A few weeks ago, I attended a poetry slam - my first one since leaving college.
The attending group were different from the normal cohort I've been associating with for the past two years. There were poems by first-timers, and never-before-heard poems, and poetry performed by an attendee of national poetry slams. Many of the poems were mediocre, but gained
Except for one.
The poet, a young man in full beard and black t-shirt with some form of rainbow parody on Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon," got up, and spoke heart-rendingly about numbers, outlawing them, and getting paid in moments and magic.
And it was magic.
This is not the poem he performed, but this is a poem he performed.
The Earth has spun again, and I am no longer waiting for the summertime. The summer is upon us.
The temporary job that I referenced in my last post has turned out to be not so temporary. I've moved up in the company, which is mos' defs a good thing. I'm in the same greater city-area in which I grew up, and I have two roommates, and a job, and two organizations (I'm defining "organization" very loosely) that I'm volunteering for and am active in my church congregation. It's like I'm a real person.
Over the weekend, I saw with my roommate "Only Lovers Left Alive," a Jim Jarmusch film with Loki (Tom Hiddleston) and the White Queen from Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Tilda Swinton). This is a necessary film, because it is not a film about beginnings or endings, but a film about middles.
Imagine: Tom Hiddleston (Adam) and Tilda Swinton (Eve) are a married vampire couple who live on separate continents: Adam is in Detroit, Eve is in Tangiers. Adam and Eve don't just live apart, they conduct their lives separately: Eve will go out during the night and visit her friend Christopher Marlowe. Adam is a recluse who makes music, and whose only connection to the outside world is through his wife and a young deadbeat ("zombie," as the vampires call humans) named Ian, who acts like a personal assistant-agent. Like the antiquated records Adam listens to, their lives continue to spin slowly about, dizzingly, nauseatingly, like a children's ride that you can't get off of. They are vampires, and they do not die.
Eve realizes Adam is morose, so she comes to visit him. When she arrives, there is a tender moment reminiscent of the sixteenth century where he invites her into his house, then gently removes her gloves. (They are old vampires, after all.) She says that he has been wasting time, and that there needs to be more dancing. She puts on a record, sashays over to him, and takes his hand. He cracks the slightest of smiles and lumbers up. And they start to dance. As simple and sweet as that.
One of the most striking scenes is of Adam and Eve playing chess in their bathrobes, licking at blood popsicles. It's early night and they've just woken up; their hair is unkempt, as it is through most of the movie. Adam concentrates on his next move, while Eve chats about her blood popsicle and her existence and experience. Adam tries to focus, but he can't help but be drawn out by his wife's conversation. Two moves later, she checkmates him, then stalks off to change, mentioning that she's a survivor.
Who does this??? When in life does this happen? Constantly. Certainly, this is not the hormone-inflamed infatuation of youth touted so much in contemporary romantic comedies, but a deep resonating love that is the middle of the story. Where you're so accustomed to the other's existence that they are an extension and expansion of your own existence. Where you can merely sit side by side and listen contently to music.
It's a sleepy, beautiful, slow film. I can't get away from it, its sleepiness and honesty. Even amidst a game of chess and dancing, it lacked some of the specificity of detail that makes life rich - such as the "I love you" spray-painted onto the concrete along one of my running routes, or understanding that a certain glance means you're going to go outside and roll around on the grass like a hedgehog.
But it was arresting, contemplative, haunting.
In another six months, I'll be ready to see it again.
You are full of interesting and piquant things to watch, listen to, and interact with. Some of your entertaining wares become viral, and legitimately so. Take for example "Gangnam Style", which at the time of this post has over 700,000,000 views. It's hilarious, catchy, and there's no reason you shouldn't like it (except for the fact it's popular - but that would be far too hipster).
However, there are other things to listen to out there. Like "Elephants" by Blaudzun, a Dutch singer and his band. Admittedly, there is not much comparison between "Gangnam Style" and "Elephant," one being Korean pop and the other being indie folk-style music. But "Elephants" has its merits, including a diverse set of instrumentation, including electric violin and trumpet, harmony, and an off-key voice which adds a plaintive, honest longing to this song.
So, listen to this, not that! Then decide for yourself.
It was my birthday over the weekend. Though it is past, in honor of the day, I am directing you to "Birthday Poem" by Paisley Rekdal. It is fitting, because it is a poem, it was my birthday, and I had a poem published last week.
Last week was a good one--published on Tuesday, a job interview (local, temporary, nothing special) on Wednesday, with an offer. Hamlet, Stones in their Pockets, and Les Miserables on Thursday and Friday. Friends and potato latkes with applesauce on Saturday. A long, lazy Sunday.
I can't get this song, "Anna Sun" by Walk the Moon, out of my head. I can't get enough of it. There is something so attractive about it. It is filled with longing, with a sense that these kids may not be on top but will never give up, that somehow life is more vibrant and worth living because it's all they've got, that they're also striving for something better.
Then there's the refrain, of "Oh, Anna Sun". Who is she? Well, there is a professor at Kenyon College named Anna Sun; it appears the band members went to Kenyon, so that's how they heard about her. But in a remark made by Professor Anna Sun of Kenyon College, Sun said that the song was not about her and that the band asked permission to use her name because they thought her name sounded cool. So, if not about Professor Sun, then about whom?
Or rather, what? It seems hard to argue otherwise that Anna Sun is a symbol, as evidenced by the door at the end of the video that has "Anna Sun" inscribed on it. Like the corn god in Willa Cather's O Pioneers!, Anna Sun is something to be wished for but never actually obtained, and I'm not sure as the symbol even comes in the form of a woman. During the course of the song, they say, "Live my life without station wagon rides," "Coming up for air," and "Wait for summertime". These snatches of lyrics are reminiscent of childhood--riding in the jumpseat of an old Volvo station wagon, spending all day at the pool, living a different life in summer than during the other times of the year. It's about childhood, the expectation of summertime, and the adult longing for warmth and sunlight that one has after cold, dark winters.
And indeed we see the inner child of the lead singer as they play in the field. Childhood is evoked in the finger-face painting and the girls-vs-boys dynamic, and so is play.
The song itself has a few problems, and the video is even more problematic. (I miss college, which is why I just used that word.) It's about as racially diverse as a small town in Nebraska -- there was one woman of Asian descent at 1:04. However, I should not be too harsh, because Kenyon is in a small Ohio town. They do reinforce some gender norms, like the man kissing an ecstatic woman around 1:00, and when they gather the men against the women in the fields towards the end of the video. Also, using face paint and dressing up as "Indian" is somewhat culturally insensitive; however, with face paint and feathers in our hair is often how we are first taught as children to conceptualize "Indian".
Despite these flaws, though, I still like the video. I love the dance session in the underground cave. I love that the lead singer lipsyncs badly, that the video until 2:40 is all shot in one continuous scene, that you can go back and watch the video again and pick up on new things (the two guys slapping each other to the right of the fireplace at 1:08, the guy dancing with a leaf blower at 1:20, how cheesy and wonderful the windmill-arms are in the dance session, the guy with the Lakers shirt and the glittery eyelashes).
This song, for me, is about nostalgia but not letting nostalgia overwhelm us, of living in the present and loving it, of looking to the future with as much joy as we remember the best of our past.
Thanks, Walk the Moon, for "Anna Sun".
Note: Lead singer's name is Nicholas Petricca, and Walk the Moon's Wikipedia page confirms what I've said -- but I had to discover what the song meant to me by myself.
So I've been anxiously checking my email and this one website for an update to break the news to you all, but I can't wait any more.
Today my poem "Brimful" was published by egg poetry! Again, the poem is not available just yet on egg's website, but I am hopeful that it will be up by tomorrow. And to celebrate and give you all, loyal followers, a place to find my poetry, my very own poetry blog (maybe in the future it will be more site, less blog, but that is to be determined).
In other news, I just barely found this site called Pure Francis. I haven't looked at much of its poetry yet, but the tone of the "About" section is genius. Pinky, are you thinking what I'm thinking...?
If the title didn't give it away, I'm going to be talking about loquats! Do you remember about four months ago, when I first wrote about planting them? Well, they sprouted about mid-August. After about a month, when I woefully mentioned the fact they had not sprouted to my mother, she told me here was still a chance but not to get my hopes up. Oh ye of little faith. Three of them have peeked their little heads up, and they are most beautiful and glorious.
It liiiiiiiiiiiives!
And as it turns out, loquats are quite hardy. I've neglected them more than a plant-parent should, leaving them in the sun and watering them every other day, if I can even remember that. I do make up for it, though, because when I water them I tell them how much I love them (and I mean what I say; that's the important part of raising a plant, I think). If we eat any fruit, I'll bury the skins or rinds in the potting soil. I think my lavishments makes a difference, but then again loquats do really well in southern California, which is 1) very sunny and 2) not the moistest place. So perhaps my success in gardening is more an act of serendipity than any actual skill on my part, but I will enjoy my accomplishments nonetheless.
What's more impressive is the fact that two of my loquats were successfully transplanted into a second pot. And they're not dead yet! At least they don't look it. The first sprout is about 4.5", and the other two hovering around 3"; "teh interwebs" suggest not transplanting loquats until they're 7", but I couldn't wait.
... and I continue to wait, getting up and checking my professional email only to find an inbox full of read messages. Confirmations that my email, resume attached, has been received for a job they've probably already filled but haven't bothered taking down from the internet.
The two-week anniversary been reached for some of these applications. Today is when I get to start pestering some of the HR departments to ask if they've had a chance to read my application package.
This is posted in irony. It's also a wonderful picture by Bryan Konietzko, co-creator of the "Avatar: The Last Airbender" series, which you should watch and whose merchandise you should buy.
I have this cat, a timid little siamese-esque thing in gray-on-white. She has blue eyes that stare at you, but they don't quite seem to see you. Or, they see you and something else just over your shoulder. She meows loudly and plays energetically, but only when she thinks no one is around. Putting her paws on the front window, she'll stare outside all day, craning to get a better look at the world. And at night, she'll sit in front of the entryway window and look at the moon. She's so little against that window, and so distant, gazing at things that only she can see.
I wonder what she sees; it's obvious she sees more than the rest of us with her sky-like eyes. I wonder if she thinks she'll ever get where she wants to go, of if just looking is enough. I wonder how much I am like the blue-eyed cat, gazing at things.
I had already booted down my computer for the night when I remembered a request from earlier in the day by my sister, K. She "demanded" a new blog post, sending her request with a smiley face. There must be something in the airwaves, because I almost wrote a blog post last night.
Over the summer, I've written a number of Poe,s, and I'm preparing to send some to various publications. I haven't read many poetry or literary magazines, and I need to be familiar with the magazines I send these little pieces of my creative self to. So that's been my task the last week, and I found this little gem of a repository of travel poetry and prose last night. Go ahead, click the link.
I've already sent one poem out to egg poetry, an unassuming site that sends you one thoughtful poem each Tuesday. I signed up for it with my tongue somewhat in my cheek, thinking I would at best delete the weekly missive with all of the other junk mail of invitations for singles-only Hawaiian cruises, reminders of the pitiful state of our economy, and notifications of how long I have to get 30 days free of _________ (insert your own annoying spammer! My favorites include: Premium Spotify, Premium LinkedIn, and memberships to Gold's Gym). At worst, I would unsubscribe and make a clean break of it.
Well, I got my first poem, "Fresh Air and Ritual". It was intriguing, funny, fresh. I found myself looking forward to opening my email in the morning, and I was most delighted when the next week came and I got my second poem. It wasn't quite as good as the first poem -- it seems like nothing ever is as good the second time -- and I found myself drumming the keys the following Tuesday, vearly mormimg, annoyed that Egg hadn't sent me my poem promptly. Their poem. Our collected poem, because by the time a poem gets from the author to a distributor to a reader, isn't it all of ours? Anyway, it has become one of the few emails I receive that I actually check. Barring emails from friends and family members (do people still send emails to friends and family?), it's the only email I consistently check.
How about that for something new?
Soon-to-be-poetry. I may have also used this image before.
And if you know of any good literary magazines that accept poetry -- barring something like Poetry, which is too fancy for me just yet -- please do let me know.
Being unemployed -- again, as a cousin recently put it, being in "recovery" from the last semester of college -- has given me ample time to putter, think, read, and write. I've been doing a lot of puttering in the garden, but as we have reached the height of July and the summer months, I've been seeking refuge in refrigerated areas. This means letting my type-A part of my personality come out to play: I've gotten my hands on the stuff gathering dust in the garage, and I'm working on categorizing and inventoring all the stuff in my house. Sounds like fun, right? Well, actually I've been enjoying it, but...
To balance my itch for order, I've also invited my creative side out to play, and I've been writing some poetry today and listening to music and dancing. Every day is pretty much an excuse for my own personal dance party (wouldn't have it any other way -- jumping around, singing off-key, and scaring the bejeebies out of the cats is not conducive to a house without solitude), but today was a special occasion because of yet another Amazon.com free sampler. Free Native American flute music? Why yes, I will download these! Although I haven't quite got the rhythm down for an all-out dance party.... Yet.
Aaah, paean to my vanity.
So, if you haven't done so already, go get some Native American flute music.
I've had some spare time this summer, which I have spent in the yard gardening.
I planted five loquat seeds last Thursday; they have yet to sprout. They can take anywhere between one and four months to sprout. If they sprout, they will never be grand and glorious trees like the first loquat tree I saw: it was the towering, 40-foot tree outside of my dorm. In the last weeks of my last year at college when the loquats were ripe, I could snag a loquat or two on my way to class. The skin and flesh are fuzzy and soft like that of an apricot, but so much sweeter and juicier. In the center of each fruit are dark, hard seeds that need to be planted right away.
I had brought home some loquats with me from college with the intention of giving them away and sharing their sweet goodness. However, no one seemed to want them. Perhaps I didn't ask around enough. They sat on my desk for a month, pruning and becoming wrinkled. At last, I needed to get rid of them, and yet I wanted more loquats, so I planted them.
