Gone!

The public radio station, literally down the street, is having an fundraising auction and I wanted to donate

(a) a five-course Indian meal cooked (by me)

and

(b) a poem written (by me) on any thing or person the successful bidder specified.

The station manager suggested that I assign a monetary value that would make it easier for them to advertise the "goods."

The Indian meal was fairly simple to calculate--materials plus time compared to the going rate at a restaurant. I asked Big A for help with figuring out how much the poem would "cost." He thinks the going rate per poem is about a nickel and sometimes a glass of wine and/or applause.

He's probably right.

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Happy Year of the Rabbit! (Do rabbits sleep a lot?)

Dinner out at the chinese restaurant we usually go to with the grandparents. This time it is a big bunch of neighbors and friends, and it is to celebrate the Year of the Rabbit. My favorite six-year-old tells the server, Gung Hay Fat Choy! He tells her that he's from Dayton, OH. Oh, I am torn.

Because we're cool and stuff and we want to go see more live music and stuff, we'd decided to go check out a band we'd heard about and stuff.

So we dropped off the kids at their grandparents and stuff.

Bored yet? Might as well be. We got home and decided to take a "nap." And didn't wake up until hours after the band went home.

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Martian sends

My mind clutches a phrase, rubbing it raw in its sweaty fist. I'm awake now and realize that this nugget-- "ColdMartin Locksheen"--is merely an unappetizing and useless amalgam of NPR, Pandora, and Jezebel.com.

Odd the way this mind grabs the surprise appearance of Coldplay, a.k.a. Chris Martin, on the Phoenix station on Pandora, news of tech giant Lockheed Martin's U.S. Army contract, and Charlie (son of Martin) Sheen(anigans) to produce some Palin-esque puffery.

Although this is the closest I've come to deciphering how a poem happens--starting out with a phrase that surely expands through all the hours of rote existence.

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Co-opt

After watching Exit through the Gift Shop with us, Li'l A turned into a rebel overnight. And now they're offering a class in "Urban Art" (helpfully subtitled "Graffitti") at his elementary school.

And he's taking it.

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In the hea(r)t of the SnOw-M-G

We have no heat, but we have two Pillow Pets (TM). The bumblebee ("Bumby") and the ladybug ("Lady, I Love You"--yes, Baby A could name horses or ice cream flavors soon.)

Big A thinks we should get the unicorn. He leans across the table to claim in a stage-whisper that we could name it "Horny."

He's not in middle school. Swear.

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Next Up: Video?

Big A and I talked all weekend long (remainders from my women's studies class) about how how words associated with privilege cannot be used as insults. i.e. women, people of color, poor people can be insulted on the basis of their group membership in a marginalized/minority group e.g.: bitch/W.O.G./cracker, but it is impossible to insult the dominant group on the basis of their group identity. With the notable exception--and I wonder how hoary this tradition is--of "dick." ("Prick" carries with it the implication of not being sufficiently allied with the dominant group--too tiny, not big enough.)

Looks like we're going to have to write that incipient book of feminist philosophy. Because we then decided that "Quit Dicking Around" would be an awesome title.

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Egypt: Neotonous

Empty script,

an empty score

the words are licked

till there can’t be more.

Transcendent tasks

constants depart

trials unmask,

breath beats, battles heart.

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