- email: firstname.lastname@example.org
- phone: 04 341 4777 ext 323
I have a few windows open in my web browser, and a ton of tabs in each window because I’m working on a few different projects and this is how I’m attempting to keep the projects, thoughts, process separate—a way to organize, and possibly focus. (Did I include enough qualifiers?)
To navigate between the windows, I was going to the Window tab at the top of the screen, and selecting the window I wanted. But then, when trying to switch between apps—from Firefox to Excel—I accidentally hit the wrong keys (or more accurately, hit them at the wrong time), and found myself switching between browser windows.
Shortcuts make me happy.
to switch between open apps / programs:
to switch between multiple windows in Firefox:
See how the accident happened? See how happy I am?
(The tilda / backtick / grave accent key is usually found under the esc key, but mine’s next to my Z; I have a French UAE keyboard. Took some time to get used to, but all’s good now.)
I’ve been in mourning over the death of my Honeymoon Phase. How melodramatic-poet is that statement? Here’s another:
Everything Is Death, Dying, Dead
This is from a moment in The Plunge, a valley on the map of culture shock.
Got my Kristin Hatch book in the mail yesterday! It finally arrived. Ordered April 17, arrived May 17: one month to the day.
Off to a cafe to read, write, and have some chocolate. More posts coming soon.
Only 2 (give or take, depending on your time zone) more days of National Poetry Month, so—yes—let’s get some last-minute celebrating in! Kristin Hatch’s new book, the meatgirl whatever, just came out—Winner of the National Poetry Series—congrats, khatch!!!! I placed my order with Amazon on April 17. It’ll take more than a month for it to clear customs and get to me—can’t wait!
Tell me, what’s your favorite book of poems or single poem of all time?
What is your relationship with poetry?
With all the moving and shifting and such, I’ve gotten a bit behind on my poetry writing & poetry news…I’m sure there are lots of announcements and lots of ways to celebrate, like doing the 30 in 30 project, which I say I’ll do every year and don’t—or, you could visit a poetry landmark in your area. This area is full of them (future post).
I still have to get out and get involved with the poetry & writing community here, been stuck in the apartment this last week waiting for maintenance technicians to come and fix the AC that needed repair, the water heater that burst, the toilet that broke… boring.
The Offending Adam
The first week we were here, when we were still living in the Legacy hotel, I received an acceptance letter from the online journal The Offending Adam (Thank you, Andrew & Ryan!) and was reminded I wrote/write poetry. My 3 poems—more World Book poems, all from the same guide word: Folklore—went live on their site Monday 28 April, if you want: check them out.
I really appreciate Ryan Winet’s intro—hitting all the highlights that drive me: exploration, duality, frustration at information. He focuses on my themes of desire and transgressions:
That last line I keep misreading as “desire in transgression” or “desire as transgression.” Tomato tomahtoe.
Since I have the chance, in this blog, to make a minor correction, I will—though, I’m fine with his interpretation: the first poem is about Lilith, not Eve. Eve is the “one / whose name means beginning. Before her.” Before Eve, meaning, Lilith.
Also, “Fell for one on high, who in turn fell / from the seventh to the fifth, to farther still—an arc. / An act of choice, of not knowing, this was the devil / she went with. Meaning night, meaning demon” is a reference to the archangel Samael, not Satan (though, I believe there are some people who believe they are the same—mostly they are different). Samael and Lilith were married–after Lilith left Adam, her first husband “the most fertile of clay. / From this, two figures formed. … / Being of the same, he was no stranger. She preferred someone stronger— .” Samael. “As a good angel, Samael resides in the seventh heaven, although he is declared to be the chief angel of the fifth heaven.” –wiki.
“Wikipedia is heaven
When you don’t want to remember anymore”
–Nick Cave, We Real Cool
Which is of course a nod to Gwendolyn Brooks’ 1959 poem, We Real Cool
More Nods & Notes
If anyone’s interested in this sort of thing, you can find a nod or two to Neko Case’s song Hold On Hold On in this poem.
The third is influenced by William Carlos Williams’ “essay” that starts In the American Grain.
Oh, WCW. Oh, America.
Desire. Transgression. A high dive. A fall.
Hold on, hold on….and then
Happy Birthday, Shakespeare! How kind of you to be born on World Book day, which lands during National Poetry Month.
Ah, books. Printed or e? Paper or plastic? Pros and cons. But books. Are people still reading?
Here’s a passage from The Crack Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald, written March 1936:
“I saw that the novel, which at my maturity was the strongest and supplest medium for conveying thought and emotion from one human being to another, was becoming subordinated to a mechanical and communal art that, whether in the hands of Hollywood merchants or Russian idealists, was capable of reflecting only the tritest thought, the most obvious emotion. It was an art in which words were subordinate to images, where personality was worn down to the inevitable low gear of collaboration. As long past as 1930, I had a hunch that the talkies would make even the best selling novelist as archaic as silent pictures. People still read, if only Professor Canby’s book of the month—curious children nosed at the slime of Mr. Tiffany Thayer in the drugstore libraries—but there was a rankling indignity, that to me had become almost an obsession, in seeing the power of the written word subordinated to another power, a more glittering, a grosser power…”
Makes you just want to end it all, doesn’t it?
To be or not to be? WordPress’s editor is politely pointing out how this was written in the passive voice. True, indeed: that Hamlet was one indecisive and contemplative dude. That is, until he decides to take Arms against a Sea of troubles.
It may be hard to tell in this light, but the end for all is the end for all.
Back to the enterprises of great pitch and moment, those of you who know me will know how happy this makes me: World Book Day!
Here’s a sample from my project inspired by the WB Encyclopedia–a touch of Chaucer, a bit of Eliot, a hint of Tom Waits.
Originally published under the title “Vol. B, Pg. 710—from The World Book” in Black Warrior Review.
Bed pg. 710 Bee
Every day in this month of April, it rains.
I can’t get the recipe right, does time
mixed with memory equal desire? How big
is your bed? Different sources say twelve,
some twenty-four, others sixty-eight people
could lie on the Great Bed of Ware.
The English beds in the 1500s were enormous
affairs. While the archbishop was at vespers
a splendid shrine was erected.
For reasons I understand, I have
a hard time saying no to you. Sleep
comes in under the shadow
of this bedstead—-a foundation
of coils, the resting place of savages
—-as in Explorers have found
bees kept by savage tribes in the jungle.
There were wild bees in the New World
when the white man came. Honey
cost 5pfs a quart in ancient Egypt.
What is the conversion rate now? For a bed,
(See: geology) a heap of straw, leaves
or animal skins striped black, white,
serves as well as curled horsehair or cotton—
the soft covering of snow in winter. Cold
air comes through the open window,
the whistle of a far-away train, sweet
liquid, called nectar, calling—-such liquor:
rain and vodka bathes every vein, every center.
What is the function of an atom? More things
should naturally phosphoresce like uranium,
formerly Becquerel’s element, as observed
during overcast days. Without sun,
let’s discover all there is; we’ll stay in bed
until the rain stops. When you say
my name, I say, Call today the Prologue.
As I waited for property agents to return our calls about apartments, for them to show me apartments, waited for A’s first paycheck, waited for his residence visa, Emirate ID card, wait for the bank account & checks, wait until I can apply for my gov’t papers, wait to spring Ourkittyboys from the cat house, wait for my sandwich, for the Metro, a cab, for A to come home, for that guy to stop smoking…
I find myself singing (in my head, as that’s best for everyone) We’re Impatient Americans to David Bowie’s I’m Afraid of Americans, which could have a resonance here, but doesn’t: everyone is incredibly friendly, kind, willing to help.
Insert your own hypothesis:
I’m alert, sometimes cautious, have a heatlhy imagination, but fear is not something I like to entertain. When I do, I’m usually a fool:
I was walking from the Metro to the cattery the other day, in a remote, industrial section of the city that’s only mechanics/car part shops & distributors (read: only men), and less pedestrian friendly than anywhere else (which is saying something). I was about to cross the street when a white panel van, going in the opposite direction, pulled up next to me. I kept walking. He started driving in reverse, now going in my direction at the same speed as I was walking. I kept walking. He kept driving in reverse next to me. We stayed like this for a long block. I got to a large driveway and crossed. He stopped, waited for me to cross, then turned right, into the driveway that he’d missed the first time by.
So far, it’s safe here.
With all this waiting, rereading this seemed appropriate :
Soundtrack: David Bowie I’m Afraid of Americans
Cristian Mihai, (the first blogger I started following on WordPress because his bio could be my bio–except for the part about his hometown & lines: I can mostly draw one, but I also believe lines don’t have to be straight–we definitely share the part about singing), also wrote about fear today. Check it out.