Friday, June 21, 2013

Roman Holiday (In Ostia down by the formless sea.)

To prepare in advance for my time in Rome (at Italian cafes), I've spent the past several days reading and watching Pasolini and writing poems in honor of Pasolini: evoking/provoking/convoking the maestro.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Thursday Evening

Sitting here on a Thursday evening listening to PJ Harvey play on Apple TV while Stephen bakes a cheesecake from scratch for Shayne's birthday, which we will celebrate tomorrow when she comes up for the day to work on some writing projects. I got her a copy of the collected stories of Lydia Davis. In some ways, this post is an homage to Lydia Davis. And to Shayne. And to Stephen. And to PJ Harvey. But not PF Chang! This is a beautiful Thursday evening with the sweet smell of graham crackers and cream cheese in the air.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Is this about Laura?

How do we transmit grief? Loss? Via tears and via telephone. The receiver dropped on the wooden floor, whose grain links the message to the cord spiraling back to the telephone’s base. Telecommunication holds the community together. The message—through tears—reverberates down empty hallways, across telephone wires, and even at water’s edge over a body wrapped in plastic. We transmit and receive and resend the message, connecting it to the black phone—not the brown phone—whose blackness transmits its own dark message through tears, through wires, through cables, through sobs which connect all the players in their grief, their disbelief. Yes, this is about Laura. And it’s about all of us held together through our tears, our grief. This is about the telecommunication of sorrow because we are not there. Not present when Laura’s absence is discovered. We are not there when Laura’s absence presents itself to the community ripped apart in questions and suspicions. In this way, television, too, is a seeing of what is no longer there, communicating with the ghosts of television past in order to resend and receive this dark message of sorrow.

(This is the kind of thing an under-employed philosopher/writer writes during the summer when he begins watching Twin Peaks for the first time in his life.)