typing about handwriting

This is from Robert Pinsky's "Jar of Pens", and the end of this
excerpt is just perfect.

Sometimes the sight of them
Huddled in their cylindrical formation
Repels me: humble, erect,
Mute and expectant in their
Rinsed-out honey crock: my quiver
Of detached stingers. (Or, a bouquet
Of lies and intentions unspent.)

Pilots, drones, workers-the Queen is
Cross. Upright lodge
Of the toilworthy-gathered
At attention though they know
All the ink in the world couldn't
Cover the first syllable
Of a heart's confusion.

my favorite new blog is....

life sux wid school

And just who is this Mark Pender guy????

Last night was the pre-birthday of a dear friend of mine who it seems I both barely know and understand better than most of the people in my life. For some people, directness is to be avoided at all costs, for others, it’s simply the only way to be. She’s most definitely the latter.

I’m always bad at getting presents for people, and more often than not, what they end up with will be the first thing that clicks in my head five minutes before I see them, or in this case 30 minutes after I’d already been at the bar. I went to get more money, because that is what I always do, and I passed a bin of oranges at the deli. I picked up one, then thinking of the poem that at that second perfectly captured she and her girlfriend, I picked up a second. I paid for both, a dollar, and gave them to her.

I can’t think of two more deserving people, and can’t help but wish more people had stories like theirs, or like the one below.

Oranges
GARY SOTO

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porchlight burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drug store. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers
And asked what she wanted-
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past.
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

"what we have here is failure to communicate."

it's dawned on me that it's kind of been awhile since there was
anything that seemed important or unimportant enough to write about.
that's maybe not changed, but it seems strange to check back and see
that i can barely remember when i last wrote. it seems even more
strange to think that i'm not thinking of much right now, either.

so i'll return to stealing -- i rented cool hand luke the other day
after not thinking about it more than a handful of times since i last
saw it my senior year of college -- seminar on 60s culture, very
american studiesish, taught by the woman who became my thesis advisor
and was supposed to want to date me. alas, she's now in prague. on a
fellowship, not because i drove her to leave the country.

anyway, i had forgotten how funny, how simple, how smart, and
complicated that movie was. i had forgotten about the part where, out
of sheer boredom, he tells the guys at camp he can eat 50 eggs, and
then does. because why not?

the movie can be and often is, extremely heavy handed, but you somehow
don't seem to mind. there's enough that makes you wish you'd known the
movie better and always did.

what got me was the scene where he learns his mother's died, and the
guys clear out and leave him alone on his bunk with his banjo --
partly out of respect, partly out of not knowing quite what to say to
someone who's been through that - can you ever know what to say, even
if you've experienced it yourself? i think somehow not.

he's left there, the camera comes in and frames a shot it will keep
for the entirety of the song he begins to sing, apropos of nothing
except maybe the absurdity of the situation he finds himself in. it
maybe be just made up by the person who wrote the book/movie, or it
maybe be some traditional song i've never heard before -- the music
is simple, his voice is not great, but it's somehow perfect:

"I don't care if it rains or freezes, as long as I've got my plastic
Jesus, sitting on the dashboard of my car. Comes in colors pink and
pleasant. Glows in the dark 'cause it's iridescent. Take it with you
when you travel far. Get yourself a sweet Madonna, dressed in
rhinestone sitting on a pedestal of abalone shell. Going 90, I ain't
scary, 'cause I got the Virgin Mary, assuring me that I won't go to
hell."

i never understood those things people kept on the dash, but hearing
him then, it made me wonder why more people don't.

i will not pretend how it works, but somehow wifi seeps into my apartment the way so many things in our lives do. i often come home and pick up my ibook as though it were one of those things that leads people to water. searching for a signal. to find it is to be somehow more connected.

weeks ago i found a roommate -- a good one -- but he hasn't moved in yet, and so i'm here in an empty room next to mine. it's nice. i would live alone in a heartbeat, but I'm wondering how it is that people have rifts, that people move away, that people fight with each other in ways both overt and passive. i both enjoy the room that's empty and wish someone were here to hear about how i know these rifts are sometimes and never as big as they seem.

on falling one rung further down the karmic ladder

tonight i killed a giant cockroach... i'm preparing for a new roomate, and would have asked the roach to leave regardless, but it's been awhile since i played assassin. my apartment doesn't really have bugs, but when they are present without invitation they are asked to leave with a boot. my boot, after bowling, and some conversation, has been replaced by the kind of spray that makes me feel less than decent as a human being. but it did the trick. we're slow to admit it, but often that's enough to make some folks happy.

i have this raid spray leftover from old roommates that i will not use on the new ones, but still it is somehow strange that people will plot the demise of their neighbors - little or big. understandable, but sad. think about it -- when's the last time you wanted to kill someone and knew you could, regardless? well, i went and did. i think he knew the poison was on its way...sometimes foresight is 20:20.

if you needed another reason to live here, it has to do with the fact that you will regualarly see the people you most hope to see, but least expect to.

the absence of distance provides ample reminders of what matters, or should.

i mean that sincerely, but good god, i'm obnoxious sounding...