ee cummings' memoir about his imprisonment in a French prison during WWI for suspected espionage. (He and a friend were volunteer ambulance drivers.)
This is what happens when poets write books! Poets, the most painterly writers. Mr. Pound's Impressionist "petals on a wet, black bough." Billy Collins' fine, dark brush, "The moth has flown from its line and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed."
He SAW the details, in the scruffy cell-mates, to paint them, excrutiatingly, as the most wrenching creature known to man: Man. Which is the most ... True. And True is exactly what knocks us on our butts, artistically. And that's what he really wanted to do -- France misplaced these lifes and forgot them.
What a writer! A portrait-painter. It's a phalanx of paradoxes: bright, bitter, satirical, beautiful. A story about justice, the value of a life, etc. But to me, personally, it's also about Art. (Which I'm always trying to define, just like the Tao. "Which I think is ..." Shhh, Earth inturrupts. "No, really, I think it's ..." Fingers of wind against my lips.)
I'm so fascinated by the HUGE FEELING involved in creating. Like, what is it? I will venture an audacious suspicion that ee cummings ... loved Life. That he searched Life's face (like a lover! Oh, the drama!), for these intimate details, in the faces of Fritz, Haree, Bill the Hollander, B., the Cook, etc. A deep Appreciation (of these flea-bitten, greasy-soup-swilling "Delectable Mountains"). Passion! Being consumed. Outrage. Love.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Doesn't Rhyme, but May Resonate
Sometimes,
I wonder if I'm due
to suffer this way
until I find the words
to capture it
more exactly, piercingly,
than anyone ever
before.
So, I'll wait and wait
and write
and write.
I wonder if I'm due
to suffer this way
until I find the words
to capture it
more exactly, piercingly,
than anyone ever
before.
So, I'll wait and wait
and write
and write.
Friday, July 14, 2006
I Was Stalked by Superman
By Lois Lane
I've been on the downside of a plummeting Eiffle-Tower elevator. My grip has slipped from steel siding, sending me spinning down from a skyscraper. I've been held captive, countless times, by mad genius Lex Luthor. But I've never felt terror, as a woman, as I have as the victim of a stalker.
I'm a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, conditioned not to feel fear, so it's a bitter pill to write this. But if my story can help someone else, I'll tell it.
In all those tight spots, the Paris plummet, the skyscraper skydive, the Lex captivities, Superman was there. Good thing. But also a bad thing.
His bold, erstwhile glances at me after a rescue, as I bobbed about in the crowd, pen and pad in hand, soon turned sinister. I could almost feel his piercing vision, oogling my very heart, organs.
"It'll never work, Superman," I told him, brusquely, several times.
Just that smile, in return. That haunting, haunting smile. He'd be back. Always. Trailing me through the skies, watching through the walls, even circling the Earth at beyond-sonic speed to get his way.
I toyed with the idea it was all my fault. I'm a hard-charging, beautiful, charasmatic player on the journalistic world stage. Then, there was that fling of a marriage, Niagra Falls. Blame it on the borealis, the soundtrack, the occassional kiss.
But when I say, "It'll never work, Superman," it means, "it'll never work."
And then it happened.
Only through therapy can I talk about it, to help free myself from the pain.
Last Tuesday, while on the roof of the Daily Planet for a casual smoke, Superman abducted me, high into the skies.
"Wha? Wha?" I stammered, but it was too late. During a tense conversation, he'd elevated us both into the air. The setting sun flickered on his grin as we buzzed my lakeside home. He knew where I lived. He even glanced toward the kitchen, where I, my new boyfriend, and small son cook nutritious meals together.
High above the planet, he told me he heard voices.
I am Lois Lane, but I no longer mistakenly feel like I can handle this by myself.
Support groups. Super-proof locks on doors and windows. A restraining order. Patrols by Metropolis cops. A thin shard of Kryptonite concealed in my boot.
Get help, Superman. You need it as much as I do. I say it because I really do care, even though, as far as "we" go, "It'd never work. It just wouldn't work."
I've been on the downside of a plummeting Eiffle-Tower elevator. My grip has slipped from steel siding, sending me spinning down from a skyscraper. I've been held captive, countless times, by mad genius Lex Luthor. But I've never felt terror, as a woman, as I have as the victim of a stalker.
I'm a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, conditioned not to feel fear, so it's a bitter pill to write this. But if my story can help someone else, I'll tell it.
In all those tight spots, the Paris plummet, the skyscraper skydive, the Lex captivities, Superman was there. Good thing. But also a bad thing.
His bold, erstwhile glances at me after a rescue, as I bobbed about in the crowd, pen and pad in hand, soon turned sinister. I could almost feel his piercing vision, oogling my very heart, organs.
"It'll never work, Superman," I told him, brusquely, several times.
Just that smile, in return. That haunting, haunting smile. He'd be back. Always. Trailing me through the skies, watching through the walls, even circling the Earth at beyond-sonic speed to get his way.
I toyed with the idea it was all my fault. I'm a hard-charging, beautiful, charasmatic player on the journalistic world stage. Then, there was that fling of a marriage, Niagra Falls. Blame it on the borealis, the soundtrack, the occassional kiss.
But when I say, "It'll never work, Superman," it means, "it'll never work."
And then it happened.
Only through therapy can I talk about it, to help free myself from the pain.
Last Tuesday, while on the roof of the Daily Planet for a casual smoke, Superman abducted me, high into the skies.
"Wha? Wha?" I stammered, but it was too late. During a tense conversation, he'd elevated us both into the air. The setting sun flickered on his grin as we buzzed my lakeside home. He knew where I lived. He even glanced toward the kitchen, where I, my new boyfriend, and small son cook nutritious meals together.
High above the planet, he told me he heard voices.
I am Lois Lane, but I no longer mistakenly feel like I can handle this by myself.
Support groups. Super-proof locks on doors and windows. A restraining order. Patrols by Metropolis cops. A thin shard of Kryptonite concealed in my boot.
Get help, Superman. You need it as much as I do. I say it because I really do care, even though, as far as "we" go, "It'd never work. It just wouldn't work."
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Art For the Hilareous Joy of It
Pirates of the Carribean! I'm back to the arguement (art-gument) that Art is simply power.
With the Godfather, the fierce love of family/ legacy/ power v. right was a dark, mental ferment throughout. A given. And I yearned along with the little guy in Rocky. (A masterpiece). But ... have you ever looked at a barnacle, the pilings under a dock, roiling water, and felt this dark, gothic, mysterious pleasure? Yes. The ickiness of the sea! The overwhelming, frightening, awesome ickiness of the sea. I felt it deeply yesterday afternoon at the manitee (oops! matinee), and that's why I loved this movie. (A squid beard!!). And I will defend it to the end, wisps of hair escaping my tri-cornered cap, smouldering eyes fixed, saber ready.
Then, there's Dragonforce. In a nutshell: heavy metal about ... surviving/overcoming in a land ruled by dragons. I have no idea how serious they are about the dragons, but the music is very, very serious. I'm no speed metal afficionado, by any stretch, but whatever else, this is absolutely art.
With the Godfather, the fierce love of family/ legacy/ power v. right was a dark, mental ferment throughout. A given. And I yearned along with the little guy in Rocky. (A masterpiece). But ... have you ever looked at a barnacle, the pilings under a dock, roiling water, and felt this dark, gothic, mysterious pleasure? Yes. The ickiness of the sea! The overwhelming, frightening, awesome ickiness of the sea. I felt it deeply yesterday afternoon at the manitee (oops! matinee), and that's why I loved this movie. (A squid beard!!). And I will defend it to the end, wisps of hair escaping my tri-cornered cap, smouldering eyes fixed, saber ready.
Then, there's Dragonforce. In a nutshell: heavy metal about ... surviving/overcoming in a land ruled by dragons. I have no idea how serious they are about the dragons, but the music is very, very serious. I'm no speed metal afficionado, by any stretch, but whatever else, this is absolutely art.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
I Hang it, Withering, On the Porch Light
South Carolina
pin oaks drop mistletoe in
July thunderstorms
My disposition,
a hopeful flag, though poisonous,
of green stuff woven
pin oaks drop mistletoe in
July thunderstorms
My disposition,
a hopeful flag, though poisonous,
of green stuff woven
Saturday, July 01, 2006
The Importance of Being Ernest (Hemingway)
Act III
An Adaptation by Evora Tangeline
(With Aplogies to E. Hemingway and O. Wilde)
(And special thanks to M. Labar, who did grad work on Gertrude Stein.)
NOTES ON CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES
LADY BRACKNELL: She is a woman of ample proportions, the ultimate in a dowager of literary society. Lady Bracknell never lacks for words, and she makes every word count, savoring each one down to the last syllable. She dresses in frumpy black shirts and gowns.
From ACT III
SCENE: The scene is a steamy Mexican terrace. It is a bright, cheery porch.
MISS PRISM: I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting for you there for an hour and three quarters.
LADY BRACKNELL: (sitting on a sofa, surrounded by paintings by Picasso). Prism!
MISS PRISM: (bowing her head in shame). Lady Bracknell!
LADY BRACKNELL: Come here Prism! (Prism approaches her in a humble manner.) Prism! Where is the baby? The baby in your charge. In the perambulator, the perambulator with the wheels that go round and round. The wheels that go round and round in the perambulator in which sat the baby, the baby in the perambulator.
MISS PRISM: (falteringly). I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. In a moment of mental abstraction, I deposited the manuscript in the bassinet and placed the baby in the handbag.
CHASUBLE. What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?
LADY BRACKNELL: I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. A monster puzzle, a heavy choking, a neglected Tuesday.
CECILY: (glancing toward a sudden sound). Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.
CHASUBLE: Can't hold his emotions.
LADY BRACKNELL: A sound. (The clicking of castinets are heard overhead again. Everybody looks upwards.) Elephant beaten with candy and little pops and chews all bolts and reckless reckless rats, this is this. (The noises stop.)
An Adaptation by Evora Tangeline
(With Aplogies to E. Hemingway and O. Wilde)
(And special thanks to M. Labar, who did grad work on Gertrude Stein.)
NOTES ON CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES
LADY BRACKNELL: She is a woman of ample proportions, the ultimate in a dowager of literary society. Lady Bracknell never lacks for words, and she makes every word count, savoring each one down to the last syllable. She dresses in frumpy black shirts and gowns.
From ACT III
SCENE: The scene is a steamy Mexican terrace. It is a bright, cheery porch.
MISS PRISM: I was told you expected me in the vestry, dear Canon. I have been waiting for you there for an hour and three quarters.
LADY BRACKNELL: (sitting on a sofa, surrounded by paintings by Picasso). Prism!
MISS PRISM: (bowing her head in shame). Lady Bracknell!
LADY BRACKNELL: Come here Prism! (Prism approaches her in a humble manner.) Prism! Where is the baby? The baby in your charge. In the perambulator, the perambulator with the wheels that go round and round. The wheels that go round and round in the perambulator in which sat the baby, the baby in the perambulator.
MISS PRISM: (falteringly). I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. In a moment of mental abstraction, I deposited the manuscript in the bassinet and placed the baby in the handbag.
CHASUBLE. What do you think this means, Lady Bracknell?
LADY BRACKNELL: I dare not even suspect, Dr. Chasuble. A monster puzzle, a heavy choking, a neglected Tuesday.
CECILY: (glancing toward a sudden sound). Uncle Jack seems strangely agitated.
CHASUBLE: Can't hold his emotions.
LADY BRACKNELL: A sound. (The clicking of castinets are heard overhead again. Everybody looks upwards.) Elephant beaten with candy and little pops and chews all bolts and reckless reckless rats, this is this. (The noises stop.)
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The Importance of Being Ernest (Hemingway)
(With apologies to E. Hemingway and Oscar Wilde.)
ACT ONE
SCENE: The scene is the sitting room of Algy's flat in Tijuana. The room is tastefully and somewhat artistically furnished. Two elephant guns form an archway UR, leads to the outer hall ... Rugs, several good paintings and the usual bric-a-brac, including a few trophies, leopards' heads, complete the setting.
AT RISE OF CURTAIN: Just before the curtain rises, grunting and the sound of punches into a bag are heard. When the curtain rises, LANE is arranging afternoon tea on the table C. After a few moments, the boxing stops and Algy saunters in.
ALGY (crossing LC) Punch me, Lane.
LANE (not pausing) It's not polite.
ALGY (shrugging) Did you cut the Cuban cigars for Lady Bracknell?
LANE Yes.
ALGY Did you drink eight quarts of my Tequila Wednesday?
LANE A pint, too.
ALGY The help always drink my hooch.
LANE Bachelors have it good.
ALGY Marriage is bad.
LANE I was married once.
ALGY I don't care.
LANE Me neither.
(Castenets click off L, afternoon light casts entire stage in red glow, a flamenco dancer trills his R's.)
(Lane enters UR and passes upstage of entrance.)
LANE (announcing) Mr. Ernest Worthing
ALGY Hello, Ernest.
JACK Hello.
ALGY Where have you been?
JACK Africa.
ALGY Well. Oh, why?
JACK Hunting.
ALGY What?
JACK Oh, tigers, tigers!
ALGY Are there any tigers in Tijuana?
JACK None that I can shoot. Why the whiskey, cigars? Is company coming?
ALGY Aunt Augusta and Gwendoline.
Jack Good.
(Lions roar in distance off L.)
ACT ONE
SCENE: The scene is the sitting room of Algy's flat in Tijuana. The room is tastefully and somewhat artistically furnished. Two elephant guns form an archway UR, leads to the outer hall ... Rugs, several good paintings and the usual bric-a-brac, including a few trophies, leopards' heads, complete the setting.
AT RISE OF CURTAIN: Just before the curtain rises, grunting and the sound of punches into a bag are heard. When the curtain rises, LANE is arranging afternoon tea on the table C. After a few moments, the boxing stops and Algy saunters in.
ALGY (crossing LC) Punch me, Lane.
LANE (not pausing) It's not polite.
ALGY (shrugging) Did you cut the Cuban cigars for Lady Bracknell?
LANE Yes.
ALGY Did you drink eight quarts of my Tequila Wednesday?
LANE A pint, too.
ALGY The help always drink my hooch.
LANE Bachelors have it good.
ALGY Marriage is bad.
LANE I was married once.
ALGY I don't care.
LANE Me neither.
(Castenets click off L, afternoon light casts entire stage in red glow, a flamenco dancer trills his R's.)
(Lane enters UR and passes upstage of entrance.)
LANE (announcing) Mr. Ernest Worthing
ALGY Hello, Ernest.
JACK Hello.
ALGY Where have you been?
JACK Africa.
ALGY Well. Oh, why?
JACK Hunting.
ALGY What?
JACK Oh, tigers, tigers!
ALGY Are there any tigers in Tijuana?
JACK None that I can shoot. Why the whiskey, cigars? Is company coming?
ALGY Aunt Augusta and Gwendoline.
Jack Good.
(Lions roar in distance off L.)
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Fragile and Precious Things ...
... need special handling. My Own Mattress aback a Ford pickup through downtown, River and Broad streets, ... naked as Lady Godiva!
Waking up on the sofa in a strange room, headlights bob through new curtains like willow th' wisps. To follow them out would be folly. We signed a year's lease.
The creak of unseen feet. A stranger lives upstairs.
But she has glorious tattoos and a hippie skirt, custody of an old roommate's elderly cat, a garden gnome and an electric organ (we can hear through the floor). She also offered pity for all the Stuff she saw through a window, jammed into the front room. "Yea." Sigh. Hey -- at least it's inside. We're moving it around like one of those sliding-tile games. (But with two empty squares, where our beds are.)
Off we go in search of dusty purple paint for the bathroom. Bachelorettes with a poster of the Raconteurs in the living room.
Waking up on the sofa in a strange room, headlights bob through new curtains like willow th' wisps. To follow them out would be folly. We signed a year's lease.
The creak of unseen feet. A stranger lives upstairs.
But she has glorious tattoos and a hippie skirt, custody of an old roommate's elderly cat, a garden gnome and an electric organ (we can hear through the floor). She also offered pity for all the Stuff she saw through a window, jammed into the front room. "Yea." Sigh. Hey -- at least it's inside. We're moving it around like one of those sliding-tile games. (But with two empty squares, where our beds are.)
Off we go in search of dusty purple paint for the bathroom. Bachelorettes with a poster of the Raconteurs in the living room.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Extra! Extra!
Newsflashes! (With apologies to The Onion.)
Local man shaves head, gets tattoo, becomes big teddy bear. (Before photo: distruntled middle-aged man, comb-over, polo shirt. After: goofy grin.)
Local woman believes this the best Pop-Tart she's ever eaten. (Photo: a Pop-Tart.)
Taxi-driving baritone has just the sound U2 missing in "One." ("I know Bono will overhear me one day, singing my amazing harmony," said Patrick Walsh, 45, alone in his cab.)
Local man shaves head, gets tattoo, becomes big teddy bear. (Before photo: distruntled middle-aged man, comb-over, polo shirt. After: goofy grin.)
Local woman believes this the best Pop-Tart she's ever eaten. (Photo: a Pop-Tart.)
Taxi-driving baritone has just the sound U2 missing in "One." ("I know Bono will overhear me one day, singing my amazing harmony," said Patrick Walsh, 45, alone in his cab.)
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Monsters with Beaks
Do art-people and blogs mix? I'm tempted (dangerously) to prance about in my emotional knickers here (a tendency for most art-types?) I hope this morning session before the crackling fire (gas logs at the Atlanta Bread Company) will be just a nice, "Something I learned."
Big emotion! Passion! Conviction! I think it can werewolf us (me), in a moment, into a monster. The good news: I have something to say! And if I feel strongly, maybe I can present it compellingly. The bad news: monsters are scary.
So ... is it war? (Proverbs: Don't learn the Angry Way.) Ironically, The Art of War is about efficiency (simplicity), effectiveness (doing it well), not about ... racing around willy-willy, battle hatchet waving.
Is it frustration? Maybe. I want to say what I mean! Clearly (from my mind) and compellingly (from my heart). I'd like to -be- more true (and less afraid of what you'll think).
Is it impatience? With myself, with others ... but God says: live it, then say it and mean it. -He- changes hearts. He is changing my heart.
Outside: patience. Kindness. Inside: the Monster.
So ... I want God to leach away the frustration, impatience and/or war. I want the "monster's" beak to hold an olive branch. (I Googled "monsters with beaks" and found only pterodactyls, giant squid and griffins, so I'm going with the latter. Though I think moths have tiny beaks, so maybe Moth-Ra would have a giant beak and also qualify.)
Couldn't Big Emotion! Passion! Conviction! Be ... majestic?
Alice (in Wonderland) was quite cool with her hulking griffin. "What fun!"
Big emotion! Passion! Conviction! I think it can werewolf us (me), in a moment, into a monster. The good news: I have something to say! And if I feel strongly, maybe I can present it compellingly. The bad news: monsters are scary.
So ... is it war? (Proverbs: Don't learn the Angry Way.) Ironically, The Art of War is about efficiency (simplicity), effectiveness (doing it well), not about ... racing around willy-willy, battle hatchet waving.
Is it frustration? Maybe. I want to say what I mean! Clearly (from my mind) and compellingly (from my heart). I'd like to -be- more true (and less afraid of what you'll think).
Is it impatience? With myself, with others ... but God says: live it, then say it and mean it. -He- changes hearts. He is changing my heart.
Outside: patience. Kindness. Inside: the Monster.
So ... I want God to leach away the frustration, impatience and/or war. I want the "monster's" beak to hold an olive branch. (I Googled "monsters with beaks" and found only pterodactyls, giant squid and griffins, so I'm going with the latter. Though I think moths have tiny beaks, so maybe Moth-Ra would have a giant beak and also qualify.)
Couldn't Big Emotion! Passion! Conviction! Be ... majestic?
Alice (in Wonderland) was quite cool with her hulking griffin. "What fun!"
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Shades for Spring
Welcome to Evangeline's Mary Kay Website
I have many new colors and textures for Spring. Opal No. 32 to coat your lids like the smear of a moth's wing. Black Cherry for lips, which say to each other, "Fool. He still will not crave you." A spectrum of Sable, Steely, Slate and Charcoal liner for lashes and lips.
New this year: Ivory No. 100 to dust the moist cobwebs Age weaves in the corners of eyes, mouth. Cobs, the unseen spiders. Legs pricking the harpsichord's brittle gavotte, composed for youths, long dead. Now, channel their spark!
Thirty shades of pink for lips, to brighten the height (and heartbreak) of beauty, "to die," even as it to perfection grows.
Bronze, Indigo and Violet make you the envy of faded beauty.
Sage No. 45 rims eyes, "green and dying," though you sing in your chains like the sea.
Come to my party!
7 p.m., June 2, 305 North Poppy Ct.
Or visit me before school, Mr. Craven's homeroom, Room 201, or in the hallway. I am the girl who looks like Poe.
Links:
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Gothic Archies
StrongBad
Chimeras, Scylla and Nymphs
Mary Kay International
Tales of Tangeline
I have many new colors and textures for Spring. Opal No. 32 to coat your lids like the smear of a moth's wing. Black Cherry for lips, which say to each other, "Fool. He still will not crave you." A spectrum of Sable, Steely, Slate and Charcoal liner for lashes and lips.
New this year: Ivory No. 100 to dust the moist cobwebs Age weaves in the corners of eyes, mouth. Cobs, the unseen spiders. Legs pricking the harpsichord's brittle gavotte, composed for youths, long dead. Now, channel their spark!
Thirty shades of pink for lips, to brighten the height (and heartbreak) of beauty, "to die," even as it to perfection grows.
Bronze, Indigo and Violet make you the envy of faded beauty.
Sage No. 45 rims eyes, "green and dying," though you sing in your chains like the sea.
Come to my party!
7 p.m., June 2, 305 North Poppy Ct.
Or visit me before school, Mr. Craven's homeroom, Room 201, or in the hallway. I am the girl who looks like Poe.
Links:
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Gothic Archies
StrongBad
Chimeras, Scylla and Nymphs
Mary Kay International
Tales of Tangeline
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Scouts
We went to see the scouts! On Wednesday night, from between my raised, weightless feet, News 7 reported there'd be 25 scouts at Wren High to watch an outfielder named Jason, the nation's third best.
Irrisistible whimsy.
We skirted Mom at the gate, slipped through the chain links, past a portable pig roaster and a tailgate full of dads. We wouldn't be there long.
The moon sharpened into focus. Cool April crawled up under T-shirts. Teens made bee-lines to no discernable destinations, and mom-talk roiled from the depths of lawn chairs -- but all eyes were on the ball. And their louder Voice called out: "Jason!"
Twenty-five scouts. My roommate and I panned faces. We saw them! But didn't know them. (Duh!)
A khaki-clad clique grinned by the fence. Maybe just Wren's business dads, home from Greenville or Atlanta in time for the game. What about that woman, especially attentive, with the pink-sunglasses tiara?
A lean man, not three feet away, coiled in repose, brim down around his eyes. He watched, too. Waited for the signal -- Potential! Possibility! -- of something rare in the guy winging baseballs in from the outfield.
Irrisistible whimsy.
We skirted Mom at the gate, slipped through the chain links, past a portable pig roaster and a tailgate full of dads. We wouldn't be there long.
The moon sharpened into focus. Cool April crawled up under T-shirts. Teens made bee-lines to no discernable destinations, and mom-talk roiled from the depths of lawn chairs -- but all eyes were on the ball. And their louder Voice called out: "Jason!"
Twenty-five scouts. My roommate and I panned faces. We saw them! But didn't know them. (Duh!)
A khaki-clad clique grinned by the fence. Maybe just Wren's business dads, home from Greenville or Atlanta in time for the game. What about that woman, especially attentive, with the pink-sunglasses tiara?
A lean man, not three feet away, coiled in repose, brim down around his eyes. He watched, too. Waited for the signal -- Potential! Possibility! -- of something rare in the guy winging baseballs in from the outfield.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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