jennívora
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Friday, May 09, 2008
I would like to put here something clever and interesting
but I feel completely incapable of doing so.
Maybe some news about myself to fill the gap?
I am finishing New Sentence as a novel and I want to publish it. After disowning it because of its outrageous and unworthy themes, I have decided it is time to end it, and be done! I am excited about finishing it, and not having to think about it ever again.
It is summer, and my body is in shock. A psychedelic experience to walk around plants that shoot pollen into the air, in a desperate attempt to reproduce. Around endless, blooming colors. It happened, suddenly and without warning. One day we woke up and it was another world altogether. My joints weren't in pain, and it wasn't necessary to spend fifteen minutes putting on/taking off 4 layers of clothes every time you went in/out of somewhere.
*
Can I ask, why do people read blogs? is it personal news/intrigue they want? or entertainment? or enlightenment of some sorts? Is it just another form of procrastination?
*
As Bruce Lee once said: play, but play seriously.
*
The trouble lies in that bad habit of making every decision a thousand times but never to act.
Maybe some news about myself to fill the gap?
I am finishing New Sentence as a novel and I want to publish it. After disowning it because of its outrageous and unworthy themes, I have decided it is time to end it, and be done! I am excited about finishing it, and not having to think about it ever again.
It is summer, and my body is in shock. A psychedelic experience to walk around plants that shoot pollen into the air, in a desperate attempt to reproduce. Around endless, blooming colors. It happened, suddenly and without warning. One day we woke up and it was another world altogether. My joints weren't in pain, and it wasn't necessary to spend fifteen minutes putting on/taking off 4 layers of clothes every time you went in/out of somewhere.
*
Can I ask, why do people read blogs? is it personal news/intrigue they want? or entertainment? or enlightenment of some sorts? Is it just another form of procrastination?
*
As Bruce Lee once said: play, but play seriously.
*
The trouble lies in that bad habit of making every decision a thousand times but never to act.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Quiero que seas estúpidamente feliz.
Que andes en la calle con sonrisa de idiota.
Que no te quiten tiempo y energía tus intrigas amorosas.
Que la música te ponga la piel chinita.
Sólo eso quiero para tí. Feliz no-cumpleaños.
Que no te quiten tiempo y energía tus intrigas amorosas.
Que la música te ponga la piel chinita.
Sólo eso quiero para tí. Feliz no-cumpleaños.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
we give each other tummy aches and
hot tea
r
s
s
s
for the sake of --
god, from the kitchen I hear you
laughing on the phone
and when you
come to me embrace and
slightly whimper, there is a hand
that holds your throat
the ghost stealing your breath
is the bog that swells my flesh
is the mesh around her dream
of death, is the brick
we do not name
SHIFT Manifest
1. meaning is shifty water under the caskets of dictionaries. meaning is territory to be explored; its structures and borders are flexible; they may be bought, owned, shared, gifted, fought over, colonised, won, lost, mourned, loved.
2. text is a habitat; a geography to be activated by the reader who will not be led via the carrot of suspense.
3. poetry is the supreme act of communication. the novel is a branch of poetry.
4. we defy the will of market.
5. we call for other artforms to be the lovers of our page.
6. writing is a political act.
7. translation is a junket to other worlds.
8. who does language belong to? who does the poem belong to? how does one move the lawn?
9. we are collectors and treasure hunters. we explore margins, gathering refuse and scraps. we are impoverished pirates, exiled, a cohort of strugglers. we search for the disappeared. we navigate by stars during daylight hours.
2. text is a habitat; a geography to be activated by the reader who will not be led via the carrot of suspense.
3. poetry is the supreme act of communication. the novel is a branch of poetry.
4. we defy the will of market.
5. we call for other artforms to be the lovers of our page.
6. writing is a political act.
7. translation is a junket to other worlds.
8. who does language belong to? who does the poem belong to? how does one move the lawn?
9. we are collectors and treasure hunters. we explore margins, gathering refuse and scraps. we are impoverished pirates, exiled, a cohort of strugglers. we search for the disappeared. we navigate by stars during daylight hours.
Monday, April 07, 2008
The hollow in her mouth moves its blackness autonomously
she knows the rest of her
can be nothing but a flute to its sigh
an echo to its rim
a tunnel to its thrust.
The hollow in her mouth dilates into a Ray
flattens to a She
oblongates into an O
everyone before her here we are a shoe
triumphantly lain flat, a puppet, a kite, a dog
there are no teeth, the teeth are not to be seen
the tongue too shies into
the blackness of her mouth
is more
willful
than herself
it would be possible to grasp by the corners
and gently peel it off her face
nothing in her semblance would change
if we candle-lit her throat
she submits
and submits
us to the shadow in her mouth
the hollow in her mouth is nothing but a dog
unleashed unspelled untrained
the hollow in her mouth transfix-
es the space between the occupiers, the blackness
in her mouth is independent from the words
lazarously numb, vicariously done, aphonic in our lull
a proper phantom, a tail coat
rigid on its hanger
there is no gasp, no cry, no hum
the hollow in her mouth
is the threshold, or—
not the portal but the beginning
of all that is
beyond the borders of her mouth
nothing stands behind its flatness.
can be nothing but a flute to its sigh
an echo to its rim
a tunnel to its thrust.
The hollow in her mouth dilates into a Ray
flattens to a She
oblongates into an O
everyone before her here we are a shoe
triumphantly lain flat, a puppet, a kite, a dog
there are no teeth, the teeth are not to be seen
the tongue too shies into
the blackness of her mouth
is more
willful
than herself
it would be possible to grasp by the corners
and gently peel it off her face
nothing in her semblance would change
if we candle-lit her throat
she submits
and submits
us to the shadow in her mouth
the hollow in her mouth is nothing but a dog
unleashed unspelled untrained
the hollow in her mouth transfix-
es the space between the occupiers, the blackness
in her mouth is independent from the words
lazarously numb, vicariously done, aphonic in our lull
a proper phantom, a tail coat
rigid on its hanger
there is no gasp, no cry, no hum
the hollow in her mouth
is the threshold, or—
not the portal but the beginning
of all that is
beyond the borders of her mouth
nothing stands behind its flatness.
Elementary Food and Hygiene Course
Today I learned the temperature of the danger zone
and I helped a friend without a pat on the shoulder
and I tolerated a pinching ache in my back
carrying a barren, cramped armshoulderhand
and bleeding from unchildness.
I discovered I have repeated Michael's experience
in coming to the UK from Mexico in my twenties
and writing poems in the third person plural
about Britain's doors of glass and freeze
about the fire doors and vent systems
designed to prevent fires from spreading
to prevent ideas and bacteria from multiplying
with warmth and moisture and food and time.
I learned the weight of a suit
the shape of her cheekbones
the names of three different pathogens
and law regulations regarding food
poisoning: what is adequate in a kitchen
is to not be seen or known outside it
because we as human beings have the fundamental right to experience food
in its absolute best condition
and everything else should be safely chucked out.
Today I learned the biblical teachings about hygiene
remain valid until our day
except now we have chuck-out dates
and digital thermometers to calculate the risk at the core.
Her name was Jean Payne and she delivered
a painful hygiene course using learning techniques
such as silly clipart dinosaurs representing germs
bluetacked to the flipchart.
Today I discovered a new route back to my house
and it was as if I had moved
to a completely different city.
From now on, depending on my mood,
I can decide whether I live in the Swanky West End
or in the Non-Educated-Delinquents* and Immigrants Maryhill
and walk back home accordingly
carrying my swanky, non-educated, immigrant
head full of mist and shadows.
*The term supports the Socratic idea about human malignity having its roots in nothing but ignorance.
Today I went into Lidl, because I thought perhaps
it would feel nice and Thirdworldy.
And I watched the prison-faced buying frozen pizzas for a pound
and I watched the turban-headed buying mars bars by the pound
and I watched the dog walkers buying fags and sunflower seeds
and I watched the ugly beauties buying beauty products
and I watched the destitute checking out children's boots and portable shelves
and I watched myself buying broccoli for a quarter of what it costs at the nice fruit&veg
glad about the save but worrying about pesticides and fairtrade
and transporting goods from the cheap, remote ends of the planet
consuming energy and scraping
the ozone with dimness
unsure if this should be my method
or should I always buy organic, or local, or cooperative, or at least nice
or better still: not buy at all and go rescuing food from skips
but I don't have the energy to struggle
or the friends to have fun
even though I would, and I do.
I need a method
so I can comfortably avoid deciding over and over
among all these very difficult choices.
Today my employer paid for me to be trained
in standards and methods so ridiculous
they have filled the nation with allergies.
I passed the test with all the correct answers to the not properly pronounced questions
just as I so enjoyed my perfect maths and grammar at school
and I was filled with the arrogance
of the over-educated, over-qualified, not-fit-for-minimum-wage-jobs
self I have unknowingly, circumstantially become.
Today I was told I can be held personally responsible;
put in jail for the mistakes of my institutions.
Makes sense in a world like this,
where He Who Serves the Drink is as guilty as the person drinking up
where He Who Writes the Word is as guilty as the person picking up and reading, and reacting, and changing.
and I helped a friend without a pat on the shoulder
and I tolerated a pinching ache in my back
carrying a barren, cramped armshoulderhand
and bleeding from unchildness.
I discovered I have repeated Michael's experience
in coming to the UK from Mexico in my twenties
and writing poems in the third person plural
about Britain's doors of glass and freeze
about the fire doors and vent systems
designed to prevent fires from spreading
to prevent ideas and bacteria from multiplying
with warmth and moisture and food and time.
I learned the weight of a suit
the shape of her cheekbones
the names of three different pathogens
and law regulations regarding food
poisoning: what is adequate in a kitchen
is to not be seen or known outside it
because we as human beings have the fundamental right to experience food
in its absolute best condition
and everything else should be safely chucked out.
Today I learned the biblical teachings about hygiene
remain valid until our day
except now we have chuck-out dates
and digital thermometers to calculate the risk at the core.
Her name was Jean Payne and she delivered
a painful hygiene course using learning techniques
such as silly clipart dinosaurs representing germs
bluetacked to the flipchart.
Today I discovered a new route back to my house
and it was as if I had moved
to a completely different city.
From now on, depending on my mood,
I can decide whether I live in the Swanky West End
or in the Non-Educated-Delinquents* and Immigrants Maryhill
and walk back home accordingly
carrying my swanky, non-educated, immigrant
head full of mist and shadows.
*The term supports the Socratic idea about human malignity having its roots in nothing but ignorance.
Today I went into Lidl, because I thought perhaps
it would feel nice and Thirdworldy.
And I watched the prison-faced buying frozen pizzas for a pound
and I watched the turban-headed buying mars bars by the pound
and I watched the dog walkers buying fags and sunflower seeds
and I watched the ugly beauties buying beauty products
and I watched the destitute checking out children's boots and portable shelves
and I watched myself buying broccoli for a quarter of what it costs at the nice fruit&veg
glad about the save but worrying about pesticides and fairtrade
and transporting goods from the cheap, remote ends of the planet
consuming energy and scraping
the ozone with dimness
unsure if this should be my method
or should I always buy organic, or local, or cooperative, or at least nice
or better still: not buy at all and go rescuing food from skips
but I don't have the energy to struggle
or the friends to have fun
even though I would, and I do.
I need a method
so I can comfortably avoid deciding over and over
among all these very difficult choices.
Today my employer paid for me to be trained
in standards and methods so ridiculous
they have filled the nation with allergies.
I passed the test with all the correct answers to the not properly pronounced questions
just as I so enjoyed my perfect maths and grammar at school
and I was filled with the arrogance
of the over-educated, over-qualified, not-fit-for-minimum-wage-jobs
self I have unknowingly, circumstantially become.
Today I was told I can be held personally responsible;
put in jail for the mistakes of my institutions.
Makes sense in a world like this,
where He Who Serves the Drink is as guilty as the person drinking up
where He Who Writes the Word is as guilty as the person picking up and reading, and reacting, and changing.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Munir
Caminando por aquí voy reconociendo los nombres de mis personajes. Lauder, Fanny, Sandy, Morten, Angus... Incluso Jennifer. Hay tantas Jennifers que me dan ganas de vomitar. todos estos nombres existen y son comunes, los veo en letreros, los oigo mencionar. Los reconozco, y pienso: yo no los inventé, fue Glasgow quien me inventó a mí inventando estos personajes. El más ridículo fue el que encontré hoy: Munir. Piche Munir, así nomás, en el camino a mi casa en la cima de la colina. M U N I R, las letras claramente inscritas en una placa atornillada a una casa, sin ninguna otra explicación. Me dieron ganas de timbrar, y vomitarle a quien abriera -sin ninguna cortesía ante su estado de confusión- estos extractos de mis diario de 1999:
"Un día me desperté con la seguridad de que habías regresado a tu pequeña casa. Te supe sentado en tu sillón de terciopelo verde, fumando despacio, en la oscuridad. De un brinco me levanté y corrí por días y días a buscarte.
Llegué arrastrándome a donde ya no vives, y me senté en tu antiguo trono. Tu sillón de terciopelo verde aún estaba tibio de tí, y el humo de tu cigarro todavía no terminaba de disolverse en el aire. La noche cayó encima de mí como cien dragones hartos de dormir.
Te estoy tejiendo una cobija con plumas de pájaros, sentada en la repisa de la ventana de la casa vieja, de muchos pisos, sótanos y áticos, en la cima de la colina. La tejo aquí para que sea una manta que tenga todo lo de un ave excepto el ave.
Es para que sueñes, Munir."
"Un día me desperté con la seguridad de que habías regresado a tu pequeña casa. Te supe sentado en tu sillón de terciopelo verde, fumando despacio, en la oscuridad. De un brinco me levanté y corrí por días y días a buscarte.
Llegué arrastrándome a donde ya no vives, y me senté en tu antiguo trono. Tu sillón de terciopelo verde aún estaba tibio de tí, y el humo de tu cigarro todavía no terminaba de disolverse en el aire. La noche cayó encima de mí como cien dragones hartos de dormir.
Te estoy tejiendo una cobija con plumas de pájaros, sentada en la repisa de la ventana de la casa vieja, de muchos pisos, sótanos y áticos, en la cima de la colina. La tejo aquí para que sea una manta que tenga todo lo de un ave excepto el ave.
Es para que sueñes, Munir."