vaclav

boxmint @ 2009-01-17T10:14:00

2009-01-17T15:15:51Z

Okay! In today's episode of The Natural World Is Not What They Told You- snowflakes! The snowflakes near where you live probably look lik diamond-studded doilies. Around here, they look like chunks of ice.

boxmint @ 2009-01-16T21:33:00

2009-01-17T02:44:16Z

Right! I've managed to read your comments, but not to reply. So I will just thank you all.
I'm rediscovering science. (Doesn't that sound fancy?) I got a microscope for Christmas, and I've been inspecting bits of my life under it. Sugar looks like an asteroid belt, and a strand of my hair looks like a cactus. Rose petals, it turns out, are pixelated. I've got a bunch of sunset colored roses here, and it turns out that some of the cells are bright yellow, and some of them are bright red. I thought they'd shade gradually, but no.

I wanted a microscope, because I wanted to look at creepy weird things with lots of legs-roasted furs being propelled around by wheel shaped protrusions, things like that. (roasted furs is actually not what I mean. But it's what Dragon thinks I mean, so, you know, do the best you can.)
Bizarrely, it turns out that the world around me is completely sterile. You may have mites in your eyebrows, bacteria in your spit, and God knows what in your tap water, but I do not. Even scraping the bottom of my shoe and putting the results under a slide turned up nothing but nice clean dirt.

who knew?

boxmint @ 2009-01-13T16:35:00

2009-01-13T21:39:39Z

Hello, darlings. I'm playing with Dragon 10, which seems to be much better than Dragon nine. Today's theme is-inching our way onto the web.
I bought a pair of board shorts from target using dictation software, I've managed to read the news, I utterly failed to be able to log into Facebook, and here I am, talking to you.

I'm so out of the habit of journaling it's hard to figure out how to talk to you. What should I say?

boxmint @ 2008-06-18T14:02:00

2008-06-18T18:10:57Z

Hi gang,
so you may be wondering wh why I disappeared so utterly off the web. Well, to make a long story short, I've damaged the nerves in my elbows. This has banned me from typing. Recently, I went to visit the doctor, and he told me that he thought the damage was probably permanent.

Phooey.

So I spent a night having hysterics, and then I got over it. I'm posting this via voice recognition software, and a touch pad mouse I'm using with my feet. Because if this damage is permanent-if this is just how it is-then it's time for me to start thinking about ways to adapt. I want back on the Web. I miss you guys. So this post may be the last one for a long while- or the first of many. We'll see.

boxmint @ 2007-06-27T14:56:00

2007-06-27T18:59:33Z

All this time I have been peacefully identifying as Generation X. But no. It's official. We are Gen Y, my contemporary blossoms; American Demographics says so. Brush off your baby-dolls and smile.

boxmint @ 2007-06-26T11:06:00

2007-06-26T15:22:51Z

Well. I am becoming decrepit, children. I have a phlegmy cough, a bad attitude, and only one hand that works.

But. It's summer in new york. Hot, sticky, and concrete, my favorite season. In honor of the first day above 90 degrees, I present to you my favorite-ever Poetry In Motion poem. (It took me years to track it down--it wasn't anthologized, and it hasn't been frequently translated, apparently. To my knowledge it has only been published in one book, which was presented to me on the Occasion of my Birthday this year. )

Too Much Heat, Too Much Work

It’s the fourteenth of August, and I’m too hot
To endure food, or bed. Steam and the fear of scorpions
Keep me awake. I’m told the heat won't fade with Autumn.

Swarms of flies arrive. I’m roped into my clothes.
In another moment I’ll scream down the office
As the paper mountains rise higher on my desk.

O those real mountains to the south of here!
I gaze at the ravines kept cool by pines.
If I could walk on ice, with my feet bare!

Tu Fu (712-770)
Translated from the Chinese by Carolyn Kizer

That's where we're going, darlings. And, truly, I'm looking forward to it.

boxmint @ 2007-06-20T14:53:00

2007-06-20T19:08:01Z

So. About 20 minutes ago, I got a call from the receptionist, who hung up on me. I wondered about this, vaguely, and--I was about to write "went back to work" but "went back to accidentally reading Confederacy of Dunces on Google Books" would, regrettably, be more accurate.

Maybe 45 seconds later, I was startled by a huge green thing in my peripheral vision. It turned out to be the receptionist, totally hidden behind a 1-800-Flowers object the size of her torso, which she dropped on my desk.

I was surprised. In fact, I was so surprised that I stared at her and demanded, "What the hell is this about?" Which is not a nice thing to say to people bringing you flowers, generally, and I'm resolved not to do it again.

I have an Admirer.

boxmint @ 2007-06-19T12:23:00

2007-06-19T16:26:14Z

(though, for the record, it ain't my personal manifesto. )

boxmint @ 2007-06-19T12:20:00

2007-06-19T16:23:15Z

"Another problem is the idea you may have that sexual orientation is something static that cannot change. For this reason, you picture the bisexual sitting in front of a mirror getting ready to go out and saying to him/herself, "What do you think--the gay hat, or the straight hat, this evening?" and you think to yourself, "That's not right. You oughta pick one hat and have it bolted to your head." And then you think, "OK, the hat metaphor's not working for me, clearly, but isn't it a little weird not to be able to make up your mind? I bet these people take forever to order in restaurants."

I'm so amused by this person!

boxmint @ 2007-05-30T23:31:00

2007-05-30T22:36:11Z

Well, darlings. I'm in London. And I've just remembered that actually I generally get humiliated in London, so this time I'm going to behave myself. Specifically, I'm going to behave myself like an American, not a baffled hybrid.

I'm worn out--stayed up all night last night, and when I say all night, I *mean* all night. Couldn't sleep at all. I read seven short novels, I think, and ate pasta at 4:30 AM. Odd thing for me to do, but there you are.

Tomorrow I go to the office. Wish me luck.

boxmint @ 2007-04-20T16:36:00

2007-04-20T20:38:31Z

I am moved by the news that right-handers have more eating disorders.
I'd thought y'all spent your lives strolling unselfconsciously through landscapes of working can-openers and scissors you never have to turn upside-down, pausing from time to time to pen smudge-free notes--but no. Clearly, we all have our crosses to bear.

boxmint @ 2007-04-20T16:20:00

2007-04-20T20:23:10Z

"Abstinence education doesn't work." Well, I'll be darned.

boxmint @ 2007-04-20T11:28:00

2007-04-20T15:37:08Z

"To Boxmint, from J. Hollander, who was delighted to see her again."

I have more work to get done today than God, I'm totally, utterly overtired, I have no idea who I'm going to be living with and I owe 20 househunters 20 emails.

And I wouldn't call the king my cousin. I talked to John Hollander. (Hollander's one of the best formalist poets alive today. He just won the Frost Medal, which is, like, a cheap but fancypants prize, and I went to see him. Bizarrely, there was like nobody there. When I went to Galway Kinnell's 80th Birthday bash, the large auditorium at Cooper Union was packed so full they were turning people away. But for John Hollander's Frost lecture, the auditorium was well seeded with people but not much more. There was a Champagne Reception afterwards for everyone who attended--and there was enough free champagne to go around. Which, y'know, is unusual.)

And my companion, dear heart that he is, kicked me until I said "Um, Hello Professor Hollander," with a huge fangirl grin that said "OMG I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!!" for the entire conversation which ended with him OMG offering to OMG open up a correspondence with me! I didn't ask! HE OFFERED!!

OMG OMG OMG OMG!!!!

I have to make a speech now, so I can't post you one of his poems. More later.

boxmint @ 2007-04-18T11:43:00

2007-04-18T15:58:11Z

Hi all. this is a blanket note to say I will not be (ow!) writing bak to you today, or (ow!) reading your emails if I can help it (ow!) because genius here's alarm clock (ow!) got set to PM accidentally somehow. Which means I woke up at 9 :19 this morning. Which meeans I yowled in panick, threw on closthes and sprinted to work without, and this is the key part, listen closely, my glasses. I have these glasses (ow!) because a few months ago I suddenly got terrible terrible brain-mashing headaches (ow!) whenever I looked at a computer for more than 20 min. Which is, regrettably, something I am doing now, but I am not into it, is what. In fact, I am typing this post w/out looking at the screen. So, y'all, you should all do whatever you'd usually do, and if you want to do something different that involves me you should call me at the office. coffeeandink, you should show at my house at 8. Love ya.

P.S. You know what's good about this? There is no way I can stay late at the office today. No Sir, I'm leaving promptly at 6 and going home to finish my day's work there. Where my glasses are.

boxmint @ 2007-04-16T12:41:00

2007-04-16T16:44:35Z

It's been over 110 days since I bought a pack. Why is it, then, I ask you, that I still want a cigarette every damn day?

boxmint @ 2007-04-16T12:38:00

2007-04-16T16:39:25Z

Yo, all, I'm looking for roommates. Park Slope, $740, large room, near Atlantic/Pacific, also Bergen stop on 2/3, large bookcases joyfully accepted.

postscript

2007-04-10T19:08:03Z

Also, I ate an entire box of gingersnaps. All by myself. In the office. I think something is bothering me.

boxmint @ 2007-04-10T13:52:00

2007-04-10T18:12:58Z

Today I have set out to be wildly productive and---

learned about Joanna Russ, reread James Tiptree Jr's "The Women Men Don't See," trailed a debate between Mormon women about modesty in prom dresses, tracked the history of several less hardy saplings from the root of the Angel Moroni,followed some heartfelt arguments about how fandom in the 70s was, in fact, not boring at all, debated whether the "Me Decade" is in fact a covert attack on the blooming of female writers in the 1970s, read some biographical material on Joan Didion, learned about a Chinese activist named "Long Hair" who routinely wears a Che Guevara shirt and is sort of the canary in the coal mine in terms of the mainland's tolerance of dissent, and read Robert Silverberg's The Man who Couldn't Forget, followed some side debates about why Genjo Sanzo is referred to as "the kiddo who contains heaven and hell" and concluded that the faction which thinks it is a mistranslation of the names of his sutras are right, lusted over the descriptions of the scents at BPAL, thought about the connection between North Korea and China before the 1980s, looked at several pictures of Tilda Swinton in Narnia, read some George Macdonald and was surprised at the strange, precious-precious didactic tone of the Princess and the Goblin, which is not at all how I remembered it, of course, learned about a game called Mornington Crescent which, in fact, has no rules at all,
but is intended to baffle the spectator by giving the impression that it has an immensely complicated set of rules, and read all about Aung Sang Suu Kyi's house arrest.

Ooops.

Um. And now I have a bouillabaisse of irrelevancies bubbling in my head. One or two of the things bobbing around in the soup leave a nasty aftertaste, I might add. For example, I read the following quote in the Observer on Aung Sang Suu Kyi---

'I've been here three years. It's difficult to say what's going on,' one diplomat admitted. 'She's extraordinarily strong-willed. She's extremely sweet if she likes you but she can be tough too.

'She's sacrificed an awful lot for her country,' he added. 'We all think she's marvellous.'

felt it tasted slightly wrong, thought about Joanna Russ, switched the genders, and substituted Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, MLK, or Vaclav Havel for the portrait center. Darlings, don't you find that

"He's extraordinarily strong-willed. He's extremely sweet if he likes you but he can be tough too."

"He's sacrificed an awful lot for his country," she added. "We all think he's marvelous."

is a bit--well, a bit off?

fooey

2007-03-01T17:19:43Z

I demand to be excused from cause and effect.

boxmint @ 2007-02-26T16:51:00

2007-02-26T21:53:18Z

Hullo, darlings. My roommates and I are tired of getting drunk and reading poetry to each other, and have decided to get drunk and read poetry to you . Voila the following.

OPP

OPP stands for Other People's Poetry. Poetry is more fun to read when
it's written by people way more talented than you. See why at
Brooklyn's premiere night for drunk declaiming of verse. From the
ridiculous to sublime, it's all poetry, no slamming. Plenty of
collections will be on hand, but you can also bring favorites to share.

Freddy's Backroom
485 Dean Street, Brooklyn
8-10p; $free
otherpeoplespoetry@gmail.com

Last Monday of every month--starting today. (And I'm missing next month's, cuz I'll be in Asia. Compliments; regrets.)

boxmint @ 2007-02-17T00:02:00

2007-02-17T05:03:18Z

Hullo!

I've been gone for ages, for all sorts of vaguely meandering reasons. But--for at least the next 24 hours--I'm back. Missed ya.

boxmint @ 2007-01-21T01:57:00

2007-01-21T07:16:05Z

Just had amazing day in San Francisco, thanks entirely to the fantastic oyceter. I am now the proud owner of 6 books I would never before have picked out, (having held off being the proud owner of something like 17 books by sheer willpower) and I am full of excellent food. Hooray for the West Coast, say I, and for the kindness of strangers.

boxmint @ 2007-01-17T19:38:00

2007-01-18T00:38:46Z

Incidentally, I'm in San Francisco.

boxmint @ 2007-01-17T19:23:00

2007-01-18T00:32:58Z

My pet email account, (thanks to a prof. who, for reasons known best to himself, posted a class listserv online with every member's address lying open like flabby oysters,) gets a lot of spam. It gets so much spam, in fact, that I am able to rather enjoy it. Recently, however, the Male Enhancement genre has gotten disturbingly aggressive. They are mocking my member, ladies.
I've moved from "Surprise your woman!" to "Great chap, your one-eyed monster is really small," "Never thought that so small meat exists." And, finally, "Girls prefer real things, not toothpicks."

I'm beginning to get insecure.

boxmint @ 2007-01-09T23:26:00

2007-01-10T04:57:41Z

Well, darlings. I'm back. Finished my deadlines, did my Christmas holidays up in fine style, zoomed off to Oregon and danced about in hotsprings and on mountains with the IBW. At the moment I am flummoxed, because in the last month, my speed dial has pulled a wobbly. It's all babies and explosions around here, I tell you what, and I'd like to be drinking beer in an air-raid shelter with iamsab and pene.

So in honor of all this mixup, I bring you some random excerpts from The Dialogue of Ipuur and the Lord of All, written solidly B.C.E. in Egypt, and from the Dialogue of a Man With His Soul. Which I love. I take a primitive pleasure in the idea that in 1640 BC people were using what look to me like delightfully strict verse forms to bemoan chaos.

Who can I talk to today?
An intimate friend is lacking, and one turns to an unknown man to protest.
Who can I talk to today?
There is no one who is content, and him with whom one walked is no more.
Who can I talk to today?
I am weighed down for want of an intimate friend.

O, but everyone's hair has fallen out,
A gentleman cannot be told apart from a have-not.

O, but all the maidservants are filled with their own words;
It is burdensome to the servants when their mistresses speak.

Look, wealthy ladies are on boards;
officials are in the Workhouse;
he who did not even sleep on a wall is a lord of a bed.

Look, a lord of property goes to sleep thirsty;
he who begged dregs for himself is a lord of strong beer.

Look, someone without shade is a lord of shade;
The lords of shade are in the blast of the gale.

Look, the butlers have become lords of cupbearers;
he who was a messenger is sending someone else.

Look, he who was loafless is the lord of a storeroom,
his storehouse is furnished with the property of someone else.

Look, he whose hair had fallen out, a man without oil,
has become a lord of jars of sweet myrrh.

Look, she who had no box is the owner of a trunk;
she who looked at her face in the water is the owner of a mirror.

(I especially love the part about the hair. Don't understand it at all. Divine. Later in the poem, when the writer's talking about how it oughta be, s/he remarks
"It is so good, when people are drunk,
when they drink strong drink and their hearts are happy." Which is for all y'all.