recovering from my cold, i've been alternating pissy and goofyhappy. my voice sounds like harvey fierstein
with a 10-pack a day ciggie habit. and that the weather has been hot with a real hot wind blowing hard. very similar to the santa ana winds down in southern california, or what van gogh called the devil mistral
when he was living in arles. in other words, that sort of wind can drive you psycho.
which so far i'm not. i think.
the past couple of days i've received some real goodies in the mail. eileen tabios's
haynaku chap is so beautifully packaged that i've not unwrapped it yet until i can get a photo of it.jim mccrary's
recent chap being frida kahlo
is an astonishing work. mccrary's recently darkened his blog and as he is a famous self-publisher it might seem to be difficult to get hold of this chap. it should be well-known. simply produced, hand-stitched with a black and white photo of jim in kahlo drag, this sequence of poems are about kahlo but also writing, identity and the abjection of words. does it sound like a drag? no, and yes. here is a taste:
There is something about
Being a poeta
That is both
Even more boring than
* * *
Don't look at me for example
There is no here
It is all such a drag
Night and day you see that
Words are just so sad
beautiful, jagged, hard texts. this chap is one of mccrary's finest. interested in obtaining a copy: backchannel me and i'll send yr request along.
finally, i'm on my 2nd beer, shipyard export ale, and thinking of happiness. i was struck by jack gilbert's claim that he's been happy all his long life. and in recent correspondence with the young poet derrick tyson
the subject of happiness, personal happiness, was broached. in an old blog elefonts
derrick writes eloquently on the subject. happiness i think is different than contentment or joy or bliss. it is not passive. happiness is elusive, often past-tense, you know you were
happy, but often don't know that you are right now happy. some are built for happiness, some are not. and it is always being defined. since it is so subjective i try to recall those moments of pure happiness, with the pleasures of the fact of utter existence, in the face of nothingness [i was born in 1967; i did not exist in 1960, nor will i exist in 2100, therefore that is a nothingness that my living further proves to be the case]. i try to remember that living is all the case there is.