aliceinwonders

This Is Just Too Great.

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 03:28:24 GMT

Anastasia & Sandman
by Larry Levis

The brow of a horse in that moment when
The horse is drinking water so deeply from a trough
It seems to inhale the water, is holy.

I refuse to explain.

When the horse had gone the water in the trough,
All through the empty summer,

Went on reflecting clouds & stars.

The horse cropping grass in a field,
And the fly buzzing around its eyes, are more real
Than the mist in one corner of the field.

Or the angel hidden in the mist, for that matter.

Members of the Committee on the Ineffable,
Let me illustrate this with a story, & ask you all
To rest your heads on the table, cushioned,
If you wish, in your hands, &, if you want,
Comforted by a small carton of milk
To drink from, as you once did, long ago,
When there was only a curriculum of beach grass,
When the University of Flies was only a distant humming.

In Romania, after the war, Stalin confiscated
The horses that had been used to work the fields.
"You won't need horses now," Stalin said, cupping
His hand to his ear, "Can't you hear the tractors
Coming in the distance? I hear them already."

The crowd in the Callea Victoria listened closely
But no one heard anything. In the distance
There was only the faint glow of a few clouds.
And the horses were led into boxcars & emerged
As the dimly remembered meals of flesh
That fed the starving Poles
During that famine, & part of the next one--
In which even words grew thin & transparent,
Like the pale wings of ants that flew
Out of the oldest houses, & slowly
What had been real in words began to be replaced
By what was not real, by the not exactly real.
"Well, not exactly, but. . ." became the preferred
Administrative phrasing so that the man
Standing with his hat in his hands would not guess
That the phrasing of a few words had already swept
The earth from beneath his feet. "That horse I had,
He was more real than any angel,
The housefly, when I had a house, was real too,"
Is what the man thought.
Yet it wasn't more than a few months
Before the man began to wonder, talking
To himself out loud before the others,
"Was the horse real? Was the house real?"
An angel flew in and out of the high window
In the factory where the man worked, his hands
Numb with cold. He hated the window & the light
Entering the window & he hated the angel.
Because the angel could not be carved into meat
Or dumped into the ossuary & become part
Of the landfill at the edge of town,
It therefore could not acquire a soul,
And resembled in significance nothing more
Than a light summer dress when the body has gone.

The man survived because, after a while,
He shut up about it.

Stalin had a deep understanding of the kulaks,
Their sense of marginalization & belief in the land;

That is why he killed them all.

Members of the Committee on Solitude, consider
Our own impoverishment & the progress of that famine,
In which, now, it is becoming impossible
To feel anything when we contemplate the burial,
Alive, in a two-hour period, of hundreds of people.
Who were not clichés, who did not know they would be
The illegible blank of the past that lives in each
Of us, even in some guy watering his lawn

On a summer night. Consider

The death of Stalin & the slow, uninterrupted
Evolution of the horse, a species no one,
Not even Stalin, could extinguish, almost as if
What could not be altered was something
Noble in the look of its face, something

Incapable of treachery.

Then imagine, in your planning proposals,
The exact moment in the future when an angel
Might alight & crawl like a fly into the ear of a horse,
And then, eventually, into the brain of a horse,
And imagine further that the angel in the brain
Of this horse is, for the horse cropping grass
In the field, largely irrelevant, a mist in the corner
Of the field, something that disappears,
The horse thinks, when weight is passed through it,
Something that will not even carry the weight
Of its own father
On its back, the horse decides, & so demonstrates
This by swishing at a fly with its tail, by continuing
To graze as the dusk comes on & almost until it is night.

Old contrivers, daydreamers, walking chemistry sets,
Exhausted chimneysweeps of the spaces
Between words, where the Holy Ghost tastes just
Like the dust it is made of,
Let's tear up our lecture notes & throw them out
The window.
Let's do it right now before wisdom descends upon us
Like a spiderweb over a burned-out theater marquee,
Because what's the use?
I keep going to meetings where no one's there,
And contributing to the discussion;
And besides, behind the angel hissing in its mist
Is a gate that leads only into another field,
Another outcropping of stones & withered grass, where
A horse named Sandman & a horse named Anastasia
Used to stand at the fence & watch the traffic pass.
Where there were outdoor concerts once, in summer,
Under the missing & innumerable stars.

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 03:04:43 GMT

what I've realized is this. you can't get happiness just from knowledge or from lonesomeness, no matter how many poems you write or awards you claim. and you can't get it just from interaction either. too much interaction is too much talk is too many words. Words tend to obscure things. I always find myself saying what I don't really mean for the sake of forging a connection. But that's besides the point. what I mean to say is that I've found satisfaction in something much deeper, something I can't quite condense into sentences. It's sort of the feeling when you're laughing so deeply and thoroughly that even after the joke is forgotten and your voice gets hoarse you forget you were ever jealous of anyone, ever self-conscious of your own contribution to humanity. or its like walking to that spot in weston nurseries where the plants are all tangled and wild because nobody tends to them anymore and seeing the light dim and remembering all those you dared to come and trespass. it's you'll all float on anyway because that song you liked way back then says so and when you play it in your head it still sounds so honest. I'm so caught in my head but I'm happy because I know how rich my life has been, how many people I've managed to laugh and run and sing with. How many fine silent places I've been.

Hazy-Headed Plans

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 23:18:01 GMT

Next Stop:
Santa Fe New Mexico

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 21:39:58 GMT

Even boston looks beautiful today,
with the businessmen peaking out of half orange buildings
and the harbor waves mumbling soft
as the sun gets weak

post man on a green no-gear meets the drunken glow of lamposts
to sharpen a bleuecollar sidewalk
as the pupil of evening closes
and I'm still high from the memory of your face,
from the irreplacable solidity of a body well nourished
by the sweet food of foreign hands
which this morning traced the secrets of my freckles
that hang beneath wrinkle crossroads
and yankee blue eyes.

Camera Shuffling

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 03:11:06 GMT

I like how the photos on my camera begin and end in september. I like seeing the gold light sneak its way into all those memories, into front street and and the graveyard and the faces of all my friends. It's so easy to diminish the past in dismissals and regrets, to color it pale and unremarkable. But those bundled days in January really were as pretty as the crazed vibrancy of July. We laughed and we watched some good movies and some dumb movies and we tripped around lake whitehall when the air was nice. I think we've gotten a better year than most. I'm glad I have a few good shots.

Dinner Table Conversation

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 13:51:20 GMT

"So then I did coke with Allen Ginsberg, after my gay phillipino friend introduced me to Jim Morrisson. Had hair down to his ass, that skinny tough migrant. Said I was cool even though I was straight. It was a great time, great time."

I love ex-hippies with a little wine in them.

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 03:17:03 GMT

And like eyes the evening
opens its electric pupils
in streetlamps spitting soul
on the flat faced hudson river

and if you are silent
you can hear
the click of wires
as bright men snap bullets at the dark
and new york shakes its muscles
in protest of sleep

man
I'm going to relish these
rooftopsmokestaintrainheavy days
days that loose their names
and laugh at the fraying clock
on your bedside table
who was absent when we rode our bikes
past the evening taxis
and ate cherries in the gauze
between 4:59 and dawn

that sun was no secret when it rose.

New York City

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 23:28:52 GMT

I have nothing to say because I'm

Some Sort of Explanation

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 05:15:22 GMT

So before I make a long philosophical entry that will bore everyone, I want to get some facts down. I've been wandering for a lot of this summer, in both a physical and mental sense. I'm afraid I'm coming across as slightly delirious, but there are roots to the insanity.

CHRONOLOGICALLY

1.) Andrew Bird

2.) I met poets. I wrote too much.

3.) I spent more time with children in two weeks than I ever had in my life. And I enjoyed it.

4.) I fell in love. The real bad, late-night headache kind of love that makes your throat hurt and your sentences spiral into tangential messes

5) I found out he likes me too I guess.

6.) I went deep into West Virginia to repair a house for a lonely old man, along with 73 strangers from one of those churches my parents never brought me too and I never quite understood

And in between it all there have been blueberries and fireflies and sparklers and incomplete dresses and lake excursions and broken guitar bands and just too much time on the roof and with the mosquitoes in the crabgrass

And now, I am about to see this kid again and go spiraling off to New York City. Then back again to New York State and maybe Cape Cod and maybe Portland and then at the edge of summer I'll be in the city again. All the roaming gets me off balance, but I'm almost more afraid that I prefer it this way. I'm not so good at real life.

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 16:40:19 GMT

I've got someone to go to these days.

Meh

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 01:29:05 GMT

If you could give me bombs
I would split my love like shrapnel
and scatter it in the mouths of glass eyed artists
chewing their pens in New York City and Malaysia

And they would cling like children
to the scraps of affection
encased in those lonely aortas
that tremble in their pencil heavy hands

And they would bite off the tooth of solitude
until the blood in my gums flooded the breath in my heart
and every acre of the world would burn
by the friction of our touching hands

And the photographers would split their thumbs on the flashes of cameras
And the painters would fill their eyes with oil and color the tombs acrylic
And no I would not put daisies in your guns
because artillery has no language for light,
no word for flower or kiss or skin

And I have no time to change
the lingua franca of hate

----critique, maybe? I don't know why I'm publishing this.

I like fireflies

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 11:18:17 GMT

their light punctuates our skin like momentary candles and we are running on our own time, with our own cars and our own songs and our own destinations. and we are trying to grasp these moments, to say "this is summer" before summer burns out. because we will remember nights like these when we are old and uninterested in fireflies or hidden gravestones. these kind of nights remind me of my luck. thanks, everyone, for being my friend.

Wed, 01 Jul 2009 02:15:38 GMT

today I met three children whose favorite color is black. This must mean something, but I'm not sure what.

Amherst(turns out I'm not that liberal after all)

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 13:49:26 GMT

says he wants to be brilliant but
he can't stop talking
can't push the words from his teeth to paper
while he cry cry cries for black israel
spitting the wounds of his country
on to impermanent nets of ink
and cool quick teenagers
with tongues too fast for wisdom
hearts spinning verbs and adjectives
for all those truths that are so speakable
but never last.

/quotes/
"Don't tell anyone, but I'm not a poet!"
"Who doesn't believe in energy?"
""You look like Juno."
"I just want to meet believers."
"My friend is a fire-breather."
"It was so annoying, George Clooney's nephew kept hitting on me. I'm not gay I swear."

WTF???

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 13:58:02 GMT

It's Time To Read This Again

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 03:25:11 GMT

"All men have the stars," he answered, "but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travellers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all the stars are silent. You--you alone--will have the stars as no one else has them--"

-The Little Prince

Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:11:18 GMT

Slowly, I am learning to be concrete. I insulated walls this weekend and squash this afternoon, crushing the grass between my fingers until it bled into the thick fertility of my mother's garden. I am learning to make things, to offer up something that the rest of the world can trust. I want to learn to cook next, to paint later. I want to be self-sufficient, I want to look at my hands and see that I am no better than the green dirt that stains them.

The strawberries are growing!

(I have a picture, but I'm dumb and can't figure out how to put it on livejournal...)

Wed, 27 May 2009 23:28:42 GMT

Today didn't feel like the seniors were graduating. It felt boring and drowsy and normal, and altogether lacking in momentum. So, instead of getting emotional over the fact that half my friends are out of this high-school (or melting in an identity crisis about being older than I feel) I just got sleepy and I just daydreamed. Sometimes I get so tired I feel like liquid is pooling up and pouring out of my skull, my mind so numb I can't remember sentences after reading them. Particularly not french sentences about french-canadians (ehem, Marie de Champelaine...).
So instead of reading or ruminating I just thought of all the different lives I wish I had. These daydreams are more occasional than they were when I was a little kid, maybe because my own life is much fuller now. But here are a few of them, anyway:

1.) I wish I was a farm girl in a family with 6 farm children (3 boys, 3 girls) where all the girls have different hair. I have black hair. My job is to pick the flowers and fold the napkins.

2.) I wish I was an 80 year old homeless folk musician with a smoky voice and missing teeth.

3.) I wish my family were diplomats, and we lived in Vietnam or the Carribbean, and I spoke 7 languages. (English, French, Italian, Spanish, Gernman, Gaelic [I've always wanted to speak gaelic], and Vietnamese/indigenous carribbean dialect)

4.) I wish I was a reclusive mystery writer who lived in Maine in a beautiful, silent house with a beautiful, silent husband. People always pester me for interviews but I don't give a shit and never answer my door.

5.) I wish I was a cattle-rancher from New Mexico who occasionally went down to real mexico for the nightlife and magically-nonpolluted cities and dios de los muertos celebrations.

That's all for now, mabe I'll think of more later.

Quotes From My Grandpa, Part Two

Mon, 25 May 2009 13:11:30 GMT

"I was in love five times before I met your grandmother. That's why I'm not homophobic. I think the gays should be able to get married and be as miserable as the rest of us."

"You know, I think writers are the best artists. Because they create worlds!"

"Abstract art is just bogus. I like things that take SKILL to make."

....I wish I talked like this.

Fri, 08 May 2009 11:22:39 GMT

the problem is we're all trapped like little game pieces
inside our own playing boards
caught in the invisible patterns that regulate
our steps on the tricolor squares
and our brains keep on repeating
the same numb sighs and exhalations
and that's the reason
he's already developed a tolerance for alcohol
at 17
and she can't stop scratching at the dirt beneath her fingernails
and I can never talk about
the insistent pain
that screams inside my throat

but soon I wonder if all
the funny figurines
will crack back into the ashes that made them
and we will have no compass,
no red and yellow two dimensions
with which to carve our maps and boundaries
and shape the subtle madness of our lives.

My Schedule

Sun, 03 May 2009 19:38:47 GMT

May = Self Combustion
June = Get Pregnant
July = Get Abortion

Unicorns Are Such Bitches

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 03:56:37 GMT

I'm trying to laugh more often.
It helps.

Demands.

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 01:23:19 GMT

I want this big bright strawberry flavored summer happiness to overwhelm me until I forget about histories and languages and dead artifacts hanging like effigies on sterile museum walls. I want to be shallow and I want to be mindless. I want to drink my favorite brand of sparkling water and try to match my body heat to the temperature of gamma rays. I want to be drunk on music, so prone to laughter my lips split and I choke on my own dazed joy. I want to stop caring about what I don't really care about. With all these facts and figures flooding my skull, lately I feel detached, like a lemon rind purged of its juice and its fruit and its blood.

I want to stare at the sand dunes and forget about my future.

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 00:30:34 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kn1s-S_-3hA

YESSS
I want this to be out right now.

McCarthy is going to come back from the dead and get me.

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 05:12:19 GMT