it up, and everyone else knows this.