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| ...in our backyard |
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| all by his lonesome |
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| identification: levantine tortoise |
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| aka: "levi" / sir hiss |
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Past / Present
I'm in the thick of mastering conjugation, and find myself tongue-tied when it comes to adding the appropriate suffixes to switch tenses. Sometimes my Arabic sounds more like Japanese. Verbs. Who needs 'em?
*
New news: Congrats to Fuente!!, who filed her Master's thesis a few days ago! I'm so proud of you!
*
Old news: It took us three hours (one, two, three) to cross the border dividing Jordan and Israel. Approximate distance = a quarter mile. K. and I could probably crawl a quarter mile in less than three hours. Perhaps if we'd crawled, the Israeli officials would've taken pity on us and moved the process along.
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West Branch bumped up my review essay on elegy and murder to the current issue (Fall/Winter 2010). Books covered: Beth Bachmann's Temper, Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno's Slamming Open the Door, and Incident at the Edge of Bayonet Woods by Paula Bohince. Special appearances by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, D.A. Powell, and Abe Lincoln's corpse.
Also in the issue is Garth Greenwell's always deft column, "To a Green Thought." Fall's installment finds Greenwell engaging with the likes of Donne, high school students, classical music, Helen Vendler and Dionysus, among others.
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Old news: "Poetry for him is not merely a genre or an art form but a way of thinking, something almost like mystical revelation. “Poetry cannot be made to fit either religion or ideology,” he said in the talk. “It offers that knowledge which is explosive and surprising.”
He went on to complain about what he called the “retardation” of contemporary Arabic poetry, which in his view has become a rhetorical tool for celebrating and explaining the political and religious status quo. In the Islamist scheme, he said, there is not much place for poetry, because Islam assumes that with the Koran knowledge is complete and there is nothing left to add."
*
(Great) news for me: it's possible to get fantastic sushi in Amman at Yoshi (near 3rd circle).
*
New news: Congrats to Fuente!!, who filed her Master's thesis a few days ago! I'm so proud of you!
*
Old news: It took us three hours (one, two, three) to cross the border dividing Jordan and Israel. Approximate distance = a quarter mile. K. and I could probably crawl a quarter mile in less than three hours. Perhaps if we'd crawled, the Israeli officials would've taken pity on us and moved the process along.
*
Also in the issue is Garth Greenwell's always deft column, "To a Green Thought." Fall's installment finds Greenwell engaging with the likes of Donne, high school students, classical music, Helen Vendler and Dionysus, among others.
*
Old news: "Poetry for him is not merely a genre or an art form but a way of thinking, something almost like mystical revelation. “Poetry cannot be made to fit either religion or ideology,” he said in the talk. “It offers that knowledge which is explosive and surprising.”
He went on to complain about what he called the “retardation” of contemporary Arabic poetry, which in his view has become a rhetorical tool for celebrating and explaining the political and religious status quo. In the Islamist scheme, he said, there is not much place for poetry, because Islam assumes that with the Koran knowledge is complete and there is nothing left to add."
*
(Great) news for me: it's possible to get fantastic sushi in Amman at Yoshi (near 3rd circle).
Saturday, October 16, 2010
For The Tine
Upon arrival, we headed immediately to the world dining hall. After feasting on noodle dishes and spring rolls from Thailand and Brunei, K. topped off lunch with "halo-halo," a Filipino dessert that combines shaved ice and milk with boiled sweet beans and fruit. This is what the icy goodness looks like before it's mixed.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Jerusalem & Back
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| Crossroads of faith. |
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10:30 or so in Amman. The sounds of street noise and fireworks. So tired, I'm thinking (mostly) in fragments. K.'s unwinding between football and XBox. Jabber's curled in a ball. Hope to recount our trip via installments over the next several days.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
On Blast Zones, UFOs, & Naughty Pirates
An excerpt from the recent Boxcar Poetry interview with the always lovely Robin Ekiss:
In high school, we moved to Croton, down the road a few miles, and I went to school in Montrose. These towns were all what passed for the "underbellies" of affluent Westchester County. We lived a few miles from the infamous Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant. Every year, we'd get a letter informing us that we were located in the blast zone, and that if there was a meltdown, it probably wasn't worth evacuating. There was also a famous mud bog held every year, with monster trucks driving through mud. And it was the locale of one of the largest reported UFO sightings in the U.S., which, I'm proud to admit, I took part in. Years after I left, I learned that Edna St. Vincent Millay had lived in Croton, and Isadora Duncan's sister had a dance school half-a-mile from my house. Trotsky supposedly visited there. And Gloria Swanson owned a house. Charlie Chaplin stopped by for walks. I'm obsessed with silent film right now, so this fascinates me to no end.
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Why are costumes for women so slutty? I'm no shrinking violent, but come on!
*
In eighth grade, I attended my first boy-girl party. My mother worked for weeks to make me the perfect Halloween frock: a bluebird, complete with orange tights and over-sized felt feet. Its sac-like body reached half way down the leg where it cinched bloomer-like just above the knee. Both beak and eyes attached to baseball hat pulled tightly over my face.
When I arrived at the shindig, Little Red Riding Hood and Ginger (from Gilligan's Island) greeted me at the door. I looked around. The boys stared. One even laughed. While the rest of the girls in my class were clad in leopard print catsuits and decorated unitards that showed off their training bras and legs, I flopped around the room overstuffed and shapeless. For most of the night, I watched my crush chase after Alice in Wonderland. When a group of us finally locked ourselves in a back room to play spin-the-bottle, B.C. mocked me for not knowing the right way to hold hands with a boy. Jerk.
*
I have an idea for October 31 (we'll be hitting a party here in Amman), but worry everyone and their mother-in-law will go for a similar look this year. What I wouldn't give for that bluebird now and its feet of orange felt!
*
Currently reading:
Key Grip (Dustin Beall Smith)
Gerard Manley Hopkins (Paul Mariani)
*
I'd bet money, by the way, mom used the above McCall's pattern to construct the damned bird! All in all, the thing is pretty genius.
In high school, we moved to Croton, down the road a few miles, and I went to school in Montrose. These towns were all what passed for the "underbellies" of affluent Westchester County. We lived a few miles from the infamous Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant. Every year, we'd get a letter informing us that we were located in the blast zone, and that if there was a meltdown, it probably wasn't worth evacuating. There was also a famous mud bog held every year, with monster trucks driving through mud. And it was the locale of one of the largest reported UFO sightings in the U.S., which, I'm proud to admit, I took part in. Years after I left, I learned that Edna St. Vincent Millay had lived in Croton, and Isadora Duncan's sister had a dance school half-a-mile from my house. Trotsky supposedly visited there. And Gloria Swanson owned a house. Charlie Chaplin stopped by for walks. I'm obsessed with silent film right now, so this fascinates me to no end.
*
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| Who am I? |
*
In eighth grade, I attended my first boy-girl party. My mother worked for weeks to make me the perfect Halloween frock: a bluebird, complete with orange tights and over-sized felt feet. Its sac-like body reached half way down the leg where it cinched bloomer-like just above the knee. Both beak and eyes attached to baseball hat pulled tightly over my face.
*
I have an idea for October 31 (we'll be hitting a party here in Amman), but worry everyone and their mother-in-law will go for a similar look this year. What I wouldn't give for that bluebird now and its feet of orange felt!
*
Currently reading:
Key Grip (Dustin Beall Smith)
Gerard Manley Hopkins (Paul Mariani)
*
I'd bet money, by the way, mom used the above McCall's pattern to construct the damned bird! All in all, the thing is pretty genius.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
This Little Piggy
I moved from a southern town that hosts an annual Hog Fest to a city where it's almost impossible to find pork. More than two months in, here's what's happened / happening:
I joined a women-only gym where windows in front of the treadmills reveal the crowded jabals of Amman; where, for some, post-workout "transformation" means not just slimming or strengthening the body but also covering it before returning outdoors.
Today, per my instructor's request, I switched Arabic classes. I've traded 8:00 am sessions for longer afternoon meetings. While the level upgrade is a blessing (better to be at the bottom and challenged to work harder), the time poses a problem. I'll need discipline to get up, get going, stay productive.
Meanwhile, K. is as productive as it gets. The man works, works, works, takes a breather, and then works. Part of my job is to help him set limits. As a reward for all his weekend hours and evening meetings, we're taking a few days to travel. Jabber will stay at home with a sitter. The poor puppy hasn't been away from both of us for more than a day. I predict a hunger strike, and lots of sighing and moaning.
Last weekend, we hit the dance floor at a huge fall party. Three of my toes are still numb. I kid you not. I shook it, and shook it, and then boogied down some more. Thanks to K.D. who provided the perfect little black dress. Tough to believe I've been raiding that girl's closet for 20 years!
If this post seems less energized or distracted, here's why: my maternal grandmother -- who's 92 and lives alone out in the country -- recently suffered a small stroke. Thankfully, she's out of the hospital. I'm worried, sad, etc., but mostly I wish I could be with her. I also want to be with my mom, who's spending a lot of time doing her best to manage the situation. Times like these, it's tough to be away.
Sending love, people, sending love. As always, s.
I joined a women-only gym where windows in front of the treadmills reveal the crowded jabals of Amman; where, for some, post-workout "transformation" means not just slimming or strengthening the body but also covering it before returning outdoors.
Today, per my instructor's request, I switched Arabic classes. I've traded 8:00 am sessions for longer afternoon meetings. While the level upgrade is a blessing (better to be at the bottom and challenged to work harder), the time poses a problem. I'll need discipline to get up, get going, stay productive.
Meanwhile, K. is as productive as it gets. The man works, works, works, takes a breather, and then works. Part of my job is to help him set limits. As a reward for all his weekend hours and evening meetings, we're taking a few days to travel. Jabber will stay at home with a sitter. The poor puppy hasn't been away from both of us for more than a day. I predict a hunger strike, and lots of sighing and moaning.
Last weekend, we hit the dance floor at a huge fall party. Three of my toes are still numb. I kid you not. I shook it, and shook it, and then boogied down some more. Thanks to K.D. who provided the perfect little black dress. Tough to believe I've been raiding that girl's closet for 20 years!
If this post seems less energized or distracted, here's why: my maternal grandmother -- who's 92 and lives alone out in the country -- recently suffered a small stroke. Thankfully, she's out of the hospital. I'm worried, sad, etc., but mostly I wish I could be with her. I also want to be with my mom, who's spending a lot of time doing her best to manage the situation. Times like these, it's tough to be away.
Sending love, people, sending love. As always, s.
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