showing redux

showing redux, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I wanted to ramble further about Collected Poems. I note in my previous yawp that my articulation wasn't too clear (je suis fatigue). when I wrote that anyone can find poems, I meant that anyone can produce a good one, emphasis on one. a poet is someone who makes such an endeavour of the practice. Keats' Ode to Indolence is, by my reck, a stinker, especially compared to Grecian Urn and Nightingale. its weakness is informative and useful, however. I think its weakness is worth knowing, because Keats was certainly committed to poetry and the process. you, as a poet, probably write frequently, maybe everyday. I think we all have a sense of hooking a big fish, throwing back the little. it seems like we should respect the investment made in those little fish. which is not an evasion of aesthetics, but a consultation with process. again, this is why I am showing this saturday a few works that don't please me a heckuva. sure, the show will predominate in works that I like and love, that I am proud of. I am not making decorations, I accept the demands of the process. Collecteds are charts of interest. what strategies can one take to stay focused? you might peek at Anne Boyer's strategies for publication, which, despite their whimsy, suggest the sort of focused approach an artist takes in getting and presenting The Work.

Erin still on the mend, he was really wicked sick, now Beth is confirmed with pneumonia. unsurprisingly. we've caught it earlier than with Erin, so it looks like she won't get quite so sick. I've got to be wary because I spent plenty of time in the coughosphere. Beth spent many nights at the hospital, orchestrating care and getting info, I only spent one. orchestrating care is a necessity, alas. hospitals run mechanically, perfunctorially, and everyone's rushing elsewhere. at one point, Erin's Tylenol was changed by a doctor to one with codeine, to which Erin is allergic, as Beth had informed the staff. so he gets hives to go with the rest. the chaos and confusion in hospitals is disconcerting. in wandering the halls, I found a bulletin board with some how tos for being a better hospital worker. like not using abbreviations when writing orders, because these are so often misread. I know it's a hard task, with all these interdependencies being derailed by emergencies and the occasional screw up. it mean you can't be complacent. anyway, let's say this is the last illness report for a while.

I want to chime in on Eileen Tabios' ruminations on Collected Poems. I collect collected editions when I can, for the possibility of finding the less well known. there is more, tho. certainly if you like a poem by someone, you would be curious to read more. I guess I don't mind the connection between the poem and the poet. tho I know that too much biography can get in the way. and I think the process is pretty damn important. anyone can find a poem, or a picture, I mean make a good one. it is, indeed, a notable aspect of art that there are some who bend their lives towards finding these treasures. it is not just fascinating to see the contortions Ginsberg, for instance, went thru to produce his oeuvre. my error with Ginsberg is not recognizing the value of these contortions. the value is in the learning process. in my showing I intentionally include works that I know are aesthetic losers. I want to acknowledge that part of the process. aesthetics is pretty tricky territory. to the degree that aesthetics propounds a conformity, it is shit. okay, I said it. the individual, hello, does not conform. admittedly, that sounds 60s to the max, and, yes, I lived thru both ends of that decade. what I infer as the devil of School of Quietude would be the way the work may conform, one to the other. but 2nd rate LANGUAGE, and NEW YORK, etc etc, likewise shuffles towards sameness. how an artist navigates those shoals... I consider myself an Olsonian, because Charles O provided me, or intimated for me, if not you, certain pathways. please, thank your teachers, even as you run away from them. there remains the matter of my saying no, Charles. no Bob, no Gertrude, no thou and thou and thou. collected poems are reports of the process of getting around to the point. ping.

fascinating human/machine collaboration by D^vid D^visio. the only way to do this is to link to his profile, he has mucho blogs. he works with a Palm Pilot sort of whatsis (I guess, it is machinery I know next to nothing about). his thingie mistranslates his entries and there we have the fun. I'm all for re-visions.

my vision for my showing is in the way of an installation. I wanted to display a lot of work. aside from work on the wall, I wanted work scattered about, inviting people to pick them up. the gallery consists of two rooms, fairly intimate. the space feels good. I wrote a catalogue that offers reactions to 60 of the works. I took the risk of including works that I'm not thrilled by. this is a nod to the process. I would say those "failed" works began with good intentions. it could be that I didn't match my skill set with the impulse. it could be some urge to please set me off the path. probably the easiest way to screw up your artistic vision is to feel the weight of the great ones. we learn from these mentors, certes, but then we reach a point when their influence wobbles us. anyway, I'm a thrifty Yankee (and yet a Yankee hater as well!!!) when it comes to my failures. quite often I tear them up for use in collage. I think my best work is collage. I am fascinated by my visual work because it seems to come from a part of my brain I don't converse with. there are no ideas whatsoever there, just coalescing shapes, colours and images. not to go all Jungian. I find visual work explorative and playful without the fuss of seriousness. with poetry, with writing, I'm always fighting the urge to commandeer the impulse. the sense of agency that Blake and Spicer muster speaks of the need for the author to git out of the way. anyway, there's the deal with my showing. if anyone would like to read my catalogue, email me. I may put it on line but till then..

j'ever see this charity? "Poets In Need is a non-profit organization providing emergency assistance to poets who have an established presence in the literary community as innovators in the field and a substantive body of published work." so they must have a reader on staff who determines the innovation and established presence of anyone hoping for some help. bad poets need not apply, SoQ need not apply, non networking hermits need not apply. publish or die perhaps has a stronger meaning here. it seems like an effort to keep the best part of the gene pool going: the excellent poets. any charity one might do is selective, I understand that. I quibble with the aesthetic necessity here. sorry we can't help you with your cancer treatment but you're a trite poet.. file under That'll Learn Ya.

Art Showing, Allen Bramhall

for those in the Boston area who can find Jamaica Plain next saturday between 4 and 6 pm, I'm giving a showing of my visual works. the pictures below were taken while setting it up. there will be some 100 works displayed, and refreshments.

the particulars:

Pond Circle Gallery
53 Pond Circle
Jamaica Plain, MA 02130

Pond Circle is off the Jamaica Way, just a few miles from Fenway Park. Mapquest knows how to locate the gallery. I will probably read at the showing as well.

I hope you--and you, and you--can attend.

Allen

Erin came home this afternoon. he's still sick, but can take antibiotics by mouth rather than intravenously. I realize this autobiographicality may be the worst of blogs but there's not much possibility in writing about anything else. my reading the past 9 days has been Down Spooky by Shanna Compton, and Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. I've indicated here earlier that I'm down with Spooky. Stephenson's pretty good. it was recommended by Erin's friend and his friend's father, and they gave me a copy. I like it better than what I've read by Bruce Sterling and William Gibson (maybe 3 novels between them). Stephenson's characters have a warmth that I find lacking in the other 2, and a bouncier humour. I'd love to get back into reading novels. where novels fail for me is to the degree they simplify life into structured resolutions. I definitely don't want to watch any sitcoms, thanks. King of Queens is, I confess, oddly likeable, but I've had enough. that Ray Romano show is thoroughly unlikeable, but sometimes succeeds despite. Bill Cosby is fascinating in its good-for-you ickiness, but I believe his success made Tom Werner rich enough to place the Red Sox securely into the category of fat cats and World Series winners. Steve Hervey show is mild, comely crap. I like watching the secondary characters (played by tertiary actors) fuss about in the poorly conceived "bits" they are imprisoned by. I did a little writing, sitting near a window overlooking the Concord River.

additional showing

additional showing, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

more showing

more showing, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

we learned yesterday that the doctors were more concerned about Erin than we knew. when his pediatrician 1st saw him, he said he was about to just write the antibiotic prescription, but something told him to look further, thus the x-ray. they have since tested Erin for things like Legionnaire's Disease. that Beth and I haven't shown symptoms suggests something airborne, not the usual pneumonia. his fever has finally abated, and his oxygen saturation levels (Erin has been on oxygen) are getting good. but he still faces more hospital time. rough row to hie. sunday his iv needed to be changed. for whatever reason, people have trouble locating Erin's vein. the nurse called the staff emt, because emts do the procedure all the time. man, were I ever to use the term lickety-split it would be to describe how quickly the iv was set. we watched another Jackie Chan movie, The Medallion. which is JC plus a cross between The Matrix and those world without physics martial arts movies now somewhat common. we watched a little of Kill Bill. I saw just the last part of vol 1 and the beginning of vol 2. Beth saw what I saw of vol 1 and all of vol 2. Erin fell asleep during vol 2. straight out of manga/anime land. I found the swordplay wearisome, and the cartoon hipness more precious than anything. I'm not convinced by the cool, and I think if you're to enjoy Tarentino, you need to accept that coolness. I'm glad I don't watch much tv anymore. I've always tried to pay attention, look underneath a bit, but you are still drawn into something numbing. when Erin's leg was broken, the bill of fare tended toward the Disney Channel, with heavy hitters like Hilary Duff and I don't remember what. you slip into a television rhythm, and then the day is done. I've written little lately.

Erin still at hospital. he was much improved yesterday morning, but then dipped. I've already mentioned that the on call pediatrician claimed to have seen Erin after he'd had the lung sample done. Erin, Beth and the nurse who helped transport never saw this doctor. possibly she was confusing having seen him in the morning, long before the procedure. a 2nd pediatrician talked to us about it, repeating the 1st doctor's claim, clearly more ready to believe her colleague than the three people who were there. the hierarchy must live. one saw/sees that with the Catholic Church. all those molested children and the greater issue for the church is maintaining the structure of the church. it's a cover your ass strategy, which is pretty fetid. and it's not like we begrudge the triage that goes on. the 1st doctor either lied about seeing Erin or was confused. the 2nd doctor chose not to listen to us. it's pretty dismaying. we just want to bring Erin home.

blue rose

blue rose, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I will get going today but it's a useful exhaust right now to write here now. we've watched a lot of television with Erin in hospital. Erin hasn't felt up to doing much else. watched some of The Last Samurai. only the last third, and with plenty of expert interruptions. set in 19th century Japan, with a collision of old and new world. Tom Cruise as an American who hooks up with Samurai. there's probably plenty of hokum involved in the movie, like when the woman (geisha?) undresses Tom and the camera lovingly glazes his shiny perfect skin, but samurai culture as presented seemed interesting. and the hyperkinetic fights. how is it that swords slicing human flesh is kinda sexy, empowering, lovely? cuz that's the impression one gets, the gamer thrill. remember Obi Wan intoning the elegance of laser swords. now I do understand that guns were available in Japan in say the 17th century, yet warriors tended toward formalized one on one encounters rather than the wholesale virtues of gunplay. anyway, the final battle, swords versus guns, was straight out of Braveheart, with a side trip to Charge of the Light Brigade. I'm willing to watch the whole movie, despite Tom Cruise's presence. Batman and Robin was pretty ridiculous. gthe Tim Burton Batmans (ugh, Batmen) live well with Burton's quirky obsessiveness, but the franchise looks dead now. the complete flouting of physics bothers me, tho I suppose it shouldn't. the excitement, say, of yoiur hero falling from a building is the scrambling intensity of saving said ass. if the falling takes ten minutes and you're equipped qwith tons of gadgets that can do anything, the tension diminishes. Arnold looked silly in his get up, and plodded thru his role. why's he driving an overchromed Studebacker? and his freeze gun is exactly like those steroid squirt guns boys at swimming pools covet and use. it all looked so chintzy, more like the tv show, but without tongue in cheek. Uma Thurman got to ham up her siren role but again it was like the tv show. so the tally is, 2 dedicated scientists mutated into egocentric villains. George Clooney as BW beamed his winning half smile with samurai grace. there were a handful of shots where he had no lines, but the camera had to catch his sexy twinkle. not saying I don't envy the twinkle. I know the costumes have been discussed in the literate world of pop consideration. the molded abs and bums sticking out is a wee bit weird. is it puritanical for Batgirl's molded breasts to have a molded bustier? I, personally, think so. covering up the covering up, yet at the same time highlighting. the 3rd Austin Powers had its moments, tho they tended to stretch on. some nice set pieces with a lot of dull filler. I really disliked Fat Bastard, a pointless, unfunny character. we saw a game show in which a cab driver picks up riders, who answer questions while they negotiate Manhattan traffic. another show purports to make your home safer. well, it is like this: a household is set up with cameras, then a B&E expert breaks in. the deal being that the victims will get the latest security gimcrack for submitting to this crud wink. the thief breaks, literally, in and scours the house destructively. obviously the show pays for breakage, but the thief showed no regard for, say, a sentimentally prized coffee mug or such like. and what about the paintings that were taken. reality takes prisoners. today Erin and I watched Shanghai Nights with Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson. Chan's choreographed fights are fun to watch, and he's a good straight man. I happen to like Owen Wilson. I kinda like any actor who don't give a shit. also, yesterday, saw some of I can't think of the name of it, but Chris Tucker replaced Owen Wilson, anotehr good pairing. finally there was a hour or so of college basketball. Erin and I were reading while we watched, and we took a walk during. basketball looks like such a tepid thrill now. I guess I'm no longer amazed that someone six foot a lot can manage to stuff a basketball into a basket. oh, we also watched a team trick shot billiards competition between US and Europe. the announcer says one guy is known as Maestro and another is The Wizard. the aesthetic is so foreign to me. you know how you mind gets twisted when you think of the Michael Jordan of shuffleboard or whatever. there's no reason why basketball would be more unimportant than shuffleboard or billiards trick shot competitions. it's just foreign. I recently read an account of a cricket match. the terminology was completely recondite for me, even tho it seemed so populace inspired. I almost feel I am not watching enough tv, because the culture is percolating but I'm not witnessing.

the redoubtable Tim Peterson tagged me with a meme... hmm...redoubtable means able to doubt twice... two doubts = a confirm: all righty then. a meme is the viral spread of cultural info. I was late getting onto meme as a currency but anyway, Tim presented me and four others a chance to unwind on the question of 5 little known facts about me. this blog to the contrary, all facts about me are little known. I can say that I have a strange bump on my left little finger that I presume few know about. I snagged the finger on a nail when I was a toddler, and it healed oddly. it doesn't hurt or make itself known to me much. I don't imagine a lot of people look at someone wondering if there's a bump on the finger. what are 4 other things to say? I have written on this blog and on Antic View that I don't like poetry, but neither blog is much read so I can offer that as another little known. in saying that I don't like poetry I mean perhaps that I don't like the memes of poetry. when I became interested in writing, I guess I had this ball of light idea in mind that differed from the laboured, recondite things I was told was poetry. I've learned to like and even love some of those laboured, recondite things, but I am most interested in a writing that surprises me. which is why I see a closeness between poetry and humour. okay, that's 2 down. the 3rd baseman's chasing me towards the catcher so I'll just rattle off 3 others: I paint, I think I have Asperger's, and I cry easily. and I love Beth and Erin. I shan't tag, the net has already been thrown.

if language could include... anyway, Erin's still in hospital, where no one should be. the hospital experience... kinda love nurses, kinda hate doctors. well, I'll try to be narrative here. nasty disease situations are abroad at this time, Rhode Island closed their schools today because of flu, pneumonia, meningitus confluing (from confluence, right?). so Erin just managed to collect the going term of dismay. and the doctors apparently aren't quite sure what they're up against, proceeding in the throw it in the moat and see if anyone salutes mode of scientific inquiry. Erin's fever finally diminished to near normalcy friday morn, then a shift in antibiotics (for fear of its the damaging effects of one of the antibiotics). then the doctor (that is to say a doctor) thunk Erin should have fluid removed from his lungs. they do during ultra sound. Erin was not allowed to eat or drink, I think for fear he'd vomit inconveniently during the procedure. for some reason, he wasn't on iv. upshot: 6 hours without fluids, and his fever spiked. the procedure consisted in a needle in his back, but only for a sample. we got differing explanations. someone said they may drain the fluid but the doctor doing the procedure said they never do that. which is part of the hospital experience, along with the golden one: hurry up and wait. okay, I'm trying to stay with upshot. the hierarchy of hospitals is so malevolent. doctors are untouchable. their contact with the patient is brief. you realize that their work is a performance. each has a style by which they communicate to you as patient or concerned person. job one for doctor is ascertaining needs and invoking cures. secondary is the matter of explaining, whether it's harrumph harrumph impressive med school or look you in the eye. nurses do a great deal of sensitive stuff, making judgment calls concerning the patient's needs and care. they also empty bedpans. it's a weirdly large spectrum. Erin finally had the procedure, which freed him to eat and drink. his appetite is back, which is a pissa sign. the procedure was investigative. it would reveal whether or not the congestion in Erin's lungs was pustular, which, if it were, would require surgery. Beth had asked to speak with a doctor at noon, and by 8 still had heard nothing. requests had been made to get a doctor to tell us what up. another upshot: an on call doctor claimed to have checked Erin out while Erin was being transported from the procedure. Beth was with Erin the entire time. that doctor lied. all we wanted was information. after a procedure, an explorative one, answers are expected. Erin's temperature has been above 100, much of the time several degrees above, for a week. we want to know what's going on. okay, I've gone into blah blah mode. Beth's sleeping at the hospital tonight. I stay with the dog and cat. Beth just called, this minute, to say Erin's temperature was now 98.6. I could only cry. Erin's been a wonderful patient, enduring. all this hierarchal bull crap interfering in our lives. the Olympian doctors bespeak their truths, yatta yatta. yesterday (I think) Erin had a student nurse. this guy will be a great nurse. he was exquisitely sensitive. he was Portuguese, a little hard for me to understand. I mean, I had to have him repeat what he said at times. he was in oh I see mode as far as procedures but worked with what I have to call a tenderness. the doctors have a barrier against the emotional concerned people, whereas the nurses don't. the doctors don't give shit about the financial burden of illness. cripes this isn't music, I admit it. whingeing, sure. but, hello, you bring your child, or anyone, to a hospital, you are concerned. I understand an emotional distance allows doctors to do their job, but they have to have a sense of the patient and the people around the patient, what they fear, what they need. the lying doctor amazed me. the nurse who accompanied Beth up from the procedure (I was doing a yeoman job calling in a meal for Erin, who proved a right trencherman, as closing time for the kitchen neared) must've brought the issue to her superiour, because when a respiratory doctor arrived to speak with us, she was joined by head of nurses. this doctor answered all our questions, which is all we wanted. when Erin broke his femur, the surgeon who did the procedure (who I think is now head of pediatric surgery at Children's) was readily available. kinda scary, actually, because we saw him at all hours. so I hope Erin and Beth have slept well. dog and cat here gave me an extra hour before intimating their own needs. I should wonder about the nature of what I've just written here, but thats a study for anon. the record, that is, will have to stand as is.

let's put it this way: Erin decided to have pneumonia. typical teenager. I hope it isn't careerist to mention this, because I hate careerism. careerism is when you talk about what you're doing. ugh. Erin's mighty fever has refused to depart, plus that wracking cough, and, ugh again, today, he just happened to mench a shortness of breath. we went to the doctor, who ordered an x-ray taken. which required a goodly hour or more waiting for the chance. and it would take more than that before the xray could be read, so we were told to go home. where the call came thru, as dinner inched toward serving, that Erin must be admitted to the hospital (by admitted I mean submitted to). the doctor greased it so that Erin could go directly to his room. but that didn't mean that the iv for fluids and antibiotics wouldn't be started till 3 hours later. the phenomenon of hospital time is very disconcerting. the staff was attentive, I don't wish to demean. you just wonder where does time go when it gets to the hospital. 6 years ago we had a 9 day stay at Children's Hospital when Erin's femur broke (I slept on the floor, couches, even a gurney). jeez, the nurses were wonderful, the surgeons were wonderful. okay, the on call doctor wanted Erin out toute de suite. Erin had external pins in his thigh to hold the bones together. one got infected in the hospital and had to be replaced. afterwards, the on call doctor removed the packing from the infected wound. he said to Erin, this is going to feel funny. odd definition of funny. he proceeded to pull a yard or 2 of packing from Erin's leg, with Erin screaming and Beth and I holding him as best we could. holy shit. I presume Erin rests well now, he acquiesced to lights out when we left. I guess I don't care what the phony poets are doing, Jim. I don't care about which poetry careerists need spanking. one has to make an effort to care about that stuff, whereas Erin's illness is part of life, part of my life. the only cure for bad poetry in the world is good poetry, humph, not radial yakking. the poetry of waiting at the doctor's is just a different animal. one, I daresay, that really breathes. the issue of poetry power couples is corny, obviously. that I got to spend 6 hours in a hospital today isn't a valid measure of anything but patience. that I felt the need to stay up later than I had ought, to quickly transcribe the conditions in my head as I return from that hospital is interesting, perhaps you could try to figure why.

I can't switch to Beta Blogger, tho I guess I want to, which means that I officially have done a fair amount of blogging. I don't like the verb blog, because it suggests a usage that is not necessarily so. I mean, a blog is a means of transmission. if one's work appears in a magazine, is one magazining? well yeah, but what's the dillio? I cede to the idea of a community of bloggers, but I signed nothing with blood, and I doubt others have either. so no need for hyperactivation on that point. I think of Tributary as a poetry blog, but how do I fit shopping tours and journalistic dailiness into that idea? super easy is how. you know the back cover of Lunch Poems from City Lights. evoking a picture of O'Hara bopping around and, you know, limning lines on handy Olivettis. poetry can be much of goings on, inside and out. it's a cheesy view to see them strictly as rampant careerism. that works into a definition of careerism as any effort whatsoever to broadcast one's work and one's thinking. that's up there with Kerouac's self-ultimate, and wasn't he a kid at the time? I like to sit at the computer when I can and language what's recent, what's around, what's tipping the current scale somehow. I specifically treat myself to slang, or the adventurously non-standard, or any other way to surprise myself, and possibly the Reader. that's an exercise, exercise is good. I look forward to new entries at all the blogs to the right, and others as well. I got on the Poetics list 7 years ago, when I pretty much rebegan writing poetry. having isolated myself from what will have to be called the poetry community (but not from the writing itself), I found the Poetics list inspiring for having others yapping in a daily way about poetry. the list got over-managed to the point that it has little apparent life. plus people never seemed to catch on to how awkward to the point of stupid the group soliloqiues of internet "discussion" can be. a very weakness of blogs is just that yelling over the transom at the blog next door that goes on. what's interesting is the personal ruminations in patches of one's own idiom. the conscious and unconscious effort to create a vital language space.

2007. hail the new year lads and lasses. Beth and I celebrated our lst New Year's Eve together on the 10th floor of Boston Children's Hospital, when Erin broke his leg. we could espy Boston's welcoming fireworks display out the window. this year we planned to old fart it by watching the marathon of Everest episodes on Discovery Channel, 6 hours worth. then a party invitation came. then, friday night, Erin wasn't just sick, he was torching at 105 degree fever. it will be said that Erin is prone to sockdolager fevers. they also tend to hang on. we were unsure if we could leave him. we left the decision to the last moment. so we did see a few episodes of Everest. Erin had seen some the first time they were aired and tho he liked them, he wanted to watch something else. so he started telling us to go. and his fever had ameliorated some, so we did. and of course we stayed longer than we planned, till after midnight, then hurried back. Erin's temperature during the night hit 103, so the battle continues to rage. when I was young I had a sterling fever. I was laid up watching the movie Moby Dick. it's not a great representation of the book but it works as an adventure, even to the degree that I think Gregory Peck comes off fairly well as Ahab. anyway, my fever broke during the climactic whale hunt scenes, which are pretty exciting. I managed to sleep till 6:30. by habit, no matter when I go to bed, I tend to wake the same time. so here's the, like, new year and all.

ceremonial

ceremonial, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

21st century

21st century, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

whirled view

whirled view, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Jesse Crockett's Flickr

looks like I cannot switch to beta Blog, because this blog is too large. I imagine some Blogger (GOOGLE!!!) inspired disaster awaits. whatever. so anyway. we actually made a trip to the mall (not far) to look at the mall in its post Christmas mallness. Beth's idea, just to see how the economy is doing. didn't even leave the car. this is part of the fascinatingness of Christmas. Beth wanted to see if the parking lot was full. it was. not overfull, but you'd have to search for a parking space. just checking under the great big hood. I love doing this, watching the world on its energized mission. we've pared Christmas down to a big ass tree, a party, and some calmly procured presents. I mean the work part. the celebration radiates as its own. sometime in November, for instance, depending on mood, I start playing Christmas music. I can envelope most (but not all) of the secular stupid stuff (not "Santa Baby", not certain other crass vehicles the titles of which I have no energy to lift up for display). I feature older stuff, renaissance and medieval. plus "Drummer Boy". wandering thru the mall is a pleasure, only mildly avaricious (the Apple Store!!!). sunday, when we were at Barnes & Noble, I saw a book by Ed Viesturs, an Everest and high altitude veteran. he'd been on Daily Show recently. I looked longingly at it but chose not to succumb to the wanting urge. next morning, Erin's present turns out to be the very same. score! that's what I like about Christmas. not that whole Wii presposterousness. I write about these shopping adventures because I don't think poetry allows limits. I think poetry includes seeing. Olson (his birthday is tomorrow) brought to me, maybe not to you, an inclusion. that poetry isn't a restricted, bonded place, but welcomes questions and attribution and theory. that history, or science, or crackpot ideas are poetry too. seeing how Coach bags work their way towards young hands is interesting to the point of magic. what did Jung come up with, active imagination. well now, think of the manner of your dreams, the ridiculous conjunctions and strident oddity. the diurnal and the phenomenal, how do they differ? poetry is possibly exciting, potentially involved with the numinous, the extended, the daily, the morally brilliant. my friend Ezra closed off, and you can see the fearsome smallness in the picture I linked to earlier. not to say we all don't have batch files of stupid running rampant, the point is to recognize a few of them. Beth was at the garden center, where several small children stood in front of an inflated Rudolph performing Rudolph's song impromptu. at the point where Rudolph's exclusion from reindeer games was mentioned, one youngster added "because he didn't wear underwear". brilliant. the Poetics list currently murmurs with the MLA buzz, and I can see meeting up with names on books you've read or wish to, but the academic clog and freeze up would discourage me. the poetic probably doesn't want to isolate or barricade itself. leastwise, that's my working proposition. the limitations sort of kill us, do they not? well, that's my present rumination. I'm not trying to freeze things.

I just got comment box spammed, so I looked to check my settings. lo, I discovered a bunch of comments I hadn't read before. I apologize for setting it so that those comments never appeared. I appreciate pretty much whate'er anyone contributes, not counting those arriving via mindless machine influx. I also, in trying to make those comments reappear, apologize for apparently stupidizing those comments into some blogger netherworld. I swear I hit no delete button.

interesting photo of Ezra Pound (whose name comes up frequently in crossword puzzles). taken just after St Elizabeth swallowed him up, he looks sorely distressed and confused. it's not to whitewash the antisemitism, for which, I daresay, he paid more than most antisemites, but I find this a singularly compelling picture. you see a kind of earnest intention to pull everything together, to study and understand. you also see him overwhelmed by the effort. it's sad in the way any boundary such as race, gender or culture is sad in its determining (limiting) effect. I mean at heart I think there was a brilliant sincerity to Pound, but the weight of that um hubris just warped it all. it's not up to me to make karma evaluations of Pound but I will say there is much to admire in his work, amidst all the screwed up blah. in sooth, we have to be kind to all our heroes, for the human steps that they still take.

my loved ones sleep on Christmas morn so here am I. I don't wnt to hang out on the net today, but Christmas music is playing, tree is lit. we went to the mall yesterday, with some shopping aims but also to enjoy the spectacle. it's fun to wander around, look at things, take it all in. we got there around noon or before. plenty of parking available. Sears is a surprisingly quiet box. it feels like they don't want to be too busy there. as opposed to being outquicked by Target or whatever. I've noticed that the music has been uniformly low octane at Sears. Sinatra sang, if I recollect, "Silver Bells", giving it his most I don't give a shit inflection. his lack of sincerity was never a problem, part of his roguish charm, but musically it sounded like greengrab symphony. some few musicians make Christmas music like they mean it, but it is a genre of avid hackery. we muddled thru cds and dvds for Erin at FYE, big anime sale. these entertainment stores are up against it what with the internet, both legal and illegal. we entered KB Toys, a crass place that I would normally avoid. we had our reasons. I can understand, and yet. it is next door to EB Games, an electronic game paradise which oppresses me, all these stupid, violent, lubricious graphics on those stupid, violent, lubricious games. folks at KB Toys were in who gives a shit mode. the last time at the mall we visited Coach again. the music there wasn't nearly the echoing thump of Abercromie and the Other Name, but it certainly aimed towards young market. the product hasn't been aimed youthward, however, only the marketing has. which is wise: teach them to appreciate your wares rather than guess what their taste is. wisdom there. I didn't see much register action at the Coach store, tho all the store people were busy. at Macy's however the Coach bags were moving. now I can't remember the name of the designer but I liked the bags from this one more than Coach. Beth tells me that there's no question that Coach does things in a 1st class way, including lifetime warranty on the bags. teens were purchasing bags. we got some camera accessories at Ritz camera. a hatless Santa entered the food court and said hi everybody. I think it was the mall Santa, dressed in an elegant green coat (looked Victorian), but he was treated more like a weirdo. no Santa, I don't think you're a weirdo. passing thru Sears, by the way, it appeared they were dismantling Christmas displays. near Santa's picture taking factory a tired looking fellow sat talking on the phone. he said, the little rat is in line to see Santa. still doing a box office business there. across the road we entered he holy ealm of Barnes and Noble. which was jumping. a cop is outside drinking a Starbuck's brew. a year ago Beth and I went to the mall, I think the day before Christmas. it was packed to the degree that it took us an hour to make a circuit round the mall, without finding a parking space. space was a difference maker then, certainly, but there was tons of room yesterday. B&N was about normal. B&N did what Whole Foods does in times of crush: station someone at the head of the checkout line to facilitate a smooth flow. we did indeed stop at Whole Foods for a handful of things. tweren't so busy really. we have our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. I made a cake, inventing a n orange sort of frosting for it. Beth did a roast. while it cooked we watched our bit of swag from the day, Pirates of the Caribbean. the 1st one. it's a fun movie. not having any expectations the 1st time I saw it, it was a wonder. one doesn't expect the flaky performance that Depp gave. the 1st one at least managed to keep its confusing elements under control, unlike the sequel. the cat has now decided to sample such of the dog's breakfast as the dog has chosen to save till after walkies. light enters the sky. I shall now perform walkies. Merrie Christmas, however you take your pleasure.

saw the 1st half of Breakfast Club, which I aint never seen before, amazingly. tho having lived thru the 80s (it came out in 1984, I infer) I absorbed a degree of it. beginning with that song by Simple Minds, which I admit to still kinda liking. I didn't realize or had forgotten that John Hughes directed. for a while there he made just about every movie in which an adolescent, pre-adolescent or post-adolescent appeared. I can recall some were okay in their way, and some just functioned on the strength of formula. speaking of which... the opening credits wheeled out the five central characters. let's see if I can memory it all up: Molly Ringwald was the pretty in crowd girl, Michal Something Hall was the dork, Emilio Estevez was the jock, Judd Nelson was the hood, and Ally Sheedy was the eccentric introvert. it is true that school divides into such factions, but perhaps with more blurring round the edges. the five must spend 8 hours doing nothing in the school building as pennnance for misdeeds. which strikes me as an unusual way of dealing with problems. a school official, after all, must come to school to oversee. that school official is a Captain Bligh-like asshole. his pugnaciousness is better suited for employment as prison guard but I'll leave his career choice at that. bad guy Judd is the main instigator, asking direct, offensive questions and stirring the pot. everyone gets their chance to orate about life as a teen, and Hughes makes sure everyone is juxtaposed with everyone else, for purposes of dramatic tension. zowee. I was taken by how acting class the whole movie was. Ally Sheedy with her hair covering her face, squeaking inexplicably, seems perfectly inarticulate in a seriously autistic way at one point but later is asking probing big life questions of Emilio. the kids are so knowing and so stupid at the same time. condensare. and don't forget the hijinx. Erin put the movie on, somehow with the idea it was a funny romp or such like. no, more like a hunk of phony tearjerk for the cheap seats. anyone seen any of the actors lately, or Hughes himself? it's like the 80s wouldn't let them go.

yesterday was our anniversary. we went to dinner in a restaurant in Concord, yes snooty old Concord that was in Thoreau's crosshairs. afterwards we drove around a little, because some people have taken to decorating their homes with lights and whatnot, which is rather fascinating to look upon. well, were we surprised to see luminarias (bags with lit candles inside) lead into the woods near the river. and further, a bonfire could be seen. actually, what 1st caught our attention was the number of cars parked by the river. also, the sound of drums. where were people going? natch we had to find out. Beth put it together, a druidy, pagany thing going on. well don't that beat all! it so happens I LUV witnessing sacrifices, they really make you stop and consider things. (just kidding). we walked to where the luminarias began. someone was there photographing a standard which showed sun and moon in a yin/yang sort of configuration. Brother Sun and Sister Moon. the guy told us that he'd heard of this gathering before but had never seen it. we followed the path in. coming widdershins was a couple with a baby carriage. the path was uneven with roots and rocks. I'm not sure there was a baby in the carriage but there was a large drum. in a clearing we found a group of maybe 20, men and women. all of whom were in their 50s: retired hippies!!! I mean, you bet. 6 were gathered with guitars singing a country blues. others were clustered talking. I don't know how pagan the festivities might've been, could as well have been a reunion of Deadheads. things were breaking up. the fire was beautifully set up, a campfire really but riproaring and lovely. the people ignored us. the photographer had made his way in and was taking pictures of the people and of the the sun standard set up nearby. I felt like an outsider because I'd dressed in a tie just to prove to Beth that I can still do it. I probably looked like The Man. that Beth and I were married on Winter Solstice was intentional, so this little celebration felt natural and right. neither Beth or I was brought up religiously. I attended a Unitarian church with my parents. nothing religious about that. you can't get too excited about being non-committal, and so the Unitarians floating along in mildly liberal satisfaction. when I learned about morris dances, the Golden Bough, etc, I got more interested in things pagan, tho I've never like joined and circles or whatchacallit. Easter, for instance, attracted me more when I could connect it to fertility rites. so anyway, our hippies friends apparently make it an evening every solstice. the juxtaposition with staid Concord aint lost on me. the area of the gathering was held sacred, so I've heard, by native Americans. the colonials, natch, determined the land was a good place to pasture cows. so anyway, a clear cool night, the river roaring by at whatever the very least speed a river can move and not be a pond. Beth and I finishing off 6 years together, a time that, honest to god deserves a book to be writ, if either of us are strong enough for that. and we're lucky as anything.

Beth and I shopped a bit yesterday. 1st, late lunch at Panera, where I had onion soup in a carved out boule of sourdough. the French have made it law that a croutons must be part of the onion soup experience. included with the soup: a nice hunk of bread. must have more bread, must have more bread... 1st stop was L. L. Bean, with a specific item in mind. when I went to Franconia College, in northern nowhere, New Hampshire, it was considered a big adventure to drive all night to Freeport, Maine and hang out at the Bean store. at the time it was the only Bean outlet, and it was a sumptuous all night store, to accommodate hunters and grass-inspired hippie types. I never made the trip but a fellow at school would frequently remind me of the time we drove to the store. I'd tell him that I had never made the journey and, with appropriate baffled pause, he'd reply, really, are you sure? whenever the store was brought up, my father would intone the store's slogan: L. L. Bean, the best I've ever seen. he knew the store when you could meet the famous L. L. hismelf. it seemed like a friendly, fresh store but we were there only long enough to learn that hand crank flashlights that can charge cellphones were out of stock (for a friend). so a trip to The Mall became necessary. at the front of the Discovery store, someone was stationed with the charge of greeting customers and playing with toys. previously, said toy was a flying saucer, a radio-controlled fan provided the aeronautical oomph. this time it was a radio-controlled dinosaur. it was a high energy, constantly moving toy that sharply resembled the perpetual motion terrier pup we came close to adopting, the Terrierist. the Apple store continued to look hip. psst, we got something for Erin. Brookstone, another store full of gizmos, actually had the cellphone charging handcrank flashlight. I got new earphones for my measly half gig last year's iPod Shuffle. sigh. at Circuit City, I gave them my computer so they could add memory. I was told the chips can easily be replaced. last week I opened this machine up and removed a chip, just to see what up. I thought I got it back in but when I restarted my computer it reached a point then went blue screen then out. that sort of thing discombobulates me, even tho I managed to poke at the thing to set it proper, so I was happy to follow the recommendation of letting a greenshirted tech guy perform the operation for a financial consideration that I considered worthwhile. I remained at the counter while Beth applied peeled eye to televisions and cameras. a tv was on behind the counter at which I waited. the show was oook I forget the name, a celebrity news round up that rounded up the tidiest tidbits of essential info, which were exploded via electronic magic into once key areas of my brain. a full nelson was applied to my brain 1st off in seeing Lara Spencer as one of the "reporters" on this show. I think she killed off the bouncily enthusiastic twins on Antiques Roads showmaking them get their own show. the point is that this Lara Spencer, seemingly cool and snooty, has PBS cred, and hadn't ought to, under any circ, be on a celeb news ooze, where haughtiness is reserved for, you know, Gary Burghoff of MASH fame, and not pandering celebrity news show hosts. I mean really. the big story was of Miss USA almost being dethroned by Donald the Trump for having partied somewhat underagedly. there was a press conference in which a heated Trump and a mortified Miss USA paid public pennence, altho perhaps they spelled it correctly. the Trumpmeister barked out that the miscreant must go into rehab, which he made sound like a punishment rather than an assistance. if she doesn't shape up, we'll be seeing a new Miss USa, and you know how rocky it can get when there's a change of Miss USAs midterm. I hope it doesn't come to that. there was a shocking story about Britney Spears getting onstage at some club and doing a strip tease. apparently she kept her clothes on, which I guess is the shocking part. unfortunately I cannot recall more news items but I know they were equally captivating if not more or less so.

ready for the jam bands

, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I appreciate when poets write about their craft, the inklings of curiosity and the so forth that moves the writer, in this instance Shanna Compton. I could tell a different tale but no reasonable competitive basis exists. nor, I should add, am I or anyone going to save poetry, however much one might sneer, erupt or defy malfeasance in the poetry biz. neither shall poetry be killed. in saying this, I don't want to indicate that tales of Christmas trees falling down are not of the poetic. if I need to defend myself. which I don't.

since you're not doing a whole lot (reading this blog), you probably could spare a moment to read the latest at Antic View, or assay my latest pix at Flickr. links are conveniently to the right, but use the left side of your brain for best results. I like how I flounder around with Jeff Harrison's percipient questions (Antic View), and I take total credit for the weird wonders that walk onto the viewing field of my camera. elsewise go see how Jimmy's dealing with the issues, that could be important too.

we had a party saturday night, our Christmas party. I didn't get to bed till after midnight. at 4:00, hello kitty advocated that I rise. a feeling of numbness made me refuse. at 5:00, however, I woke out of habit, and was awake enough that I just got up, tho tired. what did I see in the living room? why, the tree reclining on the floor. of course I had plenty of energy. I proceeded to remove all the ornaments and lights that weren't smithereened, a slow process. not to exaggerate, but it was a sort of Katrina moment, seeing things so messed up. in sooth, it wasn't quite so bad. our collection of ornaments includes some sentimental items from both Beth and me, plus our gaudy new haul. some of what I had are/were literally more than 100 years old, tho for the most part ratty looking items. we have since sawed the trunk again and set the tree up. decoration will occur anon. I did the dishes then went to bed for a short snooze around 10:30. the tree probably wasn't securely set in the stand the first time. the mystery is that the cat never showed up for breakfast, an amazing neglect of his inborn duty. his 1st and 2nd Christmases he took to climbing into the tree but he hasn't done that, being a husky fellow, the past couple. so we don't think he knocked the tree over. possibly the tree fell when he was in the room, thus scaring the bejesus out of him, but Beth thinks he was on the bed the whole night. Beth's niece is visiting us, but our cat, Mowgli, accepts her. he doesn't accept a bunch of strangers in his home as we had the night before. so maybe he's in a pout about the incursion of strangers raiding his abode, but that rarely causes him to miss a meal once the coast is clear. anyway, this afternoon we went to Orchard House in Concord, home of the Alcotts. instead of the usual tour, like we had of the Old Manse on the 4th of July, they had a presentation. each room of the place was hosted by an Alcott family member. that is, Bronson, Marmee, Louisa Mae, etc. it was a pleasant, different approach. Concord had a snootful of idealistic, iconoclastic thinkers back then. hard to imagine now. the town has always been well-heeled. as recently as 15-20 years ago, it still had a working class element to it, mostly due to its farms. today it just wants to go mcmansion, altho it remains a pretty little town. just snobby as shit. after our tour we had dinner then took in a couple of extreme Christmas homes. you know, with mucho lights. one of these displays is excessive, no question, but with a certain amount of taste. the other is kitsch to some power I have yet to compute. illuminated Santas up the wazoo, including Homer Simpson as Santa, the Grinch as Santa, Mickey Mouse as Santa. I took pictures tho I doubt they can give any sense of the wonders. if that 2nd house could be deconstructed, woo hoo, it'd have something to say. a couple years ago, the lights on the roof spelled out SUPPORT OUR TROOPS, for the particular benefit of planes leaving and arriving at the nearby airfield. so now i shall take a look at pictures and then reclaim the sleep I missed.

Jim Happened, Once

control is organized into bits of jim. this jim falters like any other. this jim goes like a trip over to a sodden green field where so much happens in springtime. now the field turns grey. the grey redeems by closing in. bits of jim spread to transform: honk honk, that aint happening.

but wait mood, wait for time. and the piercing cry of lately, steams windows freely and then you gone. stare at the jim till not so fierce or free.

makes a burning study, says our jim.

a jim is rectangular.

a jim for once, with all the ploys attended.

then further jims, as motion towards resolution (like we all) yet tossed about stutter.

control is the jim byword, which stays insane.

sane isn't such a big drop either, of course.

just returned from a dawn walk with the dog. the cat's sitting by the tree. a length of garland has been detached from the tree and stretched out a bit. the cat looks like pride in the undertaking. because no one asked him to provide this service, he offered it free. anyway, segue, listening to Christmas music on an internet radio station. currently it is the Waitresses. it is really amazing the amount of Christmas music that gets produced. and the attempts to make it "new". blues Christmas, jazz Christmas, heavy metal Christmas, hahaha. Martha and the (what are) Vandellas sang a classic, I forget which. you can hear highly professional studio musicians hacking thru a crisply dull arrangement. not to besmirch Martha, whose voice sounded nice. some years ago Neil Diamond had a Christmas special. Neil had to alert us that tho he is Jewish, he sill likes Christmas songs. it's okay, Neil. ook, now BB King and John Popper are bluesing out some nonsense. um, Popper's outmatched vocally. can't wait for those pointless triple speed harp runs. anyway, whatever Neil's strengths, and I'm not clear on those, he's really not exactly a dynamic performer. he sang "Little Drummer Boy". oh jeez, this is what I get for listening to the lyrics: "they call me backdoor Santa". Willie Dixon wrote that one too? reminds me of the world's ickiest Xmas song: "Santa Baby". which consists in invitations to Santa to come down my chimney, sung in a breathy Betty Boop voice. anyanyway, back to Neil. he was vocally challenged by "Drummer Boy", sought the easy way out with a near spoken phrasing. the pa-rum-pum-pums had him baffled however. he had a pained expression each time he intoned the syllables. why am I saying pa-rum-pum-pum-pum?. why indeed. at some point, Neil sang with a boy's chorus. some televisional genius thought that Neil should interact with the boys. no doubt Neil read off the teleprompter PUT HAND ON BOY. he did so in a mechanical, cold way that was kinda creepy. well, now I've got "Frosty the Snowman" sung by Fats Domino. what a stupid ass song. and yoiu know those 8' bubbles with Frosty and Santa, teamed up to outcute lesser decorative insights. a place down the road apparently only runs the pump at night, during the day their inflated display lays in a deflated heap in the ground. Santy!!!. yow, why am I listening to Billy Squier and his "Christmas is the Time to Say I Love You"? last night, to offer one more crack insight, a gaudily decorated house and yard did it all. HO HO HO in big letters on the side of the house, Santa and teammate Frosty waving to passersby, candy canes, reindeer, and a full manger scene. secular and religious blended in an assertion of silly seriousness. die for our sins, ho ho ho. anyway, Karen Carpenter is making my heart pump quickly singing abut a child who will bring us goodness and light. ho ho ho.

thank goodness we went shopping yesterday, I was getting nervous about missing Christmas. didn't really Christmas shop. I needed an externl storage unit so that maybe I could backup my files. that sent us to Circuit City. there was an ad for either CC or BB (Best Buy) in which a man and woman enter the store and suddenly the man goes wild-eyed with all the glittering electronics and bounds off like a puppy. I feel a little like that. it all looks toothsome. Beth stared at a flat screen tv that looked like a good deal. I got 60 gigs of storage, which is pretty good as my hard drive is 40. hip hop music played over the sound system in the store. admittedly I haven't listened much to rap, which I don't merely offer as evidence of my fogeyness. I mostly know rap/hip hop from novie and tv background music. auditory signal of urban cred. which reminds me of a Budweiser commercial starring Jay-Z. I mean, that's one way I see of losing cred: hawking Bud. Erin meanwhilst ogled cameras, which was his aim. he's as much interested in video as stills, plus constrained by budget. there was a metallic red camera, small too, which I didn't even pick up but still felt envious of whoever might own it. my camera's rather small but it's blocky in its way, and it looks like a camera. I want a camera that looks like a rocketship, don't you? we walked out of CC without more damage than the storage unit, which legitmately features in the category necessity. CC is actually across from the mall. the mall itself seemed quiet. Erin and I went to Ritz camera while Beth got caught in Crate and Barrel's tractor beam. Erin quizzed the people there then we went into C&B. well, no, Erin went to parts unknown. sales staff a little testy at C&B, not unreasonably so. Beth got some eminiently needed garlands for the tree. then... we went to a music/video/whatever store to find Erin. along the way the cart people lunged at us. one time it was a young man and woman trying to attract us to something. the image of a moray eel darting from its rock niche comes to mind. another time it was 2 young women at maybe a cosmetics thingie. they both remained seated on their stool, which is a funny image when you think on it, like they didn't want to expend too much energy. the opposite of that manner of drawing in is Abercrombie and Fitch (and/or Finch). the loud insistent dance music and the dark store front simply pull people in. a black hole. there's a women's clothes place with a lime and apple green decor that is extremely pleasing to my eyes at least, I'd want to go there. as opposed to the toy store, which is just super garish and bright. oh, in the entrance of the Discovery Store, a store person was radio-controlling a flying saucer. it had a fan that pushed it off the ground. dazzling! perfect for driving the cat crazy. somehow we found Erin again, went back to Ritz to procure his camera. then home. Beth annoited the tree with garland (we got the lights on yesterday... when I say we I mean Beth did, Beth has patience that I can't conceive), Erin set up his camera and I set up my storage drive. then take out Indian food, then an evening of putting ornaments on a fir tree in our living room. I also took pictures. Erin regarded his duty solely as getting a photographic record of Xmas 06, and plus too playing with new camera. well, today, harrumph, I just put the kibosh on the cat getting his morning exercise with an ornament. he's cleaning his foot now.

puppy of the apocalypse

puppy of the apocalypse, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

btw, anyone know if I should commit to beta Blogger? I tend to jump willy nilly, seeing a finer world in the upgrade, but in sooth that's not necessarily the case. has Blogger, or should I say GOOGLE, replaced old errors and screw ups for crisp new ones???

I stuck Ben Friedlander's Flickr account in my list of links. notice that I've segregated the picture sites, which is an effort of hopeful organization that can't bode well. Ben posts family shots, and ones from his youth, and a lot of personal stuff, but also much other types. including notes written to his wife (grocery lists, even!). what I labour to say is how interesting it is, the possibility of these pictures, and these gosh darn public publishing sites. I know I can't maintain a comprehensive listing of such like so what I will post can be considered intimations. Alli Warren, Brandon Brown, Stephanie Young all post personal photos, to the extent that you can envy the swell poetry times they have out there on the left side. I also like Jesse Crockett's photos, which I have to link to. but like I said, I'm not the one to maintain anything called comprehensive. I haven't even gotten around to producing my own flood, just the merest trickle.

we've been watching the Everest series on Discovery the last few weeks. I'm quite fascinated by Everest. strictly armchair interest. I once climbed Mt Lafayette in New Hampshire and reached a panic point when I got above treeline. it's only a 4000' peak, a hike, but I had a strange feeling of vulnerability. the sky seemed too close, and it felt like I could fall into it. no sheer drops or anything, it's not a scary mountain that way. tho at the summit a thunderstorm could be seen heading towards, necessitating a scramble down. I had to push thru that panic, but when I did, I felt okay afterwards. so I suppose I shall not be standing next to any 10000' foot drops anytime soon. a somewhat ragtag bunch heading up Everest. a super fit asthmatic, a climber who'd lost both legs to frostbite, and a biker who'd suffered 2 major crashes, thus carrying a lot of metal inside him. the leader of the expedition is an older man who leads from base camp, keeping abreast of weather and news via computer. doing so for the very good reason of being clearer minded at the lower altitude. the assaults on Everest that occurred 10 years ago, which Jon Krakauer wrote about in Into Thin Air, saw the leaders of 2 expeditions, world class climbers both, stuck near the summit during a bluizzard, which they did not survive. both made questionable decisions. even Sherpas suffer edema up there. the asthmathic wanted to climb sans oxygen but a one day delay at high altitude proved too much and he had to come down. there was an md along, who I understood as the expedition's doctor, but he pushed on to the summit, which made no sense to me till I got that he was just another paying client. waiting to learn if the biker and amputee make it. think of Mallory up there in his wool tweed, hauling huge oxygen tanks. whew. and you get to the top and bejesus if you have any sense you run right back down. all the descriptions of such climbing are ridiculous in so far as the cold and lack of oxygen so terribly take their toll. everyone loses appetite, coughs their brains out and so forth. it's a funny set up because Sherpas climbed to the summit to set ladders and ropes for the clients. which doesn't make the climb easy but certainly eases things a lot. anyway, the man for whom the mountain is now named, I mean the English name of course, pronounced his name with a long e.

103rd section of Antic View is up, as is the 6th installment of Captain Element. not forgetting apocalyptic puppy pix at my friend Flickr.

Beth had to stop when she saw a neighbour walking a terrier. she had to meet and greet the dog and talk with the owner. it was a Welsh/Irish terrier blend (which doesn't mean mucho to me, dogs are dogs for me, I'm not real subtle beyond that). the dog just lept about as Beth talked with the man and petted the dog. the man offered that she was more than he could handle. he said he was 80, which was not evident. the gist of this was an offer by Beth to maybe take the dog, an idea that the man took seriously. a day or two later he left a note at our door saying he would be willing to let the dog go. talking with him on the phone Beth learned that he'd come by earlier with the note but couldn't bring himself to leave it. but then came back. we've got an elderly dog (husky/German shepherd compote), and a cat, so we don't need another, but Erin's been looking for a young dog and and and. but that and is opposed by some practicalities, and as we thunk on it, we realized we couldn't take the dog. Beth was totally smitten by the dog, which is an energy bomb of Everest magnitude. I see why the man felt overwhelmed because the dog is young and full of energy plus she needs a lot of attention. not the best dog for an older person on their own, though the man seems hale enough. we pondered how the 3 of us could work this dog and recognized that we couldn't work it. so we had to say nay. Beth and I went over this evening to tell the man. we were there an hour. he's a widower who recently moved here to be closer to his daughter. the dog was in constant motion for the entire time. I had my camera and took some 60 pictures, of which about 5 are in focus because she moved so much. not only that but lunging at the camera. we really would like to take the dog, and the man was amenable because he liked us and we're nearby. we offered to help him with walking he dog and in finding a home for her. he said a few years ago this dog might be feasible for him but now he needs one that requires less attention. pets can fill a lot of vital space. our own dynamics are such that the terrier would have been a stress. alas. I'll Flickr up some pix.

working out the details but I'll be doing a showing of paintings next month in a small gallery. it's associated with my master's project. January 20. I'm much excited and will detail further as facts arise. I will show a great deal of work, as much as I can fit into the space. woohoo.

whenever I think of the Poetics list, I think what a waste of time. and what a super waste of resource. people used to post poetry on the list, even Kari Edwards, now mourned, and Jeff Harrison, and Alan Sondheim, of course. others too posted regularly. but this collaborative bushwah downgrade hit and hit hard. wah wah wah, posting stuff I don't want!!! nice of Geoffrey Gatza to make Edwards' Having Been Blue for Charity available for download at his Blaze Vox site. it looks like a good dose of her work, which I have not read much of.

blimey, I gotta do something about my typos. I'm motivated by a need to get things done quickly, that seems to be burned into me concerning blogs. well that's no excuse. sit back and enjoy my new resolve.

we didn't manage to get to the Demolicious reading with Ulla Dydo, whose name I have previously misspelled, peccavi. I was very interested, because I am tantalized by Stein but honestly not well read in her work. it occurred to me, hey, Amazon could maybe perhaps possibly have some Stein available. and true enough, so I shall get Making of Americans, and I dunno what. Stein's funny because she's well known yet I don't think well read by people. the Autobiography and Three Lives seem to be popular, and Picasso, and Tender Buttons has an esoteric following. I think you have to hunt for the rest of her oeuvre. Dydo has done major scholarly snooping into the texts, so, too bad we missed her. Jack Kimball has been such a yeoman about attending readings locally that I can assume he'll have a write up, and if so, that it'll be thoughtful and useful.

I've been reading Down Spooky by Shanna Compton. urg, I don't have the book handy and can't remember the publisher but you can get it here. I'm not really prepared to say why you should, but you should. my brief encounter so far is positive. perhaps my vocabulary's doing something to me, because I note a technical effect for which I haven't worked out the articulation. I think I see this same effect in Stephanie Young's work. almost surreal but not weirdly so, the unexpected terms and word choices. both writers intone situations, emotional loci, that shine with a clarity without falling into simplicity or definitiveness. emotions are neither simple or definitive, they blur into each other. I like how the terms in Spooky surprise and perplex yet make sense. I was thinking there was an oppositional energy evident but I don't like how oppositional connotes. an understood other arises in these poems, but I don't mean so much against as just situated, as in: there. tell me if I'm making sense. partly it's a matter of address. as I've said afore, I guess in comments about S Young, even, I like 2nd person plural, its generosity, its fluidity, its slide. I've only just gotten the book, and have been scanning and skipping around. I note that the poems gather momentum as a whole, that their drive is united rather than discrete. they show a considerable calm polish. I've enjoyed what I've read and should underline that point (comme cela): these are poems to enjoy the way you enjoy, say, Frank O'Hara: deft, amiable, you know what I mean. I also, as a writer meself, want to figure out what she's doing, how her poems bloom as they do. so treat what I write here as hypothesis. the adventure follows. that's all I aim at in any of my "reviews".

okay, so I'm like, here it is, another part of Captain Element

we saw Borat last night. lots of fun, bring the whole family. indeed it was pretty funny. the matter of taste and the appropriate does come up. I'm probably pretty fuzzy on that topic. I don't think good comes of touchiness, but I also believe in a moral or ethical rigour. when I saw Michael Richards pop his cork, I saw flop sweat. he desperately grasped the possibility of street edginess to save him, if that's how you want to quantify it, and it played unnaturally. Borat certainly locates right in the mess of things. Borat is comfortable in the midst of that risk. it is interesting to see when Borat goes over the edge for his victims. at the rodeo, it wasn't when he said Bush should drink the blood of every Iraqi, it was when he sang how Kazakhstan is the number one country, with the best potash in the world. and the party at Secession Drive doesn't get ugly until the black prostitute that Borat invited showed up. but others, like the sweet Jewish couple (from whom Borat and his producer cower in terror) or the auto school teacher, are pretty accepting. as a movie it gets normative a few times, like the tender moments with the prostitute and his boring dark night of the soul after his producer leaves. the scene in which he and his producer fight nude rides on an exceeded sense of slapstick. do I want to see Borat and his hairy and obese producer wrestle sloppily in the nude? can I look away? the movie goes awry because of lack of movie making vision. those normative moments, for one. and is it supposed to be cinema verite or not? supposedly he's being filmed but there are moments when apparently there is no person manning the camera. Comedy Central had a promo show a while ago for the movie, which I saw. not long movie, so it turns out I saw a goodly portion of the flick beforehand. I never saw Ali G, so I'll be letting Youtube fulfill that necessity. I've caught, so far, Ali G interview Dr Norman Chomsky, in which Chomsky doesn't have the footwork to keep up with the joke. Andy Kaufman should be getting some residuals from Sacha Baron Cohen.

I have some reviews at Galatea Resurrects. read reviews of Mainstream by Michael Magee and Musee Mechanique by Rodney Koenecke here.

read a review of Post~Twyla by Jack Kimball here. Jesse Crockett also reviews Twyla, here. I like the idea of multiple reviewers. my reviews aren't intended to be comprehensive, that's your job. I just want to say the water's fine, and indicate a few features of the various works.

I use Google's home page (personalized!!!), because I believe in giving the gang at Mountain View as much opportunity to glean personal info as possible (yes, I did visit Ron Silliman's blog). so naturally I have People.com at the ready there. as in: one click for all that info I need. this naturally led me to a story about K-Fed (Federline, Kevin: amazing dancer, rapper, hubby and dad). (can you imagine your dad as a fantastic rapper who had sex with Britney? awesome!). and his entourage holing up at some club. did the italics create the right tone there? accent the last syllable to indicate the extreme awesome wonder of K-Fed and entourage as a semantic unit. they all sat at a VIP booth or throne or nave or whatever, as befits their status as K-Fed and entourage. K-Fed, goes the report by someone there, drank Jack Daniels and sent text messages to the galaxy in which K-Fed is the head star. he didn't pay much attention to his entourage. wow you gotta believe it was an interesting entourage, because figure: would K-Fed have an uninteresting one? high school grads, every one, no doubt. BUT WHO DID HE TEXT MESSAGE?? here's where Google could finally be of help. pull that info together guys and make it available!!!. K-Fed refused interviews but he told reporters: "I'm good." he's good! losing Britney, the love of his life, mom of his kids, that's gotta be painful, and yet, bravely, he can stand there in his pinstriped suit and say he's good. worry not, the healing process has begun. tho it must be tough with Brit having lesbo sex with Paris Hilton, or maybe it was at the Paris Hilton. the amazing thing is that the DJ at the fantastic club played a Britney song. I mean, his entourage stops dancing and they're like, what's with that, man??? and K-Fed waves his hand to indicate that things Britney are non-negotiably like totally anathema. yeah, it was a complicated wave. and the DJ stops the Britney fest and was like, okay, my bad, bring on the thumb screws. and he says, it's Kevin's night and all. which it sure was. I live on this information, how it shapes my world.

yes, the Times has some great hints for book giftgiving. yo, check out this new guy Allen Ginsberg! okay, so here's a sentence from the blurb for Ishmael Reed: "Poetry of politics and diversity, suffused with humor." tell me that the word diversity isn't a giveaway. make that the pair of politics and diversity. I'm guessing it is those terms that make poetry comestible for Times thinking.

we saw Syriana last night. I liked it but have far from a complete picture of it. it has that Le Carre undercurrent of not quite clear motives, which is hard to keep straight. and I had a few wait a sec who's this guy moments. I needed a score card. neither George Clooney or Matt Damon outshined the movie, which is a good thing. I would posit that what the movie wanted to accomplish can't be done in the allotted time. it was engrossing, tho, and I'd watch it again. its conspiracy theory was much more reasonable than JFK, which went from wacky (which is okay) to just plain stupid. I really disliked how Stone jammed the camera up everyone's nose except Costner's. the twining of plots in Syriana worked pretty well, and appropriate to the twisted situation. the culminating gathering of George Clooney, Matt Damon and Dr Bashir from Deep Space 9, or whatever show that was, was almost deflating. not that there's any reason to expect hopefulness. I just hope our next president is tied to the oil business so that we won't have to endure any sort of ameliorating change.

once again a ramble thru the mall yesterday. what's this got to do with poetry, writing, what not? everything or nothing. we had some things we sought, but we also just wanted to 'do' the mall, plus Beth was making a surveying of stores re how's business. we checked out the Apple store once again. that place was jumping. I would never let colour or styling top price and working features for a computer or mp3 player yet I still feel the lure of the glitz in that store. I got a half gig Shuffler last year and really it fills my needs. yet I ogle. the new Shuffler doesn't actually satisfy any necessity by being half the size of my present one. the rapt excitement evident in the store is remarkable, as in, buy Apple stock. there was a low, circular table for children, and each station had an intent child checking out a computer. get 'em early. and just think, an iPhone is coming omigod omigod omigod. one store had live models in the window. I really couldn't look, it hit a weird note for me. they weren't static, at least. there was a sort of semi-pro quality to the models, as if they had a mild fear that their friends might see them. I just can't imagine the view from the window. it was a store aimed at young women. another store had three staff people waiting anxiously at the entrance with no one in the store. on the other hand, Abercrombie and Fitch. the pulsing dance music, the darkness... slats covered the store front so that you can't see in or out. it's your own little youth world. business was okay there. the excitement was more manufactured than at Apple, tho. Beth pulled me into Coach, home of the upper class handbag. Beth was given one from her aunt. they have a lifetime guarantee, and grow in value. I assumed the target audience was middle aged women but that's not what I saw. we were greeted by a Kirsten Dunstish woman and most of the staff was on the young side. plenty of staff too. and most of the women poking around were tweens. so Coach I guess adapted to the market. the style of the bags doesn't say youth market to me, nor does the price range of the goods, so the adaptation that Coach made was in the relateable youth of its staff. it's fascinating looking at the economy this way. I think there should be a warning sign near Yankee Candle, because those shops have such a powerful aroma. I won't say stench but... the aromatics they use can't be natural, kind of an industrial attack on the olfactory bulb. I somehow lost my camera's battery charger a while back. last time at the mall I got a new one. this time I got the right (I forgot what brand of camera I have, duh). also got the cable to send iPod thru a radio. more later.

when I saw this poem by Tom Beckett I wondered who this Allen Bramhall is, I got good vibes from the name. well nemmind that, the poem speaks to my own idea of narrative. I appreciate Henny Youngman's jokes for their desperate succinctness. he removes the extraneous so that his jokes are almost entirely punchline (take my wife, please). I believe poems should propel themselves with the most eficient machinery. which isn't a call for short poems but dense, essential ones. the plots in novels most often are the fakest part. the logic of narrative shouldn't be so linear because that linear throb assumes too much by way of antecedents and motivation. thus the episodic jounce interests me more. momentary revelations. so the 14 parts of Tom's poem are expansion points. the narrative occurs within these points but also, more importantly within the realm defined by the title. where such questions as these occur: why is this called a sonnet? how are these 14 stories tied together? why do these stories seem to be answers to unasked questions? it's deftly done, because if these are boiled down from stories, what the reader gains is not a reconstitution of each story but a renewal of the terms of story. the starting point is revitalized with new possibiities. anyway, that's my riff.

Antic View is at its 101st installment and Captain Element is at its 3rd.

watched Warlock last night, a horror movie. I'd seen it before (as it turns out, not the beginning). I might've better warned Beth and Erin of its nature. I did recall some gory parts but what I'd enjoyed were the funny parts. it begins in Boston in 1691. a rather pleasant few minutes of evoking that place and time, then some Puritan yolks are seen marching to this stone tower. inside is a fellow in chains. he's the warlock, and he's to be executed. bursting in amidst this is a fellow wearing fur who I guess captured the warlock. came in to gloat. I didn't see any of this part on my previous viewing. well, as things would have it, the warlock manages to escape into a handy vortex, and the furry guy leaps after him. cut to present day (about 10 years ago). a young woman is roused in the night by a noise. this is Lori Singer, who I've seen somewhere or other but can't recall where. her brother played Beastmaster (I think), so, um, you know. anyway it's not Lori who rushes to investigate the noise, it's her character. her male roommate comes out from another room. he has his slippers and robe on. reminds me of 50s sitcoms when anything that happened in the night perforce causes people to get robe and slippers on before doing anything else. what's the point of escaping a burning building if you're not wearing your slippers? they see the warlock unconscious on the floor, he having crashed thru the window. they strike me as rather blase about his arrival. I think Lori, or Kassandra with a K, might've said something like welcome to California. still, it was more like, oh look. K wants to call the police but the roomie opts for compassion, so the warlock is bedded down. next morning K goes to work. roomie later gets up and makes breakfast. as he does so, warlock enters. played by Julian Sand, who I've seen elsewhere, with a similar exultation of creepy evil. he has a long blond ponytail, dressed in black and oozes sexy evil. the roomie chatters happily, perhaps a tiny bit interested in this streamlined piece of evil. warlock notices the roomie's ring. quite suddenly, warlock grabs a knife and chops off the ring finger. roomie cries but doesn't bleed. warlock calmly puts ring on. he then not so explicably kisses roomie roughly. by roughly I mean he bites roomie's tongue off and spits it into the hot frying pan. in case anyone hadn't caught the evil that was warlock. I don't, btw, recall a name attached to warlock. this roomie scene didn't quite please the others and it didn't zackly work the plot. anyway, later K discovers that her roommate has died. meanwhile, the warlock visits a fortune teller. he wants to talk with his father Zamiel. the fortuneteller fakes a visit, warlock says tut tut and then the fortuneteller, with visage altered horribly, channels, um, dad. who has a rough echoey voice, as evil incarnate often does. warlock must collect the three parts of the Grand Grimoir that are scattered about. the world, all worlds, will cease to exist if he does so. but he'll get to live on with dad. to him, this is a good thing. dad offers the expedient of cutting out his (but alas her) eyes out, and they will lead warlock to the pages. that's another scene that would've been best left unseen by the others. okay so Redfern, the other guy swept into the vortex, appears. he gives K some helpful plot points. then he's hauled in by the police, who K called when she was more distrustful of weirdos from the past. then warlock returns, smashes a piece of furniture in which is hidden, it turns out, 1/3 of the Grimoir. he puts a spell on K that ages her 20 years a day. so now we have our quests. 1st she bails out Redfern. they must find the bracelet that warlock took from K so that the aging process can be reversed. additionally there's that detail about the Grimoir, end of the world, and all. here the movie actually gets pretty perky. K's Valley Girlness and anachronistic Puritan Redfern combine for some humour. Redfern has a compass that, using a stray drop of warlock's blood, can locate the malefactor. so now we needn't wonder whether ever the twain. all make their way to Colorado, where they find a Mennonite family that happens to have part of the Grimoir. oh wait, the creepy scene in which warlock talks up a child. this is a cinematic trick that's almost too much. innocent unsuspecting child and this fellow who we know can will do anything. it turns out warlock needs an unbaptised boy's rendered fat so that he (warlock) can fly. we see nothing of the murder but it hangs in our heads. and given that the murder is only to facilitate the movement of a character, the horridness is magnified and not compelling. well Redfern and warlock tussle. at one point, Redfern has his whip wrapped around warlock's ankle and is being dragged by the flying evilness. it looked like, as Erin said, Macy's parade. speaking of which, Big Bird on thursday, because of wind, was kept low to the ground and face down. rather an indignity. a weird shot of a commentator with Bird Bird being led by had a ceremonial smack, as if Big Bird were to be sacrificed. I mean, such a deed would be evil enough for warlock. anyway, Redfern almost gets warlock but warlock buzzes the Mennonite grandpa in the eyes with his X-Ray Vision, and Redfern cuts off battle to save him. K, now aged, has a weapon, at least. driving a brass nail into warlock's footprints will stab warlock. warlock, who's holed up in a boxcar, craftily puts a piece of wood on the soles of his feet to protect himself. K craftily bangs a nail into the impression of warlock's butt on the ground. that puts warlock in extremis, and K closes in for the kill, but then the train starts to move. K with her granny legs can't keep up. but she finds her bracelet, and so is youthed back to normal. okay now I think they only guess that part 3 is in Boston, so they fly back. warlock hides in the bilge or whatever the word is that I can't remember. the good guys confront the priest of the church who clues them in that the Grimoir is probably at the burial ground, it being hallowed ground. the word is hold, hold. then warlock visits the priest too. he inveigles the truth from him by threatening the child in the womb of the priest's servant. oddly, it sorta came across as if the child was the priest's. anyway, the final battle. they find the Grimoir but K realizes that the burial ground has been moved and that the ground is no longer hallowed. which means the warlock is free to come. which he does. fight fight fight. Redfern's ass is kicked and K's been thrown into the bay. warlock intones the grim words of the world's cessation, clouds develop, yikes. but K climbs from the bay with her syringes. see, it has been meetly established that she is diabetic. she stabs warlock in the neck with the syringes crying, try salt water, fuckbrain. it also having been meetly established that salt is anathema to evil incarnate. so warlock melts, clouds disappear and all's back to a proper whimper not a bang. Redfern and Kassandra with a K enjoy a chaste loving moment then Redfern is whisked back to his time. Kassandra finishes the movie by burying the Grimoir in the Bonneville salt flat. the end.

I started another blog, namely Captain Element. I would like to keep at it, thematic, but whether that's in the cards, I dunno. I am interested in narrative, just not so interested in stories. stories being the overdetermined part of narrative. the blog, if I persist, will be my adventure if not yours. my point here is the sort of flarfy goings on in these 2 pieces. I use the term flarfy carefully and warily. 1: flarf is not mine, I'm borrowing what I like. 2: I no more want to enclose my work than any others (tho I do both often enough). Kasey Mohammad writes of his interest in and preference for the unpoetic, or apathy for the poetic." that unpoetics feeds flarf, and not just flarf. the pop heroes and characters that I confiscate are these heightened, goosed, platitudes. I think flarf hovers on such like. I like the collision of the hoky, the stupid, and the intense. in a way--a screwy way, for sure--the racism in the Fu Manchu books, and Tarzan, and Robert E Howard, is a good thing. it's the serious, if warped, side of the general goofiness. so I'm reading now Corn & Smoke by Blaster Al Ackerman (Shattered Wig Press 2006). I traded my own book, Simple Theory, to Ric Royer for it, I believe they work in the same bookstore. goofy, hilarious, short prose pieces. some are narratives. I've seen Blaster Al's work in John Bennett's Lost and Found Times. the mainstream and the avant garde (I know, what the hell do those terms mean) often sound ALIKE and unimpressive and heard it before. the good energy of flarf is its grasp on the pervasive nuttiness. the bad energy, as Kasey points out is "when flarf simply becomes another item on the craft-based academic menu (this actually seems to be happening in some places), it loses a large part of its reason for existing." I guess I'm in the surprise me school of readership, or learn me something. Blaster Al--and were I to meet him, I'd sure enough say Blaster Al--is a subversive. flarf is interesting to the degree it wields subversion. the arts continually need subversion, it's the breath of change and growth for that which possesses the countering impulse to solidify (hey, let's all write Frank O'Hara New York poems!!!). so anyway, I see in my own 'tactic' with Fu Manchu et alia a comprehension of the unpoetic. at any rate, the prose style comprises squalid Victorian virtues and the avant's foot disjunctively in the next metre forever. that's what I see, anyhoo. the real tactic is impatient, and could we change the channel puh-LEASE!!!

a couple nights ago we popped over to the mall, really just for the Indian food at the food court. it being closer and cheaper than any other Indian alternative, and decent besides. and the mall is alit with seasons greetingness. the mighty food court sits beneath a glass rotunda with strings of white lights hanging down and blinking at a tastefully slow rate. on the floor under the rotunda is a mandala design. children invariably gather there and invent games that make use of the sections of the design, or they race around its perimeter. the chasing game was in full swing when a younger child happened in. she was too young to quite get the social thing and so raced about wildly, screaming and excited. a number of children were dressed in sunday best, having performed that Santa picture thing for grandma. Erin had some errand and dashed off. Beth and I strolled the fairly quiet mall. we parted when I wanted a look in the Apple store and Beth was drawn like a magnet to Crate and Barrel. those Apple toys sure are tempting, I'm embarrassed to say. embarrassed because I know I'm beguiled by the slickness. the store offers a bunch of tables on which are displayed the goods. I couldn't tell who might be store employees, a lot of people seemed wired in several senses of the word. I also don't know if I show fogy by seeing little need for a video iPod. I mean maybe seeing Kramer have a nutty on that 2 inch screen, but do I want to see Caribbean Pirates of the Penzance part 19, chapter 47, redux 99, the prequel, on it? I dunno. the new shuffle is pretty small, but you still got the wires. next stop implants, and William Gibson can rest. so then I toddle (because the crowd was small I had room to toddle) to Crate and Barrel. where Beth and I ogled the Christmas ornaments. if you like colour and glitter... tasteful in an overstated way. the colours are like magic in my eyes. Erin being in wander mode we repaired to Pottery Barn, where Erin knows he can find us. ornaments there were much subtler and refined. and heavy. give me the brighter colours. Erin didn't appear so I did reconnaissance. while walking the mall I noticed a woman sprawled on a short couch. it seemed early in the season to be wasted by shopping but I thought nothing more of it. naturally when I returned to PB Erin was there with Beth. we went down the mall again. the woman on the couch had slumped to the floor. I didn't noticed till I'd passed. several people were with her. it became obvious, once I could see (because a crowd gathered), that the woman was really unwell. she didn't appear conscious. people were saying, what should I do? a woman helping said call security. Beth more wisely advised call 911. the woman threw up, which was scary because she wasn't conscious. in situations such as this I feel, seeing things in hand, to step away discreetly and not be part of he staring. we moved on to make a quick purchase for Erin then came back, by which time EMTs were strapping her onto a gurney. hardly apropos but I'm reminded of when my mother had broken her hip. she and my father were going in for her first check up by the orthopedist since she came home. she wasn't that good using the walker then. going up the slight incline to the hospital she fell backwards. immediately doctors came out and said don't move. the ambulance had to be called, coming from the fire department 5 miles away, to move 100 yards up to the emergency ward. I get why that is, but it still doesn't impress my intuitive sense. anyway, today, Thanksgiving morning. the dog and I passed the still smouldering remnants of a bonfire, I guess to inspire the football team to take no prisoners. I don't know where they find that many witches to burn. I guess the game is in enemy territory.

at the risk of sounding all buddhisty and all, I feel I ought to point again to Access to Insight. it provides n enormous amount of texts for Buddhist study, including a great deal of the Pali Canon in translation. texts, commentaries, even help with the Pali language itself, were you so scholarly minded. this is what the perfect world vision of the Internet would provide, back when we were dreaming about what the Internet could do. sensible navigation, visually clean and clear, it's simply a great repository of works. a companion site, Sutta Readings, provides readings. this is useful as much of this work originated orally, with reinforcing repetitions that you can find yourself skimming as you read. the frame of reference for both sites is Theravada Buddhism, but not exclusively.

I don't seem to put poems on this site much now. I burden the collaborative blog Taking the Brim with some of what I write. here's yet another Fu Manchu poem. I've let myself write many poems featuring the sinister doctor.