Jullianne

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:14:26 GMT

llevarino.blogspot

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:05:46 GMT

"Graphomania (an obsession with writing books) takes on the proportions of a mass epidemic whenever a society develops to the point where it can provide three basic conditions:

1. a higher enough degree of general well-being to enable people to donate their energies to useless activities;
2. an advanced state of social atomization and the resultant general feeling of the isolation of the individual;
3. a radical absence of significant social change in the internal development of the nation.

But the effect transmits a kind of flashback to the cause. If general isolation causes graphomania, mass graphomania itself reinforces and aggravates the feeling of general isolation. The invention of printing originally promoted mutual understanding. In the area of graphomania the writing of books has the opposite effect: everyone surrounds himself with his own writings as with a wall of mirrors cutting off all voices from without."

from The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Milan Kundera

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 06:10:38 GMT

si paloma

P.S. A.J. characters. Wonder.

Tue, 16 Sep 2008 16:02:33 GMT

So I have been missing San Francisco like a motherfucker. I guess I miss the wonder and magic of the city. I guess I miss the wonder and magic of anything (though I am by no means saying ATX is devoid of wonder--I've just been living in a way that has become familiar).
But anyway, the reason why I like working at AJ is that there is always a good story to tell after every shift.
There's no more interesting happening than what occurs between people, because, you know, every person is a small universe. To this extent, when people--preferably two--come into contact with each other, if either person is even slightly vulnerable, caught off-guard, or open to penetration, then the collision of the two earthly bodies is as great in magnitude and implication as that of heavenly bodies! Good or bad.
Last night this girl came into Austin Java--she reminded me of someone I'd seen in San Fran years ago, maybe that's why she caught my interest. She had various tribal tattoos, most of them hidden, and she could only have been my age or a couple year older. She was dressed like an Ozarks hippie even though it was only a few degrees warmer than it usually is in Austin: she wore tights, low boots, a black skirt, and a woven brown sweater/jacket. She was deadpan serious when I took her order and only slightly warmer when I brought her food out to her. I noticed she was studying from a science book. She came in a few minutes later to ask for matches. I assumed for a cigerette...the only thing I could find was our gas lighter. When I showed it to her, she couldn't help but smile! I knew that it was exactly what she wanted--it was perfect! I imagined her sitting outside alone in the overcast weather, lighting her cigarette sideways with this kitchen tool. Redemption for Austin. It only helped the picture when I noticed that she had two silver teeth.

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 03:04:45 GMT

So, think about this.
There are many different ways to conceptualize life--I mean, we tend to divide life (in general) into categories, cycles. Sometimes things are good, sometimes things are bad; easy come, easy go. This is how we define random, arbitrary chaos: how we justify a more Buddhist attitude towards the world.
Now, what about: abundance and lack.
By "abundance and lack" I mean, in every sense. I mean materially: Adrienne and I were scraping on rice and beans for weeks, we went home for a day, and now there's no space in the fridge. I mean emotionally: sometime there is an abundance of love, sometimes there is a lack. Sometimes there are an abundance of friends, sometimes there seems to be a lack.
We'll call this the "blind man's walk."
The only thing a person can do for himself/herself is try not to

wrestling the iron lion

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 22:22:41 GMT

The reason why poetry as survived so many ages of expression is that, so far as I can think, it is one of the most perfect expressions of paradox/contradiction. And, the conflict of dealing with/living with contradition (b/c humans tend to view opposing forces, discomfort as conflict) is at the root of most chronic unhappiness.
One could say that the most obvious way poetry "expresses" paradox is through the use of verbal and impressionistic irony. From "Lessons of the War, Naming of Parts" :

Today we have the naming of parts. Yesterday
We had a daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-chatch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them use their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking piece, and the point of
balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and
forwards
For today we have naming the parts.

Through the use of ironic language--ironic feeling, --the juxtaposition of artillery with flowers--the human preparation for war and death with the natural world's preparation for the coming of Spring.
In good poetry, the irony of language or image is timed so well that the product (regardless of how many times the poem has been edited or re-written) is a seemingly perfect work of spontaneous expression.
It is in this way that poetry represents both the life of the individual that is defined by conflicting wants and needs, and the world at large that seems to us, at least sometimes, to be governed by random and chaotic forces.

And this is one of the reasons why I think the role of poetry is so important, especially in this country where the great American dream itself is a paradox (is a couple paradoxes, actually): the very act of reading or writing it involves actively engaging with contradiction, it's a grappling with the very force that destroys those who are unconscious of its influence, i.e. those who become the helpless victims of their own contradictions (the paralyzed, the unattractively wishy-washy, those incapable of action, decision or thought).
::It's wrestling the iron lion. It's a form of the most severe discipline.

Wed, 10 Sep 2008 17:32:03 GMT

a dream about and for S.

At 2am last night
someone threw a turtle though my open window. The turtle landed, alive, and commneced walking across the floorboards toward my bed. I ran to the window. I knew I would see you but the patio was empty. I went back to bed and dreamed that we were working together behind the restaurant's counter. You had the smoothie blender raised in your left hand and you were dancing for the customers like an overweight whore. You had so much rhytm! The way you moved your hips was beautiful, like water. Suddenly you stopped and ran out into the street, still holding the blender. I don't know what could have compelled you to leave so suddenly. I saw the car when it hit you, but I was still about the way you'd be dancing.

Again

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 20:50:22 GMT

Crazy Dog Events:

1. Act like a crazy dog. Wear sashes and other fine clothes, carry a rattle, & dance along the roads singing crazy dog songs after everybody else has gone to bed.

2. Talk crosswise: say the opposite of what you mean & make others say the opposite of what they mean in return.

3. Fight like a fool by rushing up to an enemy & offering to be killed. Dig a hole near the enemy, & when the enemy surrounds it, leap out at them & drive them back.

4. Paint yourself white, mount a white horse, cover its eyes & make it jump down a steep & rocky bank, until both of you are crushed.

Jerome Rothenberg

numbers

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 23:01:45 GMT

Today I randomly looked at the clock at 2:22, 3:33, and 5:55.
Katthi counted exactly nine dollars in tips in the morning.
Someone gave me his phone number.
I randomly gave a man number 23 when his total order came out to $23.23

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 22:28:52 GMT

I was held by a woman known as the holder
And i'll stay in her arms for the rest of my days

She told me she had something,
Something sacred to give me
And she asked for me to open my mind, so i did

It was very hard
And the struggle nearly killed me
Then she told me to inhale
Whatever came my way

Then a colour turned up
Which never been seen by human eyes
And she said it was mine to keep,
To keep, to keep

Now it's deep inside of me
And it holds four different women
Who am me, if you see what i mean

That was why she gave me that gift,
So that i could make room
For the me, the me, the me and the me

-"As Four" -The Concretes

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 01:07:48 GMT

Someone hacked into my college email account!

Thu, 31 Jul 2008 20:21:56 GMT

Jeff: secret love of my life
You give me everything I need:
You give me cigarettes, you give me
Internet connection.

Actually nix to the former. But I have been wondering if it would further—and painfully—secure my position as “the juvenile punk” in this little housing establishment if I were to ask “Hey Jeff, can I bum a cigarette?”
You know, I’m the girl in the bubble of tenant men, the dying cabrio squeezed in between the BMWs. Also, it’s heartbreakingly clear to me, when I drive up in my Armani shirt (hey but I bought it at a second hand store!) and iced coffee that I’m no better than the J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess). I’m just not Jewish. And I live in the South.

But I’ve been wondering lately if many of my “doing” problems stem from not wanting to be what I (socially) am. I think I wrote about this earlier—sitting across from a friend at Whitman, and her telling me that it has taken her a long time to accept the fact that she was born a late 20th century middle class girl, and not a sweet young thing destined for the nunnery; the latter, her preference. Well I have and have had many preferences that are not what I am (socially), but everything I was given and am being given is for to live this life.

Edit:
but I really am happy when I'm just fuckin' around.
I mean, I'm more impressed when a trucker honks and waves at me in the middle of traffic than when little Willy asks me to study for the astronomy test with him after class.
I get pissed off and that's no good.
H, I can even understand how you'd get seriously annoyed,or even resentful towards someone who's too nice...

Wed, 09 Jul 2008 04:02:29 GMT

i just wanna see his goddamn face

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 05:48:30 GMT

Tonight, while I was out walking the dogs, I saw a bat swoop down and snatch a bug out of the air. It is the first time I have seen that happen.

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 04:25:57 GMT

Cain, am I a maniaC?

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 05:32:56 GMT

oh god. i am so happy right now.

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 22:41:49 GMT

why'm i so exhausted?
this isn't a joke; this is real exhaustion. I feel like I've taken a long trip, but it's the end of vacation.

Last night I walked up to the top of the road when it was cool and dark outside and watched one of the prettiest sunsets I've seen since coming back. I felt certain that I would be back here next year, and when I said goodbye to Chloe, she said, "I know I'll see you next year, because horniness always wins out." What she meant is "I know you can't be a eunch for two more years." And she's right, but there are other things too.

Dad came in to talk--he has dreams for all of us. His dream for me is that I'll finish up at Whitman. Next year, though, I'll study abroad in Ireland or Scottland and study European literature. Learn Spanish at the same time, and if that works, he'll pay to send me to Argentina for a year after college.
What can I say? That sounds pretty good too.
I'm thinking that I want to start reading again. I want to start reading the way I used to, but it's going to be difficult unless I change my life. Doing THIS, being "this", I can't read, the focus is never on the words themselves; it's always on me. That doesn't work. If anything, I've gotta learn how to be less selfish for a while.

But I keep thinking about the things I want that I've gone to long without. I guess I've gotta break out...

Thu, 08 Nov 2007 00:58:57 GMT

anonymous, who are you?

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 17:13:43 GMT

i just wanna listen to magnetic fields and dance around! i don't wanna read no stinkin scarlet letter

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 19:39:42 GMT

o god.

Fri, 04 May 2007 06:22:09 GMT

i blame the Moon.

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 05:43:09 GMT

guys, Nadim and I are putting together a zine. Submissions are due Sunday. The theme is "the other". Go crazy! Do this for me.

Thu, 12 Apr 2007 16:49:00 GMT

no long "on this earth": vonnegut
o god

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 01:15:57 GMT

washed out on rap and hip-hop, he now listens to jazz

Tue, 09 Jan 2007 05:14:56 GMT

How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again. You can go home, it's good to go home, but you never really get all the way home again in your life. And what's it all for? All I tried to be, all i ever wanted and went away for, what's it all for?

Just one way, you do go back home. You have a boy or a girl of your own and now and then you remember, and you know how they feel, and it's almost the same as if you were your own sel again, as young as you could remember.

And God knows he was lucky, so many ways, and God knows he was thankful. Everything was good and better than he could have hoped for, better than he ever deserved; only, whatever it was and however good it was, it wasn't what you once had been, and had lost, and could never have again, and once in a while, once in a long time, you remembered, and knew how far you were away, and it hit you hard enough, that little while it lasted, to break your heart.

-James Agee, A Death in the Family