seldomifever: (bg cage)
In honor of National Poetry month, I offer you How a Poem Happens, more specifically, how one of my all-time favorite poems happened. *sigh* I love. Mostly because it makes me laugh.

Hmm. What else? We had another bomb scare at the middle school yesterday. Third this year. That's always a good time.

Spring Break begins tomorrow. Most excitering. Husband's taking a couple of days and we're doing something, though God only knows what He has planned for us, cause we sure as heck don't. We'd really like to go to Williamsburg, but allergy season is upon us and youngest son can't leave the house from about mid April through early June without his eyes swelling shut. And since Virginia's about 2 weeks ahead of us, folialogically speaking, we're probably better off not pushing it. If I had my druthers, I think I'd hop on a plane and head back to Disney. It is fun. And I live for fun.
seldomifever: (16yroldb/g)
To operate or not to operate--that is the question,
whether tis nobler in the shoulder to suffer
The slings and arrows of arthroscopic tools
Or to take arms to physical therapy
And wait, tho waiting buys us nothing but
Time in which a mild tear may worsen
It gives me pause
seldomifever: (bg kiss)
around his waist or his tongue between her legs.

Oh, Spidey, why?

I know I have lots to do, but my mind is not hung up on have-tos at the moment, and I'm letting myself enjoy that. I'm sure I'll pay for it later, but now

Now is about reading and writing and thinking without worrying which, as you know, is very very rare

I like Sunday.

Hey and check out this old vid of [livejournal.com profile] polly1esther's I just stumbled across. <3 <3 Yay!
seldomifever: (Default)
Ah! [livejournal.com profile] breathe_poetry has just posted Grief by Matthew Dickman. One of his better known poems, m'dears. Check it out.
seldomifever: (smoking)
Ooh, just read a great article on Matthew Dickman and his twin brother, Michael, in this week's New Yorker. Fills me with fannish glee. Unfortunately, the only link I can give you is to an abridged version of the article. Must register for the full length. Bahstids. I'm thinking of buying everyone I know a copy of All-American Poem. Here's another one of my favorites from it.
seldomifever: (manchild)
As promised, I am foisting my good taste upon you. Savor it. It is divine.

V

The skinny girl walking arm-in-arm
with her little sister
is wearing a shirt that says
TALK NERDY TO ME
and I want to,
I want to put my bag of groceries down
beside the fire hydrant
and whisper something in her ear
about long division.
I want to stand behind her and run
a single finger down her spine
while she tells me all about her correlatives.
Maybe she’ll moan a little
when I tell her that x equals negative-b
plus or minus the square root
of b-squared minus 4(a)(c) all over
2a. I have my hopes.
I could show her my comic books
and Play Station. And we could pull out
my old D&D cards
and sit in the basement with a candle lit.
I know enough about Dr.Who
and the Star Fleet Enterprise
to get her shirt off, to unbutton her jeans.
We could work our String Theory
all over her bedroom.
We could bend space together.
But maybe that’s not what she’s asking.
The world’s been talking dirty
ever since she’s had the ears to listen.
It’s been talking sleazy to all of us
and there’s nothing about the hydrogen bomb
that makes me want to wear a cock ring
or do it in the kitchen while a pot of water boils.
Maybe, with her shoulders slouched
the way they are and her long hair
covering so much of her face,
she’s asking, simply, to be considered
something more than a wild night, a tight
curl of pubic hair, the pink,
complicated, structures of nipples.
Maybe she wants to be measured beyond
the teaspoon shadow of the anus
and the sweet mollusk of the tongue,
beyond the equation of limbs and seen
as a complete abolute.
And maybe this is not a giant leap
into the science of compassion, but it’s something.
So when I pass her
I do exactly what she has asked of me,
I raise my right hand and make a V
the way Vulcans do when they wish someone well,
hoping she gets what she wants, even
if it has to be in a galaxy far away.

- Matthew Dickman

gen n

Mar. 15th, 2009 11:40 am
seldomifever: (Default)
Think I'm gonna have to post some of Matthew Dickman's poems right here, because I can't find enough of them I can link you to. Not that you read my links. Or listen to them. But one day you might, and for this alone I plan.

Spoke to most beloved teacher friend last night. He remains, as ever. And the conversation was good and fulfilling and nothing remotely resembling our last phone call which left me feeling more like I'd been punched in the stomach than cocooned in a friend's warm embrace.

I've spent the morning suffering from my usual unease over my fannish adoration of Anthony Head. I don't like to consider myself obsessive, but it's difficult to avoid that characterization when I use his image in my posts every day. And the amount of time I'm forced to think about him in varying compromising positions through other people's work and my own precludes me from pretending I only think of Head in the context of a socially embarrassing hobby. I am positive the trouble I'm having with the prawn is related to my inability to disassociate the actor completely from the character. And I have a confession to make: I read more Tweets about him again last night. I know when he grabs a quick bite at a hospital cafe or visits a zoo or walks down Broadway. And there is something inherently wrong with this picture, isn't there? What's next? Detailed descriptions of whether or not his shit actually stinks from the guy using the bathroom stall beside him? Real information in (relative) real time makes me feel creepy, like I'm cyberstalking or something. I've only read about him twice and I know I should just stop. That would solve the problem, right? But I gotta tell you, I'm not sure that I can. It's like peering into a fishbowl. The walls are translucent and there's nowhere left to hide. Big Brother is not some fictionalized totalitarian watching our every move--he's us. Hand us the cameras and the Sidekicks and the Blackberrys and the Facebooks and the YouTubes and the Twitters and we'll do the rest.

This is not news to anyone but me, but I'm slow and technologically challenged and have yet to catch up with the times. I'm still using the same cell phone I bought five years ago. I've never sent a text message. I don't know how to use my iTouch for anything more than listening to music, but I'm still participating in this. And it always leaves me feeling kind of queasy.
seldomifever: (scruffy)
Disney. When the humidity is high and the lines are long and screamie meamie babies abound, it's hard to remember what the hell you're doing there in the first place. But when the temps are fine and you achieve all of your goals for the day through careful planning and clever use of Fastpass, there is nothing sweeter. Our legs ached and our feet killed, but the overall experience was pretty wonderful. We had a spectacular view of the fireworks show at the Magic Kingdom, which became the highlight of every evening, because not only were they the most amazing display of pyrotechnics we'd ever seen, they could be viewed from our favorite place of all--our bed. Woot! Woot!

Flying still traumatizes me, although I survived the experience without the use of tranquilizers. Decided it would be best if Mommy wasn't too incapacitated to be able to place air masks on die Kinder should the need arise, simply because I couldn't handle hurling through space at 500 miles per hour, forty thousand feet above the earth. Urg. And as if taking off and landing weren't terrifying enough, I swear we narrowly avoided a midair collision on the flight down, because suddenly, somewhere over Virginia, our plane veered to the left and a few seconds later, another jet whizzed past us on the right. Meep. If we were meant to fly, God wouldn't have invented cars. Or trains. Or New York. And even though I do seriously dig this Jonathan Richman song, I think I'll stick to driving.
seldomifever: (manchild)
Read an interesting article about a woman who's still nursing her six yr old. I'm always amazed at people's visceral reactions to breastfeeding, as evidenced by the comments following the article. Obviously anyone who links breastfeeding with pedophilia has never nursed, because there is absolutely nothing on earth that could be less sexual. Heh. I used to see this gastroenterologist who said that he once had a patient nurse her five yr old in front of him and he'd never seen anything more disgusting in his life. I thought, Wow, that's saying a lot, considering you spend your life looking up people's asses, buddy. The arrogant dickhead. Not that I'm super comfortable when someone starts nursing in front of me, but I think that has less to do with the kid's age and more to do with feeling like I'm witnessing something that seems very private. I wouldn't want to be hanging out chatting and have someone suddenly drop trou and start urinating in front of me either, no matter how natural peeing may be.

My boy had his birthday yesterday. I kept hoping someone from my sister's family would surprise him by stopping by, but they didn't. I'm always told that people only treat you the way you let yourself be treated, and I suppose it's true, on some level. They were invited, they blew it off, so what's left to do? I suppose I could cut them off and never speak to them again. I could refuse to attend their b-day parties or say no when one of them appears at my doorstep, begging me to pick nits out of their hair for hours and days on end. But that would be really hard for me. I'm not sure I'd be comfortable intentionally hurting another person, the way they did my son. My therapist says I should consider adopting the Buddhist philosophy of Bodhisattva, wherein I accept altruism as bringing me a step closer to enlightenment. Or something like that. I can't really sort out the details, but it sounds good when he says it.

I've got a small pile of stories I'm getting closer to releasing into the world, even though I'm not super pleased with them. Hanging onto them forever doesn't seem to improve them any, so I guess I should just take the plunge. As fascinating as my personal life may be, a fic now and then might be kinder to inflict upon the world.

(Today's entry title comes from a Matthew Dickman poem I stumbled across this morning. Love, love!)
seldomifever: (Default)
Good Grief! Fucking Texas.

Drive home from Cape took forever, but everyone kept their cool and their spirits up, so it was far less painful than it might have been. Literally took about three hours to go 50 miles, but that's what you get when you leave at 10am on a Saturday in August. We know better. Came home to this relevant New Yorker cartoon. It's funny, 'cause it's true.

Thought I had more to say, but I guess I really don't, so I'll just leave you with Matthew Dickman's fine poem this evening.

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