![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
2 comments | Leave a comment
Friends
31 December 2009 @ 10:28 am
30 December 2009 @ 01:53 pm
Pavane | Jack Gilbert
I thought it said on the girl's red purse
A kind of sad dance and all day
wondered what was being defined.
Wisdom? The history of Poland?
All the ways of growing old?
No, I decided (walking back
to the hotel this morning), it must be love.
The real love that follows
early delight and ignorance.
A wonderful sad dance that comes after.
I thought it said on the girl's red purse
A kind of sad dance and all day
wondered what was being defined.
Wisdom? The history of Poland?
All the ways of growing old?
No, I decided (walking back
to the hotel this morning), it must be love.
The real love that follows
early delight and ignorance.
A wonderful sad dance that comes after.
30 December 2009 @ 11:33 am
How To Like It
by Stephen Dobyns
These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let's go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let's tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let's pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let's dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn't been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let's go down to the diner and sniff
people's legs. Let's stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man's mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let's go to sleep. Let's lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he'll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he'll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let's just go back inside.
Let's not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let's go make a sandwich.
Let's make the tallest sandwich anyone's ever seen.
And that's what they do and that's where the man's
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept-
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.
by Stephen Dobyns
These are the first days of fall. The wind
at evening smells of roads still to be traveled,
while the sound of leaves blowing across the lawns
is like an unsettled feeling in the blood,
the desire to get in a car and just keep driving.
A man and a dog descend their front steps.
The dog says, Let's go downtown and get crazy drunk.
Let's tip over all the trash cans we can find.
This is how dogs deal with the prospect of change.
But in his sense of the season, the man is struck
by the oppressiveness of his past, how his memories
which were shifting and fluid have grown more solid
until it seems he can see remembered faces
caught up among the dark places in the trees.
The dog says, Let's pick up some girls and just
rip off their clothes. Let's dig holes everywhere.
Above his house, the man notices wisps of cloud
crossing the face of the moon. Like in a movie,
he says to himself, a movie about a person
leaving on a journey. He looks down the street
to the hills outside of town and finds the cut
where the road heads north. He thinks of driving
on that road and the dusty smell of the car
heater, which hasn't been used since last winter.
The dog says, Let's go down to the diner and sniff
people's legs. Let's stuff ourselves on burgers.
In the man's mind, the road is empty and dark.
Pine trees press down to the edge of the shoulder,
where the eyes of animals, fixed in his headlights,
shine like small cautions against the night.
Sometimes a passing truck makes his whole car shake.
The dog says, Let's go to sleep. Let's lie down
by the fire and put our tails over our noses.
But the man wants to drive all night, crossing
one state line after another, and never stop
until the sun creeps into his rearview mirror.
Then he'll pull over and rest awhile before
starting again, and at dusk he'll crest a hill
and there, filling a valley, will be the lights
of a city entirely new to him.
But the dog says, Let's just go back inside.
Let's not do anything tonight. So they
walk back up the sidewalk to the front steps.
How is it possible to want so many things
and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep
and wants to hit his head again and again
against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?
But the dog says, Let's go make a sandwich.
Let's make the tallest sandwich anyone's ever seen.
And that's what they do and that's where the man's
wife finds him, staring into the refrigerator
as if into the place where the answers are kept-
the ones telling why you get up in the morning
and how it is possible to sleep at night,
answers to what comes next and how to like it.
30 December 2009 @ 07:02 am
Hey guys! I’m putting the next issue of my zine together and its all about women, so I have a few questions for the girl zinesters out there if they want to help out. You can be as detailed or vague as you want when answering. And as a sufficient bribe, if you answer 5 out of 7 questions, I’ll send you a free copy of the zine when its finished. Email me at seasonofunknowing@gmail.com with answers or any questions you have for me or the project. I’d love to hear from you, even if you don’t answer the questions! And thanks to everyone who takes the couple minutes to help me out.
1. What does it mean to be a riot grrrl?
2. What is your first clear interaction with the feminist movement?
3. Do you think feminism has a place in society today, or have we done what we needed to do?
4. Be honest here: what double standards do you have for women? Do you hold the women you know to specific standards, yet criticize men for having those same standards? Do you judge women too harshly according to society, while at the same time lamenting female stereotypes?
5. What is your biggest issue with being a girl? Now, what’s the thing you love the most, the thing that makes you proud to be female?
6. What do you consider the biggest issues facing women still today? What do you think should be done/what are you doing about it?
7. Freeform question: talk about a purely and strictly female memory. Alternately, why do you think female experiences are good/bad for us as a sex? (a strictly female memory would be a memory or experience that just involved girls, or something that wouldn’t happen to/with men, i.e. menstruation)
29 December 2009 @ 08:52 pm
Hi, guys!
I'm the editor of The F-Bomb zine and our next issue due out in January is going to be our sex-themed issue. I was planning on doing a feature called "Stripper Stories: Straight From the Pole" with past or present strippers contributing their most memorable moments to the article. Funny stories, horrific stories, sad stories...all are welcome!
Should you contribute you of course have the option of remaining anonymous, simply let me know in advance if you would like me to include your name or not. The email address is CWheeler@thefbombzine.com
Hope to hear from you guys soon!
Tina
I'm the editor of The F-Bomb zine and our next issue due out in January is going to be our sex-themed issue. I was planning on doing a feature called "Stripper Stories: Straight From the Pole" with past or present strippers contributing their most memorable moments to the article. Funny stories, horrific stories, sad stories...all are welcome!
Should you contribute you of course have the option of remaining anonymous, simply let me know in advance if you would like me to include your name or not. The email address is CWheeler@thefbombzine.com
Hope to hear from you guys soon!
Tina
Current Mood: electric
29 December 2009 @ 08:52 pm
Hi, guys!
I'm the editor of The F-Bomb zine and our next issue due out in January is going to be our sex-themed issue. I was planning on doing a feature called "Stripper Stories: Straight From the Pole" with past or present strippers contributing their most memorable moments to the article. Funny stories, horrific stories, sad stories...all are welcome!
Should you contribute you of course have the option of remaining anonymous, simply let me know in advance if you would like me to include your name or not. The email address is CWheeler@thefbombzine.com
Hope to hear from you guys soon!
Tina
I'm the editor of The F-Bomb zine and our next issue due out in January is going to be our sex-themed issue. I was planning on doing a feature called "Stripper Stories: Straight From the Pole" with past or present strippers contributing their most memorable moments to the article. Funny stories, horrific stories, sad stories...all are welcome!
Should you contribute you of course have the option of remaining anonymous, simply let me know in advance if you would like me to include your name or not. The email address is CWheeler@thefbombzine.com
Hope to hear from you guys soon!
Tina
Current Mood: electric
29 December 2009 @ 10:08 pm
Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers.
Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off.
But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this.
To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause,
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose
Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance. The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers.
Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.
The Christmas Feast is already a fading memory,
And already the mind begins to be vaguely aware
Of an unpleasant whiff of apprehension at the thought
Of Lent and Good Friday which cannot, after all, now
Be very far off.
But, for the time being, here we all are,
Back in the moderate Aristotelian city
Of darning and the Eight-Fifteen, where Euclid's geometry
And Newton's mechanics would account for our experience,
And the kitchen table exists because I scrub it.
It seems to have shrunk during the holidays. The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this.
To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened. Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.
And craving the sensation but ignoring the cause,
We look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit
Our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose
Would be some great suffering. So, once we have met the Son,
We are tempted ever after to pray to the Father;
"Lead us into temptation and evil for our sake."
They will come, all right, don't worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine. In the meantime
There are bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair,
Irregular verbs to learn, the Time Being to redeem
From insignificance. The happy morning is over,
The night of agony still to come; the time is noon:
When the Spirit must practice his scales of rejoicing
Without even a hostile audience, and the Soul endure
A silence that is neither for nor against her faith
That God's Will will be done, That, in spite of her prayers,
God will cheat no one, not even the world of its triumph.
29 December 2009 @ 09:44 am
It's a wonderful ode to age not being a detriment to creative achievement, citing the octogenarian prowess of Classic writers as a reason to pursue great works one's whole life through.
Does this sound familiar to anyone?
Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.
"O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.
O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine,
That once were mine and are no longer mine,--
Thou river, widening through the meadows green
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,--
( Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose )
29 December 2009 @ 09:59 pm
pictures taken in Brisbane this month on an Agfa slide film, iso 100.
Happy New Year folks!
Happy New Year folks!
Current Mood: 
good
good29 December 2009 @ 02:21 pm
28 December 2009 @ 06:32 pm
I wish I could drink like a lady,
I can take one or two at the most.
Three and I'm under the table,
Four and I'm under the host.
I can take one or two at the most.
Three and I'm under the table,
Four and I'm under the host.
28 December 2009 @ 01:26 pm
Sunday in
The buzzard’s radium eye is mild-
he scans the silhouette of bone
within the wasted child
He is lean
the shadow of a swan
lean
as the animal he feeds upon
He mates
He dreams he mates
in crossed shadows
under the gorged moon
28 December 2009 @ 06:46 pm
28 December 2009 @ 12:32 am
the season of unknowing
issue one: every story has to have a beginning
issue one: every story has to have a beginning
first issue of a strange perzine-conglomeration. Prose and fiction, worldly and not-so worldly observations, photos and quotes, love, life, and zines. This issue features 3 zine reviews, a look at the past year, fiction and freeform poetry, rants about the world and community, and more. Includes a free mini zine and other cutesy things that will fit into the envelope. - Just realizing now that I suck at descriptions. The zine is better, I promise.
Paypal and I had a falling out, so no paying that way. I welcome trades, crafty items, and well concealed cash (2.00, to cover copy costs and postage) Letters are a blast, but I'm not posting my address here, so take my email instead and take the initiative. You'll be glad you did, trust me. seasonofunknowing[@]gmail[.]com
If you run a distro or know of one that may be interested, drop me a line and let me know. I've never used one before but I'm thinking of submitting to some.( more pictures )( Read more... )
Paypal and I had a falling out, so no paying that way. I welcome trades, crafty items, and well concealed cash (2.00, to cover copy costs and postage) Letters are a blast, but I'm not posting my address here, so take my email instead and take the initiative. You'll be glad you did, trust me. seasonofunknowing[@]gmail[.]com
If you run a distro or know of one that may be interested, drop me a line and let me know. I've never used one before but I'm thinking of submitting to some.( more pictures )( Read more... )
27 December 2009 @ 03:15 pm
I'm in the starting stages of planning a road trip this summer. I live in New England and have never been off the east coast before, but I have relatives in California, so I want to drive out there. I'm looking for some amazing sights that I can't get out of a guidebook. I don't actually have a route planned yet, so suggest anything: places in your hometown, places you've been before, places you want to go but have never seen. I'd like to see some famous sights too, but I'm really interested in indie and underground places that no one's ever heard of before. Can everyone help me out please??
(I'm really sorry for cross-posting this, I usually hate when people do that but I want to get a wide response base. I've never done anything like this before.)
(I'm really sorry for cross-posting this, I usually hate when people do that but I want to get a wide response base. I've never done anything like this before.)
27 December 2009 @ 01:30 pm
26 December 2009 @ 10:16 pm
A Raspberry Sweater
to George Montgomery
It is next to my flesh,
that’s why. I do what I want.
And in the pale New Hampshire
twilight a black bug sits in the blue,
strumming its legs together. Mournful
glass, and daisies closing. Hay
swells in the nostrils. We shall go
to the motorcycle races in Laconia
and come back all calm and warm.
To John Ashbery
I can’t believe there’s not
another world where we will sit
and read new poems to each other
high on a mountain in the wind.
You can be Tu Fu, I’ll be Po Chu-i
and the Monkey Lady’ll be in the moon,
smiling at our ill-fitting heads
as we watch snow settle on a twig.
Or shall we be really gone? this
is not the grass I saw in my youth!
and if the moon, when it rises
tonight, is empty —a bad sign,
meaning ‘You go, like the blossoms.’
to George Montgomery
It is next to my flesh,
that’s why. I do what I want.
And in the pale New Hampshire
twilight a black bug sits in the blue,
strumming its legs together. Mournful
glass, and daisies closing. Hay
swells in the nostrils. We shall go
to the motorcycle races in Laconia
and come back all calm and warm.
To John Ashbery
I can’t believe there’s not
another world where we will sit
and read new poems to each other
high on a mountain in the wind.
You can be Tu Fu, I’ll be Po Chu-i
and the Monkey Lady’ll be in the moon,
smiling at our ill-fitting heads
as we watch snow settle on a twig.
Or shall we be really gone? this
is not the grass I saw in my youth!
and if the moon, when it rises
tonight, is empty —a bad sign,
meaning ‘You go, like the blossoms.’
26 December 2009 @ 11:40 pm
The moon versus us ever sleeping together again
by Richard Brautigan
I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you. Gee, I'm sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
her.