Goodbye, dear friend

I shall not lament thee,
mine only coat
I shall cease to treasure thee,
iPod and in-ear buds

All taken from me
all too swiftly,
prematurely

151 Rivington,
oh address which shall forever scorch the fields of my mind,
cursed be your nocturnal hours
and may your water be filled with yeast
tasting as foul as this grievance bestowed upon me.

But should you return to me
sweet possessions
should mine frigid bones
be held in your sweet embrace
and mine ears accepting of your
sad seductive songs,
I would but sing poems not known to man or womanhood
(save for that one ineffable evening at university)
from every corner of every street
of this deceptive maiden-
this proud city of ours-
and dance in the light of stars and sun
evermore.

ps Happy Birthday Nikki.

Whoa dandy.

I just watched this video again today.

It tickles me so much.

So what are they going to tell me I have NOW?

Story

The Year of the Ox (and bees)

Happy (Chinese) 2009! OK, so it's not actually the Year 2009 in traditional Chinese culture - my understanding is that they do not have an actual linear numbering system but a cyclical one (feel to correct me!), making this the...

YEAR OF THE OX

Apparently, the Ox is the sign of prosperity (whew!) through fortitude and hard work. Everything seems to be pointing in this direction. Let's go America - no more living extravagantly off of high-interest rates. Myself, I am working hard, mostly at non-paying (currently) projects that make me extraordinarily happy. But hey, the Ox isn't driven by financial gain. (A by-product would be nice.)

And speaking of America, here's a quote from a good old buddy Thomas Jefferson. Thanks to Howard Zinn and A People's History of the U.S. - I particulary address this to those individuals consistently desiring to pay heed to our Founding Fathers:

"I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing ... It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government...God forbid that we should ever be twenty years without such a rebellion...The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is natural manure."

Granted, now is probably NOT the time to encourage this (although it's been well over twenty years!), lest the honorable Bill O'Reilly start encouraging the FOX News brigade to rebel against the current regime in the name of NOT volunteering, NOT saving schools, NOT doing science projects...

And finally, a bit of a story on the subject of hard work and fortitude (and the mysterious phantom prosperity):


The streets are
covered with petulant
bees buzzing jubilantly as if
honey were the most important
thing in the world. Confident in the
elevation of their self-worth through the
beekeeper’s approval (and stock options),
they toil indefatigably - side by side with neigh-
bors and progeny - until a mundane death
by exhaustion. Ironically, the beekeeper
will not mourn their loss (they are superfluous),
nor will the singular object of their sexual de-
sires, who is overstimulated and will, in fact,
remain oblivious to their demise. Thus, the
bees have been coerced into a life of
nonexistence and regret when all they
really needed was just enough
honey to feed
themselves.

B B

B

Question: Do bees eat honey?
Answer: The internet says they do. All hail the internet.

Circular Logic of the 22nd Century

There's something about films resolving every conflict (both relationships and events) at once that is constantly setting me up for disappointment, I fear. I thoroughly enjoyed Slumdog Millionaire, although a million bucks AND the love of your life, all at once? Overstimulation. And the "it is written" bit is rather circular...considering it WAS written. By this guy:
The Slumdog Millionaire Millionaire

Speaking of circular logic, I've realized mid-conversation a lot lately that I'm trying to convince someone that they can't change someone else...or change someone's outlook...


Should the corporate domination
be baptized by mistake

Or were this pubescent Obama nation
to capsize within her wake

At least we'll have
beans and grass and sex
and some telepathic traits

In his polished accomodations
the sap sighs while he waits.


IN THE FUTURE: there will be no pennies.
Where will they have all gone?

The verdict is still out on telepathy.

I guess to get it to work, one should think about people who are probably thinking about you? As with most things, it's about choosing wisely.

But not knowing til the end!

Synchronicity

Question: Has their ever been a film scene in a romantic comedy where the two destined-to-be-together lead characters first encounter each other in a revolving door, each respective party entering from opposite sides, and in a moment of synchronicity they start scoping each other out, and both stop but the revolving door continues and hilarity ensues? If not, there should be. Although it would probably be difficult to film.

To be clear, this did NOT happen to me today.

I did, however, go to Kmart (which I hate doing for a plethora of reasons - but where one may find the aforementioned revolving door) in search of a cheap swim cap. They did not carry this item, but I did score some six dollar sweat(shop) pants in preparation for my return to el gimnasio. Bring on the weights and competitive sports.

One thing about swim goggles (which I wound up scoring elsewhere, along with swim cap) is that it's disappointing to purchase something that you know ultimately are not going to function properly. Am I wrong here? Am I missing some key part of the equation that will keep the water from slowly seeping in? Swimmers, water-sporters: your advice please.

I did feel pretty good about drinking a free-on-the-street can of Alo Juice, which if I understand correctly is basically water and honey combined with the stuff you rub on sunburns.

I'm constantly reminded of the fact that water and food really make a difference in one's energy level. And yet I forget...

I ate dinner standing up at the bar in Chipotle. The girl standing next to me was eating tacos alone and chugging a Corona. I feel like she was probably European. Regardless, she was, well, pretty great obviously.

And finally, you may already know this, but one more reason not to brush one's teeth with pomegranate:
Story



Now, all I need is a source of income to afford regular toothpaste, not this pomegranate stick.

A math question

If a boy leaves the sanctity of his own home after a good cello/piano session to meet his friends at a bar in Union Square, is moved toward future sports recreational endeavors, then leaves at a decently acceptable hour for home, then waits 20 minutes for the maintenance-plagued late-night L train, then while on said train encounters the same black leather-jacketed Australian (in the same black leather jacket) that his at-the-time female companions randomly met on the sidewalk a week previously and invited posthaste to a houseparty that same night (and who incidentally showed up with several of his friends), then answers "wherever you're going" when asked where he is headed, then impetuously alights from the train "for some party these kids are spinning at" with said Australian (who has since realized the maintenance-plagued late-night L train is running on the opposite track and he is heading in the wrong direction), then pays five dollars for a cab to Le Royale on Seventh Avenue, then gets to the door and is asked by the door guy over ridiculous (and not in a good way) house dance music who he is there for, then is told to wait for "The doorguy," then is told to "come on" (and not in a good way) because "The doorguy" can't let in two dudes who didn't bring chicks because he "has to keep the ratio of girls to guys at 20:1" - but that this was apparently an understandable thing because if said boy "was upstairs, [he] would be crying, it's so sick" - then leaves this sad perpetuating of the myth of rigid sexuality/douche-i-ness, then walks back to the exact same Union Square subway station, right down to the exact same fluorescent-orange-vested maintenance workers standing in the exact same space at the bottom of the stairs, the waits 15 more minutes for the exact same train to Brooklyn, then finally returns to the (relative) warmth of his humble attic-like room, how far has he really traveled?

Ah, but he has hummus.

And he knows patience and hasn't yet eaten his fill of love.

Jesus was a...

Jesus was a socialist.

(duh.)

Jesus was a scientist.
They thought he was a witch and thusly hung him by his wrists.

Words are not like magic, they are small atomic bits.
Cut up, spliced and sprinkled, their aroma doth persist.

Forgive me, Lords and Ladies,
for I have
pinned
my fears
on
you.


Is "being a Coen brother" a realistic goal for 2009?

The Kindergartener and the Grad Student

I've been thinking that I'd like to not post poems on here every time, and so I was trying to come up with some witty commentary on world happenings of late or link to some obscure "what will they think of next" tidbit.

However, when I headed off to lunch/coffee today I happened to pick up Fernando Pessoa's "A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe" (see previous post). This book was referred to me by my ex-roommate's heroine-addict kinda boyfriend - and I have to say it kinda blows my mind.

I read somewhere that Pessoa is referred to as Portugal's top three poets, as he had a habit of writing from different alter-ego's. The poem that I opened to today happened to be written by one named Alvaro de Campos and is called "Salutation to Walt Whitman." Pessoa is one of the juiciest, most exuberant poets I've read (not that I know anything about poetry, really) - but he seemed to possess in one fingernail clipping more punch and lust for/satiation with life than anyone I can think of.

A brief excerpt:
"I salute you, Walt, I salute you, my Universal brother,
Forever modern and eternal, the singer of concrete absolutes,
passionate mistress of the scattered universe,
great homosexual who rubs against the diversity of things,
sexualized by stones, by trees, by people, by professions,
full of lust for passing bodies, chance encounters, mere observations,
champion of the material substance of all things,
my glorious hero who goes into Death skipping
greeting God with shouts and roars and squeals!
...Homer of the elusive carnal flux,
Shakespeare of sensations that were beginning to run on steam,
Milton-Shelley of Electricity on the horizon!
Incubus of all gestures,
Inner spasm of all outer objects,
Pimp of the whole Universe,
Slut of all solar systems, pansy of God!"

This monstrous and effusive pace continues for 18 pages:

"I know that the way I sing of you isn't by singing of you,
but so what?
I know it's by singing of everything, but to sing of everything is to sing of you.
I know it's by singing of me, but to sing of me is to sing of you.
I know that even to say I can't sing is to sing of you, Walt...
To sing of you,
to salute you,
I'd have to write the supreme poem
which, more than any other supreme poem, would embrace in a total synthesis
(based on an exhaustive analysis)
the whole Universe of things, living beings and souls,
The whole Universe of men, women and children,
The whole Universe of acts, gestures, feelings, thoughts,
The whole Universe of the things mankind makes
and the things mankind experiences...
You sang everything, and in you everything sang -
Magnificent whorish receptivity
of your sensations with their legs wide open
to the outlines and details of the whole universe."

Dude needs to take a breath.

Awhile back, I wrote my own (comparatively) diminutive and sheepish poem, inspired when I (forever whatever reason?) gave my younger sister a copy of his Leaves of Grass for Christmas last year - and snuck several bites of it before passing it on. He was never someone whose influence I really ever felt during school, etc. - though I've been reading some Emerson, Thoureau and the like and really enjoy his all-encompassing (is there any other way to be?) approach somehow fused with the poetic.

Ode to Walt

Sensuous contaminants
lap against the pane of my consciousness
that great lady S.S.I.M. anchored resolutely in an endless sea
of vacuous energy (and as-yet unclassified monsters)
deep beneath the oil slicks and incendiary relations.
The steadfast vessel sits with composite id
between the glowing buoys -
those corporeal effigies of:
black/sink/fire holes
the precipice
and demons to come.
But I know not timorous fear or palpitation,
nor do I seek to assign blame or name the lineage of these portents,
for I see the captain
“my captain”
stands perpetually on guard
shadowed and laconic
yet ever-readily poised to guide her majesty
across indolent chasms, echelons and that evasive time
leaving nothing but pulsating warmth
dissolved in her wake.


And in completely unrelated news:
China's cracking down on internet porn:
Story

They're already more productive than the U.S. - they're now officially going to obliterate our GDP!

Cut To the Middle

My name is Joel and I have a problem. I am typically reading 8-10 books at a time. I am definitely not saying I am uber-cool and have to be absorbing new information constantly - on average, I'd say that most of these books I've been reading for at least a year.

The following is the most accurate list I can currently recall:
Autobiography of Malcolm X
Lolita
Gandhi - Autobiography
The Varieties of Religious Experience
Dylan - Chronicles Volume I
Bhagavad Gita
Fernando Pessoa - A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe
People's History of the United States
Miles - Autobiography
Middlesex
Virgin Suicides
Creating Love - John Bradshaw
The Sun Also Rises
The Bible (OK, so that one ups my average, since I'm on about year 3 right now and about halfway through)

I know there are more - these are the ones I'm aware of as I've started unpacking them onto my new bookshelves. (OK, I'm lying - I haven't started unpacking. I'm blogging instead.)

I tend to have the same "problem?" regarding personal/creative projects. I always have more than one going. I am convinced, however, that I will someday finish all or most of the aforementioned books and hope that the same will apply to that glorious day/month/year when all of my projects suddenly come together in some awesome celestial alignment. A boy can dream.

(D, this doesn't apply to collaborative projects. PS can't wait to see you in NY)

One thing that's interesting about committing myself to multiple acts of literature at a time is the themes that surface in unexpected ways. For instance, consider the story of Lolita - the story of a middle-aged man who falls for a 12 year old (reciprocating) girl. (Incidentally, an extremely well-written book - I don't think I've ever read anything so dense in vocabulary). Now, I'm not condoning said fictional relationship, but it's interesting to compare against two nonfiction books. In his autobiography, Malcolm X talks about the fact that the Nation of Islam prophet Elijah Muhammad preached that the ideal age for a bride is "half of the man's, plus seven years." Gandhi, as stated in his autobiography, was 13 when he was forced into an arranged child marriage (to a girl a year older - scandal!) as was customary in his Hindu society. I'm not currently reading any of the Little House on the Prairie books, but if I remember correctly the numbers in that book are probably not that far off.

So what does it say about anything? Particularly our current society's fascination with the mildly disturbing yet oh-so-successful "To Catch a Predator" TV series? Again, I'm not condoning anything here, just, per usual, a bit confounded by our culture's hyper-hypocracy.

In keeping (somewhat) with the theme of being in the middle of many, many books...an unrelated (yet relatable by title only) poem I wrote this morning:

Cut To The Middle

I don't want to know
how it ends
which one bends
who makes amends
I only want to see it
cut to the middle.

You don't need to show
how it begins
original sins
which one wins
I'm only here to see you
cut to the middle.

This pain down below
wears me thin
my Cheshire grin
stretches the skin
I don't have all that much time
so cut to the middle.

I don't want to know
autumn or spring
if there's a ring
if it was just a fling
I don't want to know
if they pay me to sing
I only want to remember
what's in the middle.

Wellspring (just because I like the word)

The elderly woman just wants her groceries
and to stay out of the way
The black-clad photographer lurking in the corner shadows
wants only to be noticed
The pierced, scowling girl hiding behind her tattoos
wants only to be touched
And the child enduring parental scorn
wants only to be spoken to as though his opinion is worth something

But I - puerile shoulders hunched beneath my hungry, inky blackness -
I just want to be loved.

Taking Our Time

Let the record show that the corresponding mirrored item was purchased at Build It Green NYC less than 24 hours after the previous blog was posted.

"I think this is a sign that I need to really focus on myself right now," quoth the woman on the subway (incidentally, a bit of a theme of late). "I've spent my whole life waiting on other people to get their sh#$ together."
A few questions I did not ask her:
1. Do you have your sh$% together?
2. What is it you're missing out on, and why have you been avoiding it by blaming someone else for your lack focus? (Not being mean here - it'd be pretty awesome if some random stranger asked me this question on the subway)
3. Can you hold this tea for me? (see below)

Today, I bravely ventured into the Whole Foods at Columbus Circle and wound up spending $1.80 extra to buy tea so that I could bypass the round-the-store line and instead check-out in the "five items or less, preferably with coffee purchase" line. Apparently there was no "preferably" about it, as the barista quite adamently insisted that a coffee purchase was required. I didn't argue, as he most definitely could have beaten me up. (Not surprising, as I use phrases such as "quite adamently insisted.") Sadly, I wound up tossing it anyhow - I somehow thought it possible to carry a hot tea, bag of groceries, wooden shelf and leaking bowl of chicken soup on the train...

How do we feel about the fact that - historically speaking - the same general group who flies the flag (literally) of extreme jingoistic patriotism is often the same group consistently arguing (sometimes violently) for less/smaller government? If one is that proud of one's country, how does it follow that one is so against one's government? I'm just saying...

A (rediscovered) poem:

What I've Learned

to say yes
and to smile in large crowds

to get up (out of bed or onstage) when i’d rather not
and to keep my mouth shut when i’m drunk

i’ve learned that sometimes you have to pick your own flowers
scramble your own eggs
and unscramble your own predicaments

i’ve learned to admit to cliches
give in to arguments
and that there’s no shame in nudity

where anger comes from
and that i have something that is mine alone

i’ve learned that i pass judgements
that real men cry
and that doctors aren’t always problem-solving encyclopedias

to live as if protected
and that i am politically inept

i’ve learned to look through things
while heeding outward beauty

that it is possible (probable) to teach while learning
and that my being is not made exclusively of fibers

i’ve learned not to get offended when you don’t listen
(as i can always call you out on it later)

but mostly

i’ve learned to chase truth
and not answers
compromise
and not vindication
love
and not relationships

and not to chase
peace.

I think the internet and I are slowly moving toward the "taking it seriously" stage of something special, although we're both still a bit hesitant to commit. (I'm making the first move.)

The Year of the Sheep

As I sit here slightly worried about the content of the first-ever SIU/SIO blog, I begin fiddling with the options on my profile and somehow learn that I was born in the "Year of the Sheep."

My good friend Wikipedia tells me that, "According to tradition, people born in this year are known for their artistic talents and immense creativity." Furthermore, I was born in the Year of the Earth Sheep, earth being "associated with qualities of practicality, restraint and materialism."

To quote further: "The Sheep is artistically talented and has a great sense of fashion." (Golly.)

"Chances are that this type will prefer to be a designer or painter, or go into the kind of profession where he/she can make the most of his/her gift for creating beautiful things."

That last bit is probably correct, as I am about to scrounge about the nooks of Build It Green NYC (www.bignyc.org) to find salvaged (and cheap!) material to build a shelf for all of my practical, materialistic books. Chances are fairly good that I will return a casa with something else entirely, possibly a diving board or a mirrored bar from an 80s gay club in the Village.

Speaking of 80s gay clubs (OK, 70s gay clubs), I just finally saw the film Milk last night and thought it smart to not have included much partying, gratuitous sex, etc.- especially in this age when gay people are still trying to convince much of the rest of the world that they can be "normal." I mean, all the gay people I know are completely normal...about as normal as all of the straight people I know...I just want to know when they're going to make a movie about bisexual liberation.

Speaking of liberation, the word is strangely reminiscent of the term "liberal nation," and I suggest we ban both. No more liberation of foreign lands or holding hands. No more liberal arts, liberal parts or liberal servings of condiments.

Sushi time!