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Peter Parasol's fourth issue, "The River," is hot off the virtual presses with original writing on rivers by Geordie de Boer, Nigel Britton, Nora Gaines, Laura Goldin, Bobbi Lurie, Susannah Mandel, Alexa Mergen, and Brendan Todt.
Here's the cover picture (by Nigel) I know it took me a while to put it together. . . . this job + grad school thing really adds up. . . . but I am happy, hope you're happy too. . . .
and to prove it, here's three poems by me that just got published, Maria Antonia Von Hapsburg Recalls the Day She Lost Her Name, Marie Antoinette Performs la Toilette du Matin, and The Affair of the Necklace, in Farrago's Wainscot. Woot!
"Certain techniques are overused: mismatched lists, abrupt transitions, the reduction of a person's entire life to two or three scenes." — Borges, in the preface to the first edition of his first book of stories
I turned 31. Many good things happened but it was not a good year, so I'm not going to write as fancy a birthday post as I have in prior years. This year I:
And in the coming year I hope to:
And this is what I'm listening to today: The Most Serene Republic - Present of Future End. Peevish. Time for Emily Dickinson.
My mind works in terms of scarcity; I'll play a song over and over till I've exhausted it. Right now it's this one.
A. woke up around 6am on Election Day with a strange and epic dream, so at 6:30 we headed to the polling place, a public school. The line was around the block, but moved quickly — I think I voted by 7am. Took lots of photos of standing in line, spent some time playing with an adorably yappy, yet submissive, Westie puppy. The line was thrumming with suppressed excitement. Devin Cohen was handing out election guides. We saw our downstairs neighbors as they left the building, and A. recognized another couple from down the block so we chatted with them for a bit. Inside the school, we were crammed into a small gymnasium. Lines for each district snaked around each other, it was humid and warm, but everyone seemed polite and happy. The booth had blue curtains and toggles to flip for each candidate. I voted a straight Democratic ticket except abstaining from Wooten — I had meant to abstain from Velasquez, but I screwed up! Anyway, felt the satisfying thunk of the foot-long lever painted bright red. All day the election was all anyone could talk about. I was in poetry class while the election results were trickling in, and on the subway to K. N.'s while Obama took Pennsylvania and Ohio. Emerged into dark empty streets, I felt so spooked walking to her place, especially given the recent crime wave — A. was waiting for me at the door to the apartment and he lifted me up in a huge victory hug. The party was winding down, but it was still wonderful — we stayed through McCain's concession speech, then headed back, and on the way back the streets were completely different: thronging with people wreathed in smiles. Cars sped down the streets honking, passengers leaning out of windows waving their arms. Strangers slapping each other high fives. Spontaneous cries of "Obama!" I've never seen anything like it. We got home in time to watch Obama's victory address. What can I say. Holy cow. We finally are awakening from our long national nightmare.
by Richard Deming: The survivors barricade a bay window with plywood, an old
armoire, an empty refrigerator and it is dark enough within to
read by candlelight. Through a crack you can see two eyes and
a mouth in shadow and a night filled with intent, glittering
teeth. What the image tells us — that the hunger of the zombie,
however slow, does not sleep, that the cottage and everyone in
it is surrounded by rage, and inside no one will admit the
possibility of cowardice aloud, even as the wine is decanted,
the cream sauce simmers, and Mendelssohn plays on a stereo
somewhere in the background. But maybe we have it wrong.
The dead do not hate the living; love hates the dead for being
dead and again and again summons them back because of this.
One day, and soon, the boards will come down and the
zombies will break in and devour everything in their path
and yet someone will raise a shotgun and shoot the beloved who is
no longer the beloved but something else, some other wanton
thing that wears a recognizable face and someone in the
audience will wonder if that is how we are meant to survive
our memories.
Awesome short story: The Lincolnshire Poacher, by David Auerbach.
geegaw.com is (Ↄ) 1999-2009 Miranda Gaw. Images created using designfruit brushes. Powered by Textpattern and Waggish. |
everyone, for the record: though I thoroughly endorse the blurryyellow.com comment, I did not write it. – Miranda
Just found your site again after about 10 years or so. I used to come here every day and read your thoughts. Was so important to me that someone was so willing to express themselves publicly and so open. Of course, now we have oversharing. But at the time, well, it opened my mind up to a new world of possibilities. Now I’m in a much more sacrosanct relationship with my Self. I feel I have lived twenty lifetimes. Yet this place, your animus, seems frozen in time. Even your poetics are still informed by the same mise en croix. The world has caught up. You should be light years ahead. Glad you finally made it to NY from SEA. Perhaps in 10 more years I’ll de-lurk and we’ll have a proper toast to all that stuff that language cannot express. – Love, L’Etranger
I have a huge announcement to make. Heather Anne Halpert is back: www.blurryyellow.com—- M
It is a frippery trope from here to full time poet…
yes! frippery! – Miranda
yay! dressing-up pomes!
Wow, I guess it just goes to show that one should not leave one’s blog unattended. Um, for what it’s worth, based on the IP address information I think both of these characters are new readers (i.e. from the past couple years) that I don’t know personally. I’m closing comments for a few days to give everyone a chance to cool off. – Miranda
Certain diablogs are abused…
—rothko
Even Dr. Phil’s homespun wisdom may not be enough to crack open these nuts.
I think we’re talking Regis!
What is going on here? Is this personal war some new, undocumented geegaw feature? Did this site change format in the week since I last tuned in? Will Dr. Phil be called in?
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