Yuck. Sneezing, itchy throat, runny nose... boogers!
It's the day before Thanksgiving and I feel yucky.
Lately I've been falling asleep before 10 p.m. and waking around 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. Then I'm up all night.
Tonight, I must have fallen asleep around 9 p.m. and woken up at 12:30 a.m. It's 2 a.m. now and I'm wide awake. Yuck.
Achoo! Sniffle sniffle whimper ugh
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Poem
I wrote a poem!
Worked late tonight, went to an Uptown Latin bar, and wrote my little heart out. Don't know why I was thinking of this picture, but it won a Pulitzer in 93 or 94. Then the photog killed himself. I saw a documentary piece on it. So sad.
Sudan, Child crawling toward refugee camp
(For Kevin Carter, Bang Bang Club photographer, September 13, 1960 in Johannesburg – July 27, 1994; suicide)
You failed
to see through false modesties
your arrogant talents tossing you between darkness and light, and into
Africa; where blood-thirst and slaked limbs
ran down the lens of your Nikon, fields of the dead and the dying
mining celestial deserts; and always, always, your Nikon
clicking clicking clicking
Gunmen across the avenue, gunmen at your side as
bullets traced the epilogue of reporters, translators, soldiers, heroes, killers
children; beloved friends, and everywhere, the unnamed everymen, not even yet,
if ever, footnotes in history
Gunmen at the foot and head of your bed as you
slept, gunmen in the jeep next to you
as your zoom settled on the far-off child, the bastard doll
bloated with death, but not dead, a feast for the bird
biding its time, history calling you three together
clicking clicking clicking
You were hated
in your Europe. Comfortable young mothers and fat old sons
feted and condemend you; an orgy of nothing
in the soft brittleness of cultural criticism and afternoon teas
As if the one lives could have meaning in the maw of death,
the canvas of suffering,
the particular above the general.
As if they did not.
how could they know
oh how could they know
of the fields of limbs; the ecstasy and empty suddenness of endings
the void of holy in the heart of the holy
clicking clicking clicking
your gun found your mouth
and by your own hand,
your own hand made history
-- END --
Worked late tonight, went to an Uptown Latin bar, and wrote my little heart out. Don't know why I was thinking of this picture, but it won a Pulitzer in 93 or 94. Then the photog killed himself. I saw a documentary piece on it. So sad.
Sudan, Child crawling toward refugee camp
(For Kevin Carter, Bang Bang Club photographer, September 13, 1960 in Johannesburg – July 27, 1994; suicide)
You failed
to see through false modesties
your arrogant talents tossing you between darkness and light, and into
Africa; where blood-thirst and slaked limbs
ran down the lens of your Nikon, fields of the dead and the dying
mining celestial deserts; and always, always, your Nikon
clicking clicking clicking
Gunmen across the avenue, gunmen at your side as
bullets traced the epilogue of reporters, translators, soldiers, heroes, killers
children; beloved friends, and everywhere, the unnamed everymen, not even yet,
if ever, footnotes in history
Gunmen at the foot and head of your bed as you
slept, gunmen in the jeep next to you
as your zoom settled on the far-off child, the bastard doll
bloated with death, but not dead, a feast for the bird
biding its time, history calling you three together
clicking clicking clicking
You were hated
in your Europe. Comfortable young mothers and fat old sons
feted and condemend you; an orgy of nothing
in the soft brittleness of cultural criticism and afternoon teas
As if the one lives could have meaning in the maw of death,
the canvas of suffering,
the particular above the general.
As if they did not.
how could they know
oh how could they know
of the fields of limbs; the ecstasy and empty suddenness of endings
the void of holy in the heart of the holy
clicking clicking clicking
your gun found your mouth
and by your own hand,
your own hand made history
-- END --
Oh, Missouri!!!
Who won -- Barack Obama or John McCain?
They're taking a sweet long time to figure that one out in Missouri, where officials in the "show me" state are still counting election results two weeks after the polls closed.
So far, McCain is ahead by more than 4,300 votes out of 2.9 million votes cast. But four (rather large) areas still have yet to get their results in.
Obama can rest easy, however. While he didn't do gangbusters in Missouri, he won 93 percent of the vote in Washington, D.C.
MORE FROM:
Examiner.com
Electoral-vote.com
They're taking a sweet long time to figure that one out in Missouri, where officials in the "show me" state are still counting election results two weeks after the polls closed.
So far, McCain is ahead by more than 4,300 votes out of 2.9 million votes cast. But four (rather large) areas still have yet to get their results in.
Obama can rest easy, however. While he didn't do gangbusters in Missouri, he won 93 percent of the vote in Washington, D.C.
MORE FROM:
Examiner.com
Electoral-vote.com
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Eviction Notice -- a little free write about love and stuff
I sat through a couple of half-day writing seminars at the LOFT literary center (a.ka. OPEN BOOK) in Minneapolis recently. One of them was a bit repetitive, so as I sat in the audience, I got inspired to work on a little piece.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
"My Antigone" by Chris Drury
A former co-worker has made the big leap to NYC and broken into the acting and movie-making scene out there.
Here's his latest film trailer, which is in search of backers to go into full production:
My Antigone
And a note from Mr. Drury himself:
Dear Friends,
I hope this note finds you well and wallowing in a late autumn bliss.
As some of you know, I was in the San Francisco Bay Area this past summer shooting scenes from my feature length screenplay MY ANTIGONE.
It was an amazing group of people to work with and I'm happy to be able to present an extended trailer for you to watch here -
www.csdrury.com
I'm currently in the process of pitching the project to investors with an eye towards making the film in the summer of 2009.
If you or someone you know would be interested in receiving any of the following materials please let me know:
- DVD with preview scenes
- Project budget and opportunities for investment
- Detailed story synopsis
- Character breakdown
- Copy of the full screenplay
Thanks for all your support and enjoy the trailer.
-csd
www.csdrury.com
Here's his latest film trailer, which is in search of backers to go into full production:
My Antigone
And a note from Mr. Drury himself:
Dear Friends,
I hope this note finds you well and wallowing in a late autumn bliss.
As some of you know, I was in the San Francisco Bay Area this past summer shooting scenes from my feature length screenplay MY ANTIGONE.
It was an amazing group of people to work with and I'm happy to be able to present an extended trailer for you to watch here -
www.csdrury.com
I'm currently in the process of pitching the project to investors with an eye towards making the film in the summer of 2009.
If you or someone you know would be interested in receiving any of the following materials please let me know:
- DVD with preview scenes
- Project budget and opportunities for investment
- Detailed story synopsis
- Character breakdown
- Copy of the full screenplay
Thanks for all your support and enjoy the trailer.
-csd
www.csdrury.com
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Another tragedy for Human Terrain
War entails death. That's true by definition. Doesn't make it easy, right or glorious.
So when I read this crap about a female social scientist being set on fire in Afghanistan by a guy who looked like a friendly local, I get sick to my stomach. This academic worked for the Pentagon's Human Terrain project, which in May claimed the life of an old acquaintance whom I loved and respected very, very much.
Wired article: Army Social Scientist Set Afire in Afghanistan
God, what a war.
So when I read this crap about a female social scientist being set on fire in Afghanistan by a guy who looked like a friendly local, I get sick to my stomach. This academic worked for the Pentagon's Human Terrain project, which in May claimed the life of an old acquaintance whom I loved and respected very, very much.
Wired article: Army Social Scientist Set Afire in Afghanistan
God, what a war.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
"Samson" by Regina Spektor... swoon to this!
Oh. My. God.
I now know love and despair... they are so damn similar!
Samson, by Regina Spektor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8
"you are my sweetest downfall... I loved you first, I loved you first ... and the Bible didn't mention us...."
Man, she's good!
I now know love and despair... they are so damn similar!
Samson, by Regina Spektor
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p62rfWxs6a8
"you are my sweetest downfall... I loved you first, I loved you first ... and the Bible didn't mention us...."
Man, she's good!
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