Hamlet, II 2, also the introduction to Borge's The Aleph

Oh God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a King of infinite space.....

One of the best poems ever written

I have loved this poem for more than a decade:
Eating Poetry
Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

A poetic cheerleader in the cold

Lines For Winter, by Mark Strand
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself --
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

Everything begins again (stones from South Great Beach, Point Reyes National Seashore)

In the spirit of Roland Barthes: I like cumulous nimbus clouds, cathedrals, crossword puzzles, topographic maps, color-coded-anything, fog horns, writing with nice pens, the sound of foot falls on earth or snow or mud or dried leaves, cooking meals for people that I love, thermoses that don't leak, chopping vegetables, orating my dreams, petting dogs, taking surveys, getting dressed up (but only once in a while), sleeping in a cold room under many blankets, cellos, autumn, olives, riding in a car full of people, trombones, rust, striped socks, setting the table before a dinner party, walking barefoot on warm sandstone, getting letters in the mail, electric guitars, adventurous conversation, bright clashing colors, driving on long lonely highways, first kisses, woolen socks, sore muscles, jumping in the air,most shades of green, mid-century modern design, old ladies who like to talk, pinot noir and sauvignon blanc, good burritos, honesty, landscapes where open spaces meet the mountains, hugging my mother and feeling her soft cheek against my own, laughing uncontrollably, being alone in vast wildernesses, similes, coffee and cigarettes in the morning, when people touch me on the knee or the shoulder when they are talking to me, the smell of pine trees, sage bushes, and eucalyptus, dusk, bald men, intentionality, flying on airplanes, falling asleep with my head on someone's shoulder, spinach, Kansas, dancing (especially with my sister), acknowledged friendships, bulldozers, Thanksgiving, photo albums, tulips, 1960's Jaguars, house slippers, gas stoves, eye contact, the smell of basil, theremins, waking up slowly, thinking about wind and waves and currents,

The New Year (stones from Agate Beach, Patrick's Point)

An Ode to Art God:
This is a solidified spirit behind a post Dadaist way of living/creating. It is a vulnerability to the creative, fearless, celebratory nature of life. It dances, confounds, inspires, is an insomniac, can be debaucherous or hyper focussed. It writes late night emails. It is very honest. It is very generous and dynamic and magnetic. It allows for criticism and questioning, but also can say fuck this shit. It picks its nose and farts. It can have smart, esoteric conversation. It writes in a journal. It eats snacks late at night, goes on long walks, smokes cigarettes. It is not afraid of love. It is not afraid of lonesomeness. It is ready to alienate itself for the purpose of meaningful authenticity. It values complexity as much as it values clarification. It explores. It does not self edit. It can be enthralled by nuance. It can be animalistic. It is never shameful. It is a master of observing and synthesizing. It has no mantra.
Art God is not a god you pray to, or a god to be described as benevolent or malevolent. It is a god you can channel. You can speak in tongues, be filled with the spirit, be an intermediary, be a saint.

late november (stones from Limantour Spit, Point Reyes National Seashore)

excerpts from a solo sabbatical : Oh, my heart hurts! It is the pursuit of the impossible. By the way, I am drinking Whiskey and Capri Sun. Might he help me navigate the desert soil? Could he understand the overwhelming nature of nature? Could he help raise goats and tomatoes and other peoples' kids? I wonder if I spent 8 years here, would this become MY landscape? Is there a place in my soul that is indelibly marked by the Southwest, so that Hamilton Mesa and South Park and Three Guns Trail are my only signifiers of simultaneous home and beauty? The desert lends itself so easily to fantasy and to action. I look at the blue meets blue horizon, and I do not know what to do. I want my life to be site specific and I want that life NOW! I want the weather to decide what I do with my day. I love nature so much more than I love mankind and its messiness.

I was vivaciously dead last night.

I led a parade through the streets last night. My face was painted as a skeleton. I kicked a can, danced with a broom, drank tecate by the light of farolitos and the glow of love. I heard death pronounced and celebrated by my two sisters, one of blood and one of spirit, once in english and once in spanish. And then, repeated, like a reverberation, many times in my heart.


Nothing But Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
with no finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,
with no throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.


Pablo Neruda

I felt the earth move under my feet

I have spent quite a bit of time lately thinking about the earth's core. I imagine the middle of it is sloshing around with molten rock. I can envision a heart of slurping and splashing lava as this planet hurtles through the solar system. There are tides down there, and maybe tsunamis, of glowing red boiling rock. I also have come to terms with the fact that "the big one" will happen. That the earth will roar its terrible roar and gnash its terrible teeth and show its terrible claws. That California is going to get fucked up, and I might be here. Tonight I was working at my new job (at Cafe Du Soleil, keeping with the planetary theme!). My job is to help happy people stay happy, through wine and pastries and hot chocolate and charming conversations. So, I was sipping an espresso cup full of bordeaux, eating raspberries, pretending to chat with Jean Luc, although I could not understand him through his french accent. At that moment, an incredibly handsome man walked through the door of the cafe, wearing a marvelous green scarf. I thought to myself "Wow. I have never had such a reaction to somebodies physical appearance before! I feel like I am going to fall over!" Then everyone started cheering, and I realized there had been an earthquake. Jubilance spread through the room, I told the handsome man that his green scarf had caused the earth to move, and I continued to drink bordeaux and eat raspberries. I felt so thrilled and alive, like some one had just given me a great compliment, or I had just seen a shooting star, or I had just thrown a successful dinner party. When a thunderstorm is approaching, the air is infused with negative ions, which have positive psychological effects. I wonder if there is a similar phenomena pertaining to techtonic shifts. I feel extraordinary.

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

I just laughed so hard with my sister. Milan Kundera would have been impressed. My stomach hurts.

Before, written from the after. Memories of a buffalo girl.

Tonight, I had a flash back. It was triggered by a familiar combination of sensations. The sensory (selective) deprivation chamber of my studio. Manic music blasting through my headphones. The slowly developing scene of my painting. The stagnant smell of solvent, paint, and cement floors mingling in my nose. The cramping of my right hand around my paint brush. The rigormortis of my left hand holding a baby food jar full of paint. The undulations of arty endorphins. The sense that time is passing, but I will not look at a clock. Enduro-art. Paint until I can paint no more.
Once upon a time, I was blessed. I would paint and paint, only pausing to smoke cigarettes and flip over the tape in my walkman. The split second before I collapsed, I would stop, wash out my brushes, and walk to my truck. I would drive down a long boulevard, the median of which was planted with trees. Upon reaching my destination, I would let myself in the backdoor. There was always a pot of green chile on the stove, waiting for me. Made with love and intention. The acrid, spicy smell, the warmth of the kitchen, the 1950's formica counter tops, the ristras of Juan's red chile nestled under the ceiling, next to some christmas lights and a dying house plant. The parade of things to go with the green chile, because sadly, man cannot live on chile alone. Yellow squash, with crooked necks. The bland indian bread from Isleta, down south, made by that lady, do you remember meeting her? Beans, soaked, simmered, so damn good, the food of gods. Of women named Persingula. Posole, sorry about the pork, or the venison, but what idiot would make vegetarian posole? A grilled cheese sandwish. A sliced tomato. I would eat. He would give me space. Space to talk about line and form, the transparency of dioxazine purple, the joyful opacity of cadmium, the trepidation to tred across the across the snowy feild of a blank canvas. Space to sit in silence. Space to talk about the Sunday Times. Space to carefully listen to one perfect jazz song, and hear a story about his uncle and his mythical vinyl collection. Space to contemplate the sublime perfection of a poor man's margarita: Squirt and tequila.... Hey, do you know that Squirt is made with turpentine? Hey, do you remember when you moved here? We ate pizza on the naked floor. Hey do you remember the lilacs in Mountainair? The beautiful boys at Jemez feast day? The wooden beams, with the marks of now rusted saws, the labor of now dead hands,the past, laid bear? The green cottonwood spine of the desert? The smell of Catholic insense, of your marijuana, of salty skin, of cedar smoke at dusk, of the sigh of freshness that preceeds a thunderstorm?

Do you see the similarity?

So, I finally quit working at Incanto. The worst job I have ever had. Some of the best food, but staffed by the most uptight, pretentious, cruel people I have ever met. If they turned their spite against each other, it would turn into as much of a blood bath as the kitchen. Blood pudding anybody? I am released from my misery, free to be authentic, happy, and friendly. None of those twerps will ever criticize me for saying "y'all" again. None of those assholes will ever make fun of my striped over-alls splattered with paint again. And, most of all, none of those jerks will ever call me stupid, ever again. THey call the food there "offal" (pronounced awful: brains, stomach, ears, feet, etc.). They should just call the staff awful. I am FREEEEEEE!!!!!!!

give me a bandaid and a shot of whiskey

I keep stubbing my toes on piles of discarded projects. I am continually grazing my elbows on the unexplored ideas that poke out from the corridors of my thoughts. I just hit my funny bone on a really wonderful idea, got smashed to bits by the speeding bus that carried my inspiration. I have a concussion from cramming things into my brain. I can't turn around without tripping over a deadline. I have two black eyes from the unrelenting beatings that stress keeps giving me. I have splinters of beauty under my skin, that will probably get infected if they don't get extracted soon. My ribs hurt from laughing at my own naivete.

crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis crisis

Artistic crisis.Economic crisis. Philosophical crisis. Identity crisis. Crises of faith, vision, space, mindset, future, past. I am so ready to admit that I am in crisis. I have not been in my studio for almost two weeks. There are those laughable people that go to grad school: they are talented, focused, ambitious, successful. But then someone gives them a weighty suggestion, and the next thing you know, architects become printmakers, philosophers become carnies, theologans start death metal bands, illustrastors become performance artists that light themselves on fire and jump into public swimming pools filled with vinegar, just because it is art. I was not going to be one of these people. I came to San Francisco, to the Art Institute, not to change, but to refine. Alas,against all previous sense of stability and prophesizing about my future, here I am. I had one hour in my studio with one very insightful dude on the one day in which I felt a little bored and vulnerable. So now my Aries inner self has taken over. Fuck this complacent, studio driven, commercially viable art form. I am going to break laws, put my self in harms way, spend hours and money that I do not have, breath in toxic shit, run comletely on elbow grease and idealism, and make art that no one will ever see. Great!?!?! I should be really excited, eh? Oh, well. It will come to fruition, someday, someway. I will end up in jail (for breaking and entering) with lung cancer (from breathing in aesbestos) riddled with post traumatic stress syndrome (from getting mugged in some unsavory place), but I will know that I saw my artistic vision and followed it. Please, somebody, email me, call me, and talk some sense into me.
Other instances of crisis? *I have decided I am going deaf. I am already half way there. *I have a job which is offering me two brand new experiences: to be not very good at something, and to be hated by my peers. *The past, even shit like 7th grade shenanigans, has HUGE gravity that, rather than diffusing over time, only become more potent. It is like fermentation. I am quite suprised upon drinking from my past what has become wine and what has become vinegar. * I want to be an academic. I would like to publish books, be able to casually reference Marx, wear really odd clothes, be astoundingly articulate, keep odd hours, and be called "celebrated". PhD, here I come. Get ready for Dr. Nina. * I have no need for romance. That was just a byproduct of my boredom, which was masked by a sense of leisure, in which I was complacent. No time for dudes. I guess, hmmmmm, I have cut out one venue for crisis. * (not reason for crisis, bit it is interesting that all my friends conjure up the past, and memories, and previous definitions of me. Proof that crisis does not really change shit, that friendship runs DEEP)My friends consist of: my sister. my ex-boss, who is a republican. my best girl friend from junior high church stuff. my best guy friend whom I met in 1st grade and was reaquainted with last week after a decade of silence. a perforamce artist who tried to burn his beard off rather than shave. my yoga teacher/roomate/travelling buddy/surrogate sister. my sister's high school boyfriend. my mom. my soul mate girl friend....her dog is in doggy prison for biting some twerpy little brat at REI. almost no one from albuquerque.....there are a few gems, though, oasis' in that recent desert. *I am eating meat. Wierd stuff. Cow stomach. Tuna heart. Pork feet and liver and brains and ears and skin and eyeballs. Cod cheeks. Hotdogs.
OK, enough public exposing of my personal analysis. Maybe in a two years, things will be a little more stable. I am already accumulating a reading list, a to-do list, a dream list, for when this hyperdynamic experience is over.

I moved to San Francisco, and all I got was a really sore ass.

My first day here, I woke up alone. I was freaked out......just the waking up alone part was foreign. No snuffle of breath coming from under the pillows next to me, no inky arms secured around my waist, no fuzzy chest pressed into my back. Oh, aloneness. I also missed my sister sorely. Mrs. Gorham,the taxidermied rabbit, exclaimed "This is erin's apartment! What are you doing here?" The odd smiling pinata head on top of the fridge sneered," Why are you just sitting there drinking so much coffee? Go start your new life!" The assorted manequin hands waited to wave me on my way, but I just sat there. Finally, I loaded up my bag with tons of really heavy stuff (computer, water bottles, 1972 Chevy truck, journal, books, camera, baby elephant, bundles of maps, gold bricks) and set out for the closest coffee shop. I saw it and kept walking. And then I walked and walked and walked. I did not stop for 6 hours. I carted my cargo over hills, through parks, amidst bums, around designer boutiques. My legs hurt, my shoulder ached, my feet blistered, but I could not stop! I wanted to see our new house, then I wanted to crest a big hill, then I wanted to find that certain french bistro, then I wanted to go downtown, then I wanted a glimpse of the bay, then I wanted......I just went and went. Dusk, and a hang out session at Jaime's finally made me cease my ambulations. The next morning, I thought "I will go to the bike repair shop, get my brakes fixed, and then go find a coffee shop". 35 miles later, having toured 1/2 the peninsula,still carrying my huge bag of crap, I still had not stopped for that cup of coffee. With shin splints and a tired ass, I met Jaime for a drink, followed by a drink, followed by a drink, followed by......
Having given my legs, butt, and liver a work out, I was a limping and moaning this morning as Jaime and I went to inspect our new house and interviews the DUDES. The house is huge, with unbelievably high ceilings, beautiful woodwork, chandeliers, more space than most San Franciscan's would dare to dream of. Even hungover, Jaime and I were jumping up and down with joy. Then Jason showed up. He is great! He likes to take photographs of earthmoving equipment! He owns 4 bikes! He loves travel and speaks several languages! We have not signed anything yet, but I think the excitement was mutual. Then while Jaime and I were conferring at a vegan resterant around the corner I got a call from Blue Jay Cafe, inviting me to interview and work a trial shift! I guess in my mid-treck delerium, I had dropped off a resume! I hope it pays off.

smartichoke

I have 5 days left. 5 shifts of shleping food. 5 days of kissing ass. 5 days of ....... who knows.

To la la land

Off I go to the city of Angles, I mean the City of Angels. Blessed respite from heat and disharmony.

keyboards

Wow. That last entry was really really late at night, quite drunk, and very inspired. It ended with a rip off Joel Peter Witkin photo shoot. Any hoo, I think everyone should spend time drinking bubbly with a person that has nine keyboards (one of which is a baby grand piano) in his guest room.

I love piano players

I wish someone had said " fuck ballet. try contemporary dance.". I wish someone had said " Screw classical, try making your own music".