the unbearable lightness of being
Jul. 25th, 2001 09:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aslantso last night i wrote this in my journal at home, languid, the pen practically melting in the heat:
there is no such thing as sex tonight. no such thing as a voluntary or selected heat. we are all monks in this heat, holy and separate and distinct.
water goes nowhere. it lingers everywhere on my skin like reluctance.
it was so hot in the apartment i could hardly think. it was impossible to wear clothes. (i hope the neighbors didn't mind...)
have received succour in the matter of apartment hunting: jenny has taken over the realtor's list and carrie is going to go over it with her as well. but they're now saying the humidity will not break until friday, meaning it is impossible for me to go look at any new places before the week end.
last night on the radio two amazing things:
this wolfgang something or other, the german installation artist, was speaking about his recent art, the cow dropping into the explosive pit and the waltzing happy couples in the building nearby, the chamber orchestra striking up schmaltzy music. this was so fascinating to hear about. they actually had a soundclip of the cow exploding. the commentator was saying how little of a fuss he kicks up with the animal rights activists these days, which prompted me to remember how hypocritical it would be if they did. one cow against the thousands slaughtered? it made me remember vividly the piece they did a few weeks ago, the guy who investigated slaughterhouses and the growing rate of injuries to workers. the speed of the machines and the reek of the flesh. how odd that usually you don't hear about cows, specifically dead ones, on the radio, and now all of a sudden two stories. this makes npr sound like much more of a bleeding-heart station that it is (perhaps). but i have to remember this recent one, to be fair, was about art. the previous one was simply about workers' injuries.
the german artist had one of those accents like germans in movies. like the indiana jones nazis. it is so horrible to make that association, i know.
oh. one of the delivery guys at the service elevator in the hallway just let out a huge burp. huge. echoing. i could hear it right through the door.
anyway, the point is i found that german accent so terribly attractive.
and speaking of dada and knee-weakening foreign accents:
immediately following this story was an essay by andrei codrescu, noted poet, editor of 'exquisite corpse', and he lamented the waning poetry had in modern newspapers, when it was so very popular at the turn of the (last) century. and who does he mention? although i was so distracted by his beautiful voice, i indeed heard this part, believe me i did: tristan tzara. and his poem on how to make a poem from a newspaper. cutting it up and so forth. tristan tzara! andrei codruscu! poetry! cows! all in the space of several minutes. i was immediately spurred to write leah's letter, which i will send today. also i must quote here what codrescu said about poetry, and how he disagreed that it was truly disappearing. is it dwindling in the public sphere? nay, indeed:
the beast is everywhere.
oh yes. and i, the humble poet, quite agree.
there is no such thing as sex tonight. no such thing as a voluntary or selected heat. we are all monks in this heat, holy and separate and distinct.
water goes nowhere. it lingers everywhere on my skin like reluctance.
it was so hot in the apartment i could hardly think. it was impossible to wear clothes. (i hope the neighbors didn't mind...)
have received succour in the matter of apartment hunting: jenny has taken over the realtor's list and carrie is going to go over it with her as well. but they're now saying the humidity will not break until friday, meaning it is impossible for me to go look at any new places before the week end.
last night on the radio two amazing things:
this wolfgang something or other, the german installation artist, was speaking about his recent art, the cow dropping into the explosive pit and the waltzing happy couples in the building nearby, the chamber orchestra striking up schmaltzy music. this was so fascinating to hear about. they actually had a soundclip of the cow exploding. the commentator was saying how little of a fuss he kicks up with the animal rights activists these days, which prompted me to remember how hypocritical it would be if they did. one cow against the thousands slaughtered? it made me remember vividly the piece they did a few weeks ago, the guy who investigated slaughterhouses and the growing rate of injuries to workers. the speed of the machines and the reek of the flesh. how odd that usually you don't hear about cows, specifically dead ones, on the radio, and now all of a sudden two stories. this makes npr sound like much more of a bleeding-heart station that it is (perhaps). but i have to remember this recent one, to be fair, was about art. the previous one was simply about workers' injuries.
the german artist had one of those accents like germans in movies. like the indiana jones nazis. it is so horrible to make that association, i know.
oh. one of the delivery guys at the service elevator in the hallway just let out a huge burp. huge. echoing. i could hear it right through the door.
anyway, the point is i found that german accent so terribly attractive.
and speaking of dada and knee-weakening foreign accents:
immediately following this story was an essay by andrei codrescu, noted poet, editor of 'exquisite corpse', and he lamented the waning poetry had in modern newspapers, when it was so very popular at the turn of the (last) century. and who does he mention? although i was so distracted by his beautiful voice, i indeed heard this part, believe me i did: tristan tzara. and his poem on how to make a poem from a newspaper. cutting it up and so forth. tristan tzara! andrei codruscu! poetry! cows! all in the space of several minutes. i was immediately spurred to write leah's letter, which i will send today. also i must quote here what codrescu said about poetry, and how he disagreed that it was truly disappearing. is it dwindling in the public sphere? nay, indeed:
the beast is everywhere.
oh yes. and i, the humble poet, quite agree.
