progress
1 paper done.
Onto “Women Race and Class” by Angela Davis. Then, “The Queer Sixties” by Patricia Juliana Smith. I’m a critique machine, baby.
Got some light reading to do too, which I’ll address under separate cover.
and what are you doing today, Tony?
Writing this paper:
Kim E. Nielsen’s “Un-American Womanhood: Antiradicalism, Antifeminism, and the First Red Scare” is a detailed look at how two coalitions of women’s organizations faced off over a variety of social issues in the 1920s. The author’s argument is that the tactics and principles of antiradical and antifeminist organizations not only helped to derail the progressive momentum that the suffrage movement had developed leading up to the establishment of women’s suffrage in 1920, but that those tactics have served as a blueprint for the methods of today’s socially conservative activism.
Well, that and juggling fire.
Kiss Me Anyway
beloved, do not believe in me
just because i captivate you
with the story written
on my wrists
i only appear genuine
because this amazing portable mouth
can fly through my broken life
find just the right fragment
and turn it into the perfect
parable for you
any story i ever tell you
of what i’ve been
should be taken
with a pillar of salt
think of my history as
deceit’s address
this is where my lying comes to roost
this is where its best furniture is
this is where the lawn is green
and the bed is soft and wide
but no matter how comfortable i look here
a house is not a home
beloved
this mouth is arrogant
twisted with its own heat
while it dances on the pyre
of its own myth-making
it doesn’t believe it can do
anything to save its life
but kiss me anyway beloved
hold my damn mouth still
for once
make me tell the truth
I think it’s time to admit
i need to take another vicodin.
for all my joking about it presurgery, i really hate to take pain meds. i did it recreationally for so long that i find myself needing far more than is usually prescribed, and thus I end up perpetuating the pain longer than necessary.
but this is different, and i have to get used to that.
i hate not being in control of yet another aspect of how i feel.
this particular surgery
required that I be…um…shaved. Chest down to, um, yeah.
I am unhappy. Itchiness is beginning. In all affected quarters.
In other news, I am ready to have this all be over now. Anytime.
still healing
going without Vicodin today, I’ve decided. I take enough drugs already.
cannot WAIT to take a shower later (after 48 hours).
removed bandages this AM. four little bullet holes in a cross shape on me belly.
i’m restless as hell. might try driving later. or power lifting.
ETA: Vicodin was ingested, but only once so far. Even I am not immune to pain relief.
where you fit
all those things
I have lost —
the left side of me,
the right path, and
all the pieces in between —
if I were better versed
at my own construction, I’d be
scrambling up and down myself
looking for those pegs
and fitting them to my holes.
and I think about you
and wonder where you fit.
you’re a part of me
that I’ve never understood,
or taken the time to understand.
some night when I’m not so sore,
some night when my flesh is stronger,
I will look for you in the hollow of my bones.
some night I’ll find you, then put you where I need you,
in some place I dearly need to fill.
Home.
sore.
long day. there were some complications but nothing serious.
really sore.
in pain, but there is Vicodin.
will post as able.
nightie night.
love,
T
Official Skinny, day before surgery
— SPEAK last night was low-key, relaxed, and fun. Theme was “steam”. Walt brought a train with him for a prop, to my great surprise.
Next topic, July 13: “circus.” I should get a copy of “Funky Clown Town.” Anyone got one?
— Waiting, now, to find out when the surgery will be tomorrow. I figure in the AM, but whether I need to be there for 5:30 AM or 9:30 AM is a big deal, in my eyes.
ETA: The Official Start Time for the Surgery is an arrival time of 5:50 AM. Doh!
— The surgery will take about four hours. Barring complications, I’ll certainly be home by tomorrow night. DO NOT CALL ME, I am looking forward to the Vicodin and intend to ride that monkey for all it’s worth.
— I expect to be unable to visit the upstairs and therefore the computer for a couple of days. Assume I’m alright unless you receive other information.
Now then:
— Obligatory Post 9/11 Statement of Love and Affection: In case something happens, know that I love you and have deep affection for you all…with the possible exception of you over there.
— Obligatory Post Terri Schiavo Statement: Jeez, let me go if there’s no hope, k? And by no hope, I mean the majority of intelligent doctors agree there’s no hope, not some looney thinks there’s a slim chance.
— Obligatory George W. Bush Is A Douchebag Statement: George W. Bush is a douchebag.
I might chime in again later if something interesting happens. If not, see you on the other side. (Of the surgery, you morbid bastards! The surgery!)
On the Profusion of Ancient Indian Burial Grounds in Horror Movies
It is fascinating to me
that dead Indians scare people more
than all the ones
who are still alive
and really, really pissed off.
Come On In My Kitchen
The theme for SPEAK tonight is “steam.” I’ve been trying to come up with something, to no avail.
Then, I was dozing off and this came to me. Promise — I’m going to sleep immediately after I get it down. 😉
Come On In My Kitchen
There’s nothing in the pantry.
It’s too late to go out
to the store,
and the teakettle
is almost boiled out,
the whistle just
starting to sputter,
it’s fogging up
the windows
so no one can see in
for the steam.
I’m sitting
in the middle of the kitchen
with the blues on the radio
and I’m hungry enough
to eat someone.
Outside, it’s one of them hot damn nights
when everyone says it’s too hot to cook
and ice tea is the only thing
keeping them from tearing their clothes off.
They talk like they know something about the heat,
but it’s all just talk.
In here, it’s hot.
It’s summer in here,
summer enough to cloud your sight. No faking it,
no airconditioning, no fans to make you think
of spring; it’s just — hot.
If I was in the Mississippi Delta
it’d be a long red night
with the thunderstorms reeling toward us
west to east. I might go outside then
and watch them come in,
run a little steel upside the strings
of a Sears and Sawbuck guitar.
But up here in Massachusetts
we only think we know what summer is.
We only think we know what hunger is,
and we don’t know half of anything
about what the blues are.
I think I’ve got a clue or two tonight.
I can hear something rumbling in the far clouds.
You come up to the back door and ask how I am.
I tell you, there’s nothing in the pantry
and I am just about hungry enough
to eat someone.
You push the door open. You take
the teakettle off the burner.
You set a place at the table,
but
you let them foggy windows be.
methinks
trying to sleep again and i’m gonna do it i promise i am i am
not even gonna finish this poem
or this thought
or this post
i’m gonna sleep until i wake up in the morning
and never even dream about the things
i’ve left incomplete
i promise i will sleep without thinking
about anything except sleep
for hours and hours
all the way to dawn and beyond
Notes from the corporate fringe
Considering that I slept last night, I am damn tired today…
I’m in the process of buttoning down assignments and such before I disappear into the Vicodin sunset. (Mmmm…Vicodin…) Lots to do, but at the same time I’m weirdly detached from the prospect of coming back to work.
In general, I like my job; there are times I love it. But lately, I’ve been so…bored. Not in the “God, this is the worst and most inane job in the world” sense; it’s more a case of not being surprised by much anymore. It’s hard to maintain my sense of wonder at the mysteries of human behavior when there are so few here.
That may sound a little supercilious, and I don’t mean it to be. I just mean that given predictable situations (poor management, cultural monotony, interpersonal conflicts based on all the traditional sources of office politics — you get the picture), you can pretty much guess how the players will respond. And of course, it leads into you giving much the same response every time. You stop listening. And that’s wrong.
I love listening to people. At poetry readings, I close my eyes and listen to pretty much everyone (needless to say, I’m not one of those who is impressed by good blocking). Granted, not every poem is worth listening to, but I like to think that every person is. I’m not perfect at it; I sometimes zone or snark out on a given piece; but it’s what I strive for.
It gets entirely too tiring at times to fell like you don’t have to listen. To believe, rightly or wrongly, that you’ve heard it all is to force yourself into a constantly reactive mode. If you are not listening, you must be talking or preparing to talk.
Maybe three weeks away will be good for me. Maybe I’ll come back ready to listen once again.
