only small doses

our Paris trip is being blogged here for those who care to follow.

merci.

where it's at

what to say what to say what to say.

Paris of course.  Our little apartment on the Ile St. Louis is the perfect home base.  We have even grown to adore the school children whose exuberance wakes us up every school day morning -- running, playing, yelling in the school courtyard next door.

I've been meaning to write everyday but obviously haven't.  I will try to catch up a bit here now before heading out for a few hours of exploration.

We've been really enjoying our pace -- the wonderful thing about renting an apartment and staying longer than the "American 3-5 day stay" is that we can really loll in the mornings if we want/need to (need may be because of late night bottles of wine at St. Regis, a little cafe here on-island that we've made our own or because our legs are tired from the day before...).  Yes we pay more for everything here on the island but our little cafe is a wonderful late night stop after our daily scoops of Berthillon ice cream and/or sorbet.   So far we've sampled, chocolate, melon, vanilla, strawberry, coconut, cassis, banana, praline pignoli (i know i know).

With my niece Brittany along, this has truly become a "foodie" vacation  A definite highlight was our Saturday spent with Ute .  Wow -- did she get us going with the ins and outs of eating in the Marais.  She took us to some unbelievable spots that us tourists would have never found.  Ute lives in the Marais and counts Mr. Anthony Bourdain (among many other famous chefs, etc.) as friends.   I will do a separate blog entry about all the secret spots (and some no-so secret but still worth mentioning) in a separate blog.  Just know that if you are a foodie and in Paris a tour (customized) with Ute is well worth every euro spent.  Not only is she beautiful and chic -- this woman REALLY knows her Paris food.

Yes, we've been to the Louvre and even Sunday Mass at Notre Dame (where we will return on Tuesday night for a Gregorian chant concert).   We tracked down VanGogh's & Picasso's houses in Montemartre.  We've mastered Metro and are envious of how chic everyone here is.... and we've got plenty left to go -- including my Musee d' Orsay.  I must run now because we are getting ready for another few hours in the Latin Quarter and a visit and perhaps poetry reading at Shakespeare & Co.

For now ... À tout à l'heure

Naked Drizzle

without you.

without you.


While fucking on the chaise
covered in a purple French toile
sans the lace of Baudelaire's & Jeanne's
I ask about the end of the world

to which you reply "his coat has gone black
drained of all the blues & greens."

I understand but consider speaking directly
to the silver satellite circling
your head and interfering
with the normal static of your amber eyes

which seem gone because you have exploded
into a cloud of drunken stars.   I'm rowing the dinghy
through the crumbling gate
into the moat
past the teal dragon in order to save

the princess who doesn't even exist.
And you, of course, understand
because of your lineage
and form yourself into a sphere
and suggest
I shorten the lines so as not to pull up all the stuff stuck in Alice's hole.  Drink me, Eat Me, Queen of Hearts
etc and so on.  "Who wants a tea party when you can drink whiskey?"

you ask though you don't
even like oysters.

I'm covered in glitter.  The stereo is stuck.
The same song plays for endless, imaginary, violet-colored hours.
You return to form and I stroke your hair.
Jesus wasn't God's son.
I don't want to die

did you see the moon last night?

just this today.  close your eyes --- let's make love.



I need you closer ....

Because of Lawrence Durrell

Because of Lawrence Durrell

I cannot waste any more time.
No more magazines about food, wine, home decorating.
When I walk the dogs and stop to let them pee and see a small,
bare tree dressed in dewdrops
masquerading as fine rhinestones, I should, at once, be more serious or

perhaps, less. I confess,  I've become unsure and suspicious of everything
beautiful.  Yesterday, a gooses head, ripped from its rest
by a winter starved mammal.  Coyote or fox?  It doesn't matter,
in their sea-wet fur, an agitated hunger grabs hold of one's breathing. Did I
kill the thing in a fit of Venus and moonlight? Black feathers stuck to my lips, running
through the marsh, meaty body in maw. You see?
No longer can I discern wind in the trees from cars heading in my direction.

Oh Alexandria, your fiery sieges and bitter ashes,
all that has been extinguished still flutters in a madman's dream --
like lightning,  his eyes snap open
and close.  Open and close.  Open
and close.    



i don't know why the line breaks look like this.  :(  

snow & flowers

i sent my poem in for the exhibition.  of course the curator had to beg me for it.  she even had to use her father's illness and his impending recovery at her home to induce me to submit something.  i didn't even write anything new -- that is the sad part.  the painting i was assigned was interesting but i just don't seem to have it in me right now.  i wish i did.  it feels odd.  6 years of intense writing and now -- zippo.  ah well.

we had an odd snow this morning-- only the second or third of the winter.  the snowflakes were the size of  pancakes.  seriously they were huge.  i've written many poems about this time of year -- the almost spring.  the snow drops are blooming in the shade gardens right now.  there is something about snow and flowers together that strikes me as sublime.  This is a poem by a fellow named Mushika.  I adore him.

The Passion of Flies

The hips of a dead Iphigenia 
Hide my eyes while I collapse.

A fatigued wind slurs her body,
Lashes ruby after ruby of rain
Strung upon her seized veins. 

Behind our naked, coiled limbs 
The porcelain sky and the Aegean 
Lie outstretched like sexless lovers.

Each beckons in strained silence,
Like two parallel transparent wings.

Muse

I received a lovely email from a poet yesterday -- he was telling of his book coming out.  I interacted with him on a poetry forum -- he is one of my most favorite poets writing now.  I'm looking forward to his book.  I have always loved being responsible for poem.  It is a selfish thing to want to be a muse I'm sure  but I relish it.  I admit it.  Anyway, he's sending me a signed copy of the book for free but I will purchase a few to give as gifts anyway.




Lisa,

Since I hardly stop in any more, I want to only announce it to "fans"--and you were very instrumental in inspiring/critting a lot of my work posted at the Gaz.

E.g., the new book has three "Box poems" in it which were largely inspired by your comparison of a lot of my stuff to cornell's boxes.

Anyway, the book is out for pre-order (its official release date in March 20):

http://www.desperanto.com/lastman.html

Best (hope you're still here!),

R L Swihart

cutting edge

When I was in high school through my very early 20's I was in love with someone who had been at various times the boyfriend of one of my best friends and later engaged to his college sweetheart.  We slept together more than just a few times.  We went to bars to NYC to concerts etc.  I thought he would eventually come to his senses and realize how much I loved him and how very compatible we were -- but alas.

In any case, one of the things we used to do was fuck and then watch David Letterman.  This was when Letterman was on at 12.  This was a very long time ago. 

But David hasn't lost his edge I swear.  Just when I think "shit we're ancient" -- he goes and pull something like this out of his ass.




I think I will write my old best friend with benefits to see if he caught the show too.

Pile of feathers

Something killed a bird out behind the shed. This morning while out with the dogs I noticed a pile of white feathers in the brush. The lap dog could care less the part rat terrier was going crazy. I have always had a wild imagination. As a kid I used to let my mind wander and try to imagine all sorts of scenerios like "I wonder what it looked like when the Indians walked through this land.". And then I would drift into imagining I was an Indian squaw out picking berries. It has never taken much for my mind to spiral down the rabbit hole. Alice was muse to me for a long time. As was the fox that lived somewhere close and made himself known and shown to me often. Maybe the fox has returned and that was who killed the bird. Maybe there is a den of newborns sommewhere close. I might catch a glimpse of them come April like I often have. Those red fuzzy tumbly creatures. I have heard the owls and the coyotes it might have been them. Regardless I am always struck by the hints of the unseen nighttime world that happens right outside my door. I once wrote a poem about the connection and disconnection of man from nature. Well actually I think most every poem I've ever written is about that that and of course love. This is going nowhere. But writing is good for me I think. I need to write more. When I was intensely studying poetry I read and wrote every day for hours and hours. Since the two new businesses I spend less time almost no time really doing those two things. I understand there are phases in our lives but I really want to find my way back to more time for art. The dogs are sleeping again. I will wake them and get them out to the woods for a long interlude with nature. I will go see a movie without words in the middle of the day. I will not listen to talk or sports radio. I will read poems

The Descendants

Most people don't know this about me, I'm a football addict.  I mean -- I have New England Patriots licence plates and car mats.  I know more about football stats, players, records etc. then most males in any room during football season.  The addiction was born and fed by growing up in a family of all boys and my father taking us to  many many Giants games.  During high school I often was on the field as a statistician -- and responsible for calling in the numbers to the local paper.  My family hates to have me in the room when the game is on.  It is not good.

When I moved to New England, Bill Parcells came to town and it was a rather easy switch to the Pats from the Giants.  He is after all a football genius.  When the Pats lost "The Game that shall not be mentioned" I went into a depression that lasted for months.  I told off my sister in law when she called me to gloat -- using profanities.  I swore off football but alas, it didn't work.

Last night, instead of watching the Super Bowl, in which my beloved Patriots were participating, I went to the movies.  Hannah looked at me like I had finally REALLY lost my mind.  "You are the biggest Patriot fan in the world, Mom, what are you talking about going to the movies???"

Off I went, by myself to the movies.  It might not have helped too much.  I went to see the Descendants.  I was surprised there were 3 other people in the theater here in Patriot Nation.  The movie is what the reviewers say about it -- tragic comedy.  Some of the "funny" parts are also excruciatingly painful.  If you haven't seen it, you should.  It is a movie about all of us.  And it accomplished that feat with the story line of a family that owns 25,000 acres of pristine land on the island of Kauai.  And that seems odd and brilliant to me.

This week I will also go see The Artist and Hugo.  Alfred Nobel is playing at the arty cinema so I'll add that to the list as well.  I have yet to see the Help but I suppose I should to complete the Oscar nominated list.

I don't feel too depressed about the loss this morning.  I think missing the game and removing myself from the hoopla was a healthy exercise for me..  It's a game.  Sounds cliche but just making it there is a big accomplishment.  I still love my Pats and our gladiator game but that emotion is more tempered than it was in the two weeks leading up to the BIG game.  I'm a mental case.  There is so much more tell.

At the sale this weekend, a reiki practitioner, who was told by my business partner I was suffering from a tooth ache, put her hands on my head and my shoulders and told me I take on too much -- that I try to make everyone happy, that I needed to take care of myself.  She also told me there was a male spirit guide surrounding me.  I guess it is my Pop.  I dunno, I should consult the crystals.

prickly

We had our first snow.  It was white and delicious for about 6 hours.  We didn't have a sale this weekend and so I had a weekend off -- first in a zillion years.  I seemed to have slept a large percentage of it away and now I feel like I have a horrible hangover (never mind my eyes and sinuses are puffy).  The Patriots won no no no let me rephrase that -- Baltimore lost their AFC Championship game.  Even I feel bad for Cundiff -- he looked like a little altar boy in that press conference.  I love football and my team -- but even I feel a bit guilty about going to the Super Bowl.  Such is football -- penalties, turnovers and a little luck.  Or magic.  Or faith -- depending what sect you pay your dues to.

I did manage to bake a pineapple upside down cake this weekend as well.  And cooked a kick ass stir-fry.  I used to love to cook but just don't seem to have the same verve for it right now.  Noot won.  Can you believe it?  I don't think he'll be the nominee but man it sure makes the primaries fun -- well maybe fun isn't exactly the right word.  I was chatting with a friend last night and she said she misses Rick Perry -- he is some dumb he's hard not to kind of love.  If not be utterly frightened of I suppose.

I wrote a poem kind of thing the other day.  It is horrible but at least it was something.  I need to get going on the poem that is due for the exhibit next month.  Sigh.  I don't know why I say yes to those things.  I started to watch, in the middle of the night, a movie called Tom & Viv.  Willem Dafoe playing T.S. Eliot and Miranda Richardson his wife.  I need to watch it when I'm not coming down from a wicked buzz.  I fell asleep though the cigarette smoke alone was intense.   There are several films I want to see this winter now that football season is almost over.   One winter all we watched were movies about painters.  I don't know if there is a theme this year yet.

I've got things to mail.  Why is it so difficult for me to get to the post office I wonder.  I think it is parking and the line and the forms.  I know there is a way to do it from home but I'm too lazy to figure that out as well.  I fear my children have inherited my intense procrastination gene.  Oh and I seemed to have wrenched my left shoulder.   I feel a bit prickly today.  I'm hitting save...

redemption in the USA

Noot was banging someone other than his then-wife while trying to impeach Slick Willie for lying about not having sexual relations with some young intern.  Noot says his affair was basically because of his love of country.  Willy basically said "who cares about what I do with my cigars -- it's the Economy Stupid."  Christians were freaking out -- Character means Everything.

President Obama is, by all accounts, a dedicated family man.  A man full of good, clean character.

The folks on the Right say President Obama and the Dems hang out with "Intelligent, Elitists"

Mitt's named after the dude that owns Marriot hotels -- a good friend (best really) of his downtrodden Pop who was CEO of American Motors.  Mitt is worth billions.  But -- he's obviously not elite.  His money needs that sunlight to grow in the Caymans.

Of course, evangelical Christians love them some Noot and the Corporations are salivating for a confused Mitt who can't keep his opinions straight, like his teeth -- it's the battle, the need to get that horrible guy out of zee Should Always Be Very White, White House.

art snobbery

I have a friend who grew up in Woodstock, NY in the 60's and 70's.  He has incredible stories about Dylan and Joplin and those nutty 60's artists who lived in the colonies up there.  I'd like to tell some here.  He has art he bought or traded for done by artists who now have fairly successful sales records.  His mother recently bought a Larry Rivers at  a garage sale and his parents house is full to the brim with "really, good art."  

I'm angling to get one of his John Ernst's watercolors.   My friend bought a trash bag full of Ernst's rolled up watercolors when John had fallen on hard times and could be found selling his stuff on the streets of Woodstock for cigarette money.  They are crazy looking.

I love getting stoned and listening to his stories and rummaging through his attic and basement -- he has a photograph by Mapplethorpe that he mustered out of a basement in Provincetown twenty years ago among massive stacks of stuff he's traded for, collected over the years.   I ask him for the story behind every thing he shows me.  I sometimes think the story makes the art that much better.

Last night I traded him a 19th C still life exhibited at the World's Columbine Exhibition in 1893 for some local modern art by Victor Candell, an unsigned but authenticated Matisse litho, an Edward Gorey Mystery Theater Poster (Sweeney Todd) from 1982 (for my son) an unbelievably gorgeous Nantucket basket and two original oils by other local, now deceased artists.   There's another I want to trade for -- he just dug it out last night but I have to come up with some goods.  It's really_good.

I am becoming a bit of an art snob.  I think.  Soon I will want to take down anything hanging in the house that isn't "good."  I will be a jerk about it all.  And people will start to think I'm stealing from my clients.  But I almost never exchange money in my gathering up of these treasures.  The world of stuff is weird.  The world of art stuff maybe weirder.  I plan to put all the stories down and in envelopes so that when I'm gone my kids will have the provenance of these things.  Will it matter to them?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Maybe they'll just want the stuff from their grandparents -- those old dutch paintings, the maritime paintings, the portrait of their great-grandfather painted by a Dutchess.  Will their husbands/wives allow them to hang the outlandish modern art in their homes?  What about the growing nude collection and will the even bother to fight over the still life supposedly painted by a kid who new Van Gogh and brought to the states by a serviceman?

Am I an art snob if I don't pay money for the stuff?  I would hate to think I am an art snob.  I can't ever be a real art snob probably.  I don't even have a pension or paid vacation.  I don't have golden handcuffs or a trust fund.

I tell my Woodstock friend it is really all about karma -- give good and get good back.

I was up all night.  Too much stuff laying on my brain.  Going to have a nap.  I hope I dream something good to give.

Demons

Edward Gorey said this -- "Ideally, if anything was any good, it would be indescribable."

pretty much sums it up doesn't it?

Politics Anonymous

Politics are bringing me way down (again).  I need to put them away somewhere.  I can't bear the thought of Romney/Christie -- I can't bear the thought of all those young kids being brainwashed by Ron Paul (doesn't he understand there is a Congress?).

Did anyone see that in Georgia they used slavery references in math word problems?  The teachers thought it was a good mixing of disciplines as they were studying slavery in social studies.  Did you see those math questions?  Fuck.  My kids went to a charter school where they did that sort of thing successfully -- we never had math problems that asked how many beatings a person might  get in a day.... Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.

I need a political hiatus.

I think it is Elvis Presley's birthday -- or nearabouts.  Elvis reminds me of my Pop.  I dreamed about him the other day-- my Pop that is.  It was so real.   In the dream I was lost (though the street in the dream was where I grew up).  He pulled up next to me in a car and rolled down the window -- and smiled and smiled like he did.  He didn't need to say a word.  He was rescuing me.

When I tried to talk about it with my mother -- I cried.   I don't talk about him too much.  It makes me too sad.   I think that's the reason.  

There are lots of Elvis songs I love. I love young black leather clad Elvis and I love portly white jump suit Elvis.

I've got one of these

Poppy

No no no no...not heroin. 

My mac got sick and had to take it to the shop to get fixed.  While at the mac shop I bought an iPad. I think I had a sudden spell of CafeSelavyious.   Then I went to the nearest post office (not a PO I normally frequent) -- while there mailing late Christmas presents I adopted a puppy.  I said "adorable dog -- she said do you want her?"  I said yes.

SOPA, the new Ghosts & Visions of Johanna

I need to keep up on this SOPA stuff.  It bends the brain a bit (at least mine).   I tried to catch up a little on the subject tonight.

Who likes this idea?  What journalists support it?  I can't really find any. Yet I've read the pro-SOPA lobby is is led by various media companies.  The new Ghosts.

"Corporations are people my friends."  Mitt Romney.

"The bank is something more than men, I tell you.  It's the monster.  Men made it, but they can't control it."

John Steinbeck, The Grape of Wrath.




And so when my head hurts, I go here  for a different sort of pain.  Complete with album scratch.  Join me if you care.

art by my son's roommate.  Matt.  He needed money.  I bought it for forty bucks.

Smoking Kids

I dunno...my son is home from college and was using my computer.  I came home and this link was up. It does have a strange effect doesn't it.

From this website

WTF

I mean really....