what I'm thinking and doing § what I'm listening to § what I'm reading
what I'm writing § retrospective: The Phonosnout
Okay, this is a lame entry. Not only am I a day late, but I don't have much to say as my brain is fried from spending the day driving back from Vancouver, addressing holiday cards (well, actually sheets, since we don't do actual card cards), baking, cleaning, and generally angsting that my parents and their two dogs will be arriving on Friday and we're not ready. How do the holidays always sneak up on us like this?
And as you can tell, I didn't plan this entry ahead. I'm a procrastinator from way back. You would think I might have learned something from having my office in the planning department for 11 years, but no, not me.
Happy holiday prep to you. May you be better prepared than I am.
last week's thinking and doing § next week's thinking and doing
Well, the most wonderful thing is the reason why the journal is a day late. Yesterday, Sunday, we drove up to Vancouver to hear Veda Hille. The concert opened with Robin Holcomb from Seattle, whose music we've loved since we discovered her first self-titled solo album (and still my favourite of hers) ten years ago. She has a bunch of wonderful new songs, and it was great to hear them. I love how jazz and influenced her sound and poetry has influenced her lyrics. Hearing her, then Veda also showed the connections between the work Veda is doing now and Robin Holcomb's work.
Veda was premiering and also recording live a new series of songs based on science and nature and on her trip to the Yukon this past summer with a bunch of other performance artists. It is an incredible sequence of songs, incorporating, seamlessly, a couple of her earlier pieces. It was really affecting, and I feel honoured to have been there to hear it. And I tried to be quiet as a mouse, honest I did. And I managed to sit on my hands and not applaud in between songs, as she asked us not to do because it would interrupt the flow of the songs, and I'm so glad she did. It made the experience that much more powerful. An amazing show. Veda truly knocks me out every time I hear her live. And on record, for that matter.
last week's listening § next week's listening
Kathleen Ann Goonan's Crescent City Rhapsody is a near-future story where nanotechnology is just a little closer. Contemporary society is shaken by a series of electromagnetic bursts from space that knock out electronics and communications, and they keep coming, shaking the foundation of the power grids and the contemporary way of life. Caught up in this is a manic-depressive genius astronomer, a mob boss who runs New Orleans and her friends, and a series of other tangential characters across the world. This is a fascinating look at near-future possibilities. It's a little chaotically told, but the times she describes are chaotic as well, so it gives a fitting feel for the novel. I found it quite fascinating.
last week's reading § next week's reading
Spent much of the week revising/tweaking/futzing with a story for my workshop group because Sunday was the deadline for sending it to them. Had to rush because we were going out of town mid-day Sunday. Of course once I sent it I realized something else I should have done to the story before I sent it. Ah well. It's out.
last week's writing § next week's writing
About the Phonosnout
968. Here I am writing still tonight
Here I am writing still tonight--exploring the shallowness of my mind. Tripping into a few potholes, it's true. O my. Dreaming of poetry, silly theories--poetry, good poetry, reunites us with our preverbal vision--does it? Dreaming could it be true? Could anything? One's as good as another, I should think, but don't. You know you know that. Tropic of Cancer, unreadable, really, I don't know why I've kept pushing, why I always do. Still pushing on pressing on through Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man recognizing Stephen. The White Goddess, haven't touched that yet, can't bring myself to. Afraid of missing more, reading, not taking in. Not dreaming Harold's dream of her. Shadowed eyes, that's all that is left of my mind. Mind, of my God (whom I dare to call mine!) what of my mind? Now I am simply enjoying the pattern of my altered handwriting. Forehand, rather than back- or straight, as if it all matters, as if it all doesn't matter. Disappointment marring the page with wonder of wonders a scratched-out "I". (Like Gloucester? Ha!) Go to the phone and lose your soul over the wires. Who to phone, anyway? There is no one. [Long quote from a song about not being able to phone because of emotions.] O, the wine that burns through it all keeps changing, something keeps happening to it. What is happening to my Shakespeare and my 7 ten-page short stories? F'shure, what's it all about, if it is anything. Anaïs, why can't I write like you? Maybe someday, when those roads don't keep growing in circles. My head has been in books too long today. Phono, I will dream you again tomorrow.
Anaïs has caught my fantasy, perfumed and dressed it, as I never could or would. I am not a girl for perfumes, yet they go well with my dreams, thank you, Anaïs. News: I am not moving out, I may buy a car. Freedom possibly half-freedom. O, who, how. Christina has backed out of moving, I am left back home with the three bears: Jocelyn, Catriona, and Achilles-me-luv. Dream but two more years, basic haunt. Cramps off and on, three days. Perhaps I need home more than I think. I could stay here in my sanctuary forever, traffic noises, sleeping, buses, reading Anaïs, Durrell, Shakespeare, Yates, writing letters, taking showers, baths, taking my time while sewing, dreaming. Writing a very little, but knowing I can if need be. Yes, I dream. This life tastes of dreaming.
I have myself all keyed up to see Paul, and now it doesn't look like I will. Complications--two homes. O dear. Tied to one I want to leave. Can't rest or relax. had a look at two different guys that have influence these past three years. Jon. Phil. Phil gave me a rose today. A red rose. In the car he ran his fingers over my thighs, teasing. Not my idea of tickling, I'm afraid. Other thoughts to mind. He knew what he was doing, so why? I don't understand where he's at. I hope he's not expecting anything of me--good for nothing in his terms. No patience for him. Probably never will have.
Jon showed me his poetry last night. Very immature writing in the sense of potential, but he's growing--some elements of reality, fewer unfelt abstractions. He's beginning to get into his own poetry. Speaks of taking a course at the university. I hope it does for him what it's done for me. This new me. Oh it hurts sometimes. I want Paul. Without love which I cannot gain in any case. I have changed the subject. Why am I not beautiful and desirably like Anaïs. I hold people too loosely. I want someone to hold tightly, so near to me. Someone to share my new loves and old confusions. Yet I want Paul physically, will I always have this slight dependence on him, those ties? He said he was going home and is not home [he was] , is he waiting for me? A long wait; I'm not going home tonight tied here. O where I want to be and with whom. I can't bear to sit here doing nothing so here I have to write. Tonight I want him. He knows the terms. Impossible here. O hell.
Phil Jon a weekend. Dave, looking o where am I? I want to be anywhere but here tonight. I must do something. Must. Many a gree isle needs must be in the sea of misery. Tied, tightened, bond. O what a day to end so early and spoil all that built-up potential.
1. The "he was" is a later insertion.
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