blue sky

 

Painting to See the Sky, 1962, Yoko Ono.

Dear Diary,

I think to myself, no, this paleness started when I had to look up what BlueSky is, again, because I cannot seem, still, to get my mind to accept even the phrase 'social media' when it seems so anti-social, and of course, it isn't, but what hive mind horror is it, actually?  I am out on the fringes, just like usual, comme d'hab, and somehow it is even more solitary than when all we had was telephones, the kind with dials and coiled cords.

It makes me think of seeing Jonathan Richman singing his odd songs about milk shakes, in a drafty barn, a long time ago, and there again, I was in a small space; no one I knew had any idea who Johnathan Richman was.  I saw Allen Ginsberg read in the same small barn, oh I couldn't even tell you when or where now, I guess.

I might be continuing pale for some time; and it might be I have always been on margins.

a cuppa

 

Cup of Coffee, `961, Wayne Thiebaud.

Dear Mary-jane/anne/jo/ellen/belle/kate/lou/beth/lynn,

Do y'all have a coffee name?  A name you give when the human behind the counter says "what name shall I call?"  It's a fine thing to try on a different name in these formal situations that are calling for familiarity that has not been established.  Take it from me; because where else would you possibly turn for advice in our e-etiquette world?  That, friends, is a real lol, but you know that, my savvy internet-connected reader!

Giving a not-usual name requires close attention; if you don't listen for all the names, you might not recognize your pseudonym.  And, yes, I like that too; having to stay engaged with all the hub bub around me in line.  I really love the moment when I pick up the paper cup or bag or box, and my coffee name is written on it!  I have an otherworldly disconnect:  how can this be mine??  But, you know, everything was made for you and me!

I used Sharon for a time- not sure why; I think it was because I thought I could 'get away with it.'  Now I know, because I am wiser, that it isn't about getting away with it; it is about enjoyment.  So when you hear Annabelle called, that cortado is mine!

PS  Are you the one, the Super-Curious?  Who wants to know why Annabelle/Anabel/Annabel/Anabelle?  Because Freaky Friday.

atmosphere

 

think to yourself

 

A Stack of Diaries, Lorna Simpson, 1993.

Dear Diary,

Today I feel very pale; I checked, yes, of course, and no, the mirror reports I am no paler than usual.  I thought maybe it started when I got out of bed and decided that breathing like this, through 10 feet of dense felt, could be improved by albuterol.  I dearly love albuterol!  I wonder often, do people know about this stuff??  Why isn't it dealt out of the trunks of cars in back alleys?  But, it may have started in the night, when I awoke with the old tiresome series of dreams that have me missing classes, whole days, important social clues, waiting in long lines for the restroom only to be let into a changing room, with just a mirror and a thin curtain.  Or, yet further back, yesterday, when I sat in the cold wind, because the diner had closed, and I listened to a friend enumerate her sadnesses.  Or, maybe it is the change in the weather from a storm that rages to the north and will arrive in a day or two....

Or maybe this paleness erupted after a spate of anger I felt in recounting another lunchtime listening; two older women, who break my heart with their intense longing to be younger and striving physically to push back aging and death, toiling at their gyms and their gratitude journals.  I am horrified by their Sisyphean efforts, and yes, yes, of course this makes me a monster, a nihilist, and cynic, a lazybones, a quitter, a quivering jelly.  I have thought it all through a thousand times, but I still say we, our culture, has made a pariah of aging- an inevitable failure of cellular tissue is a failure now of will and faith.  Still, I say, no good can come from force.  Or, maybe it is more accurate to say that there will be consequences- the 'push' down, back, away, at this locus will erupt in another.

But, no, this pale feeling may have come when I read the words "denk dir;" in Yoko Tawada's Paul Celan and the Trans-Tibetan Angel, which I could have been wholly satisfied with by only the title; it could have found a place in the revered top of the bookshelf, with the favorite books, some dozen or so, that live side by side, in reading only the beautiful, evocative title.  What more can a writer do if they have already accomplished so much in just the title?  Denk dir, denk dir- the book says it comes from a Celan poem; that it means "think to yourself," or "imagine."  Thinking to yourself is imagining.  Oh my, yes, it makes me pale, quail, to think it again.  Think to yourself.  Imagine.

Think to yourself, imagine.

Imagine!  Think to yourself!

Think to; yourself.

Imagine.

bits of drift

 

Women, Dorothy Napangardi.

Dear Rushing & Impatient,

Here is a thing I am cleaning out of my closet: procrastination.  As a concept;  I think I don't actually even believe in it.  I propose we look instead for inclination and ripeness.  

Procrastination is entirely created by the pressure of people's expectations of you, and yes, I know, I know, sometimes we enter into contracts with others- at work, at school, etc., etc., etc.  So okay, give the people what they want on those occasions, but, but, but, on the other occasions, let us look for ripeness.  Let us be alert to the decisive moment; let things simmer on the back burner; because that might be all life is really, a constant simmering; never a 'doneness.'  If the simmering is the goal, that means you can stop fussing about setting the table, if you get my drift; never mind I shall continue snowing!  (25:25; but really, watch the whole thing, watch all the episodes, and then descend into grief, because there are no more!).

In the time I am procrastinating on finishing that sweater, I am actually, factually, working on it!  I am mentally muddling through dividing the yarn equally, deciding where to end the armscye, etc.  Damn it people, get this through your heads: time that you are leaving unfilled is actually the fertile field of idea and imagination- please, please stop plowing it up and sending the delicate soil into the air to come down elsewhere as nuisance dust!

get so lonely

 

Dear At Sea,

Can you believe they/we wanted it darker?  Well, I still can't.  Here, is one heck of a song for today- I hope you sing along and also, that you have a candle, so you too, can get a lot of reading done!

PS  Yes, I think that is a conch shell, that opening sound.

out

 

TV Dinner Tile

Dear Kyle

You know that I love you, really I do; and I know you love and care for me, too, as much as is possible in a diner/server relationship, but I just don't always want to know that your name is Kyle and that you'll be taking care of me tonight.  I don't want to be 'taken care' of; like you'd take out the trash, or deal with a plumbing disaster.  And, it feels all wonky in terms of a power structure, because you don't know who I am, what my name is, and it doesn't matter that we exchange names: I don't need your name as your bond of responsibility.  And I think you must feel this way too, don't you, Kyle?

One thing that constantly bugs me at my job and at my life, is the word 'my.'  My students, my class, my husband, my kid, my couch, my kitchen, ugh!  None of this stuff's most important features are their mineness.  They aren't really mine at all, and you don't have to be my server, either, you can just be 'the' server, and I can just be (as I always am, I guess) 'the' diner.  But, I am in such a stew about our interconnected collective lives that I may never go out again, anyway, Kyle, so maybe this is goodbye?

Yes, I know, I have gone all tu/vous and tu/usted on you, and you never liked studying language anyway, so why bring it up now, but these distinctions of familarity matter, somehow, in the struggle to stay out of the blind perpetuation of power abuses, no matter how minor, and so, yes, I think this is goodbye!