i think i articulated this better somewhere else on the internet

my 4th of july was pretty okay. i watched some pretty fireworks and do not feel any more or less "american." i quite like the word "pretty" sometimes, btw. came across the following poem in a blog with beautiful men on it, can't find it on there again because it updates too often, and many of the beautiful men are very distracting. but um, here it is from this somewhat informative site:

Pretty

Why is the word pretty so underrated?
In November the leaf is pretty when it falls
The stream grows deep in the woods after rain
And in the pretty pool the pike stalks.

He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too,
The prey escapes with an underwater flash
But not for long, the great fish has him now
The pike is a fish who always has his prey,

And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty
His paws are not webbed, he cannot shut his nostrils
As the otter can and the beaver, he is torn between
The land and water. Not ‘torn’, he does not mind.

The owl hunts in the evening and it is pretty
The lake water below him rustles with ice
There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist
All this is pretty, it could not be prettier.

Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes,
It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough,
Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier
A field in the evening, tilting up.

The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late
The sky is lighter than the hill field
All this looks easy but really it is extraordinary
Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty,

And it is careless, and that is always pretty
This field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless
As Nature is always careless and indifferent
Who sees, who steps means nothing, and this is pretty.

So a person can come along like a thief – pretty! –
Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel,
Lick the icicle broken from the bank
And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.

Cry pretty, pretty, pretty and you’ll be able
Very soon not even to cry pretty
And so be delivered entirely from humanity,
This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty.

-Stevie Smith


**


i like some of what tao lin says about his own writing and other people's writing and something one might call the "writing process" for lack of a better term (but i don't like most of what tao lin actually writes). here is something he says in an interview at Cruelest Month.

TL: I don't feel excited or good or amused or anything when hearing interpretations of my poetry. Because when I read the poems myself I don't interpret them, I just read them and feel emotions. When I read other people's poems I don't interpret them. If I read a poem and it says, "the sky was orange with satellites. / And satellites know everything," (Matthew Rohrer) I don't think, "What does orange symbolize? What does that line mean? What does it mean that satellites know everything? Is he talking about God?" I just read the words and then feel amused or a little excited. Then I use that excitement to go answer an email that I haven't felt like answering for a while, due to feeling unexcited about life or something, or I go do something for someone, or I go write something, or I go outside and look at a tree. I do something in concrete reality.

But if I thought, "The satellite symbolizes God because God sees everything and people think he is in the sky like satellites are in the sky but you can't see them," I do not feel excitement. I feel bored. I feel inhuman, because I am using my time and energy not to do things in concrete reality that have to do with other human beings, or trees, but to do things having to do with abstractions and concepts, which do not exist in concrete reality but in a metaphysical place, or something. That is not life-affirming, it is the opposite. It is denying that conscious beings feel emotions, denying that pain and suffering exists, and focusing on things that do not exist in concrete reality and that do not therefore feel pain and suffering. I could only do that sarcastically I think. I feel very bored and very unexcited when I hear or read people "interpreting" fiction or poetry in a non-sarcastic way. I feel nervous about this paragraph. I hope it makes sense. I think I articulated this better somewhere else on the internet.

i also like this bit on aesthetic affinities/choices from an essay he did in promotion of his book, Bed, on largeheartedboy:

While writing these stories I studied stories by Lorrie Moore and Joy Williams. I created charts for some of these stories. I made charts. I stared at the charts. I printed the stories in single-spaced, size-6 font to "gain perspective." I wrote notes on the paper. I wrote things like, "Insert something for flow," "Make this a lot tighter," "Edit this part tonight you piece of shit," or "Terrible shit [arrows pointing at circled parts]." I submitted these stories to undergraduate writing workshops at New York University. I like writing workshops. Whenever a person criticized my stories I lectured them until they stopped talking. In one class someone attacked me for being "postmodern." I just stared at my computer screen for about 3 minutes trying to remember another instance of someone "attacking" me in workshop but could not think of anything. I don't remember specifics. I almost never criticized anyone else's stories. I always found something I liked in every story. I am nice. I worked many hours on the stories in Bed. Maybe an average of 175 hours per story. That is how many hours it takes me to write a professional, 20-page short story with themes on the language level. Lorrie Moore is the only writer I have read that is consistently "thematic" on the language level. I don't know what that means. I think it means she repeats the same words or images or ideas or else variations of those words or images or ideas throughout the story. Yes. That is what it means. I think I lectured people in class about that. I wanted them to understand that Lorrie Moore is the only writer I have read that is consistently "thematic" on the language level. I am impressed by stories that are "thematic on the language level." When I lectured my classmates they listened politely then talked about something else.

**

i've re-listened to the 2nd cut copy album (i.e. In Ghost Colours) again. i do this fairly regularly. it's such a good album. it just makes me feel so nice inside. it makes me feel like i'm made of the perfectly delicious, perfectly aesthetically pleasing combination of blue and pink cotton candy. it makes me feel like cotton candy and i want to eat myself and i want to get fat and take myself out on a date to an excessively fancy pizza hut in china and really treat myself and feel just 110% great about that.

the 2nd track on the album, "out there on the ice" probably has some of my favorite lyrics ever. they're so simple. direct. sweet. and sad.

Out There On the Ice

yes, no, maybe is all i need to hear from you
if things go crazy, she's lost herself and lost to you
now that nothings spoken, she's out there on the ice again
she's breaking down slowly, colliding as she holds your hand

you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you
you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you

yes, no, maybe is all i need to hear from you
if things go crazy, she's lost herself and lost to you
now that nothings spoken, she's out there on the ice again
she's take me down slowly, she's holding on to what she can

you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you
you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you
you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you
you don't know what to do
there's a guy you know, who'll be there for you

if thats what it takes, then don't let it tear us apart
even if it breaks your heart
if thats what it takes, then don't let it tear us apart
even if it breaks your heart

even if it breaks your heart
even if it breaks your heart


**

i like this picture of bat for lashes (just came across it on last.fm). i like her new album a lot. i like telescopes.



Telescope

There is a moment after you move your eye away
when you forget where you are
because you've been living, it seems,
somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.

You've stopped being here in the world.
You're in a different place,
a place where human life has no meaning.

You're not a creature in a body.
You exist as the stars exist,
participating in their stillness, their immensity.

Then you're in the world again.
At night, on a cold hill,
taking the telescope apart.

You realize afterward
not that the image is false
but the relation is false.

You see again how far away
each thing is from every other thing.

-Louise Glück


**

starting to read frank bidart's new collection, Watching the Spring Festival...

Valentine

How those now dead used the word love bewildered
and disgusted the boy who resolved he

would not reassure the world he felt
love until he understood love

Resolve that too soon crumbled when he found
within his chest

something intolerable for which the word
because no other word was right

must be love
must be love

Love craved and despised and necessary
the Great American Songbook said explained our fate

my bereft grandmother bereft
father bereft mother their wild regret

How those now dead used love to explain
wild regret


~
一寸相思一寸灰