Well, tonight it looks like Obama will win North Carolina, Hillary Indiana. The ballots haven't all been counted, but most of the votes are in. Will Clinton pull out of the race? Unlikely. Will her funding plummet? Will her backers hesitate? Will she remain short of delegates? Likely.
At the beginning of this democratic primary race, I found myself torn between candidates. But after doing some research and reading many (too many) articles on each contender, I was able to settle my sights on Obama. He's smart and flexible, if slightly unexperienced as an actual leader. He strikes me as the candidate most able to think on his feet, the most diplomatic, the most articulate, and the most able to inspire large groups (and young people, finally!). His skills are not necessarily better than Hillary's, but then, I don't think it's a matter here of good or ill. They're both skilled politicians, both capable human beings. Obama's skill set is simply more suited to the needs of the United States at this particular moment in time. We fear the recession, the war, the rising prices of food and oil. We have suffered terrible government and been wounded by the current administration. We have regrets. We are irrate and tired. We desire change. We are a people who need someone to cheer and unite us, to make us feel strong and to put a bright, caring face on our international endeavors. The right leader will be able to smooth the way for our efforts to pick ourselves up off the asphalt of the international playing field and get back into the game. I think Obama is that leader.
But the longer the primary becomes, and the more the elective process reverts to the familiar slog of vapid "controversies," yapping pundits, and endlessly-discussed exit polls, the more I become disillusioned. I was naive in 2004; I thought John Kerry had a real shot at victory, even as the depressing election returns flooded my television. I don't want to be naive in 2008, and I fear that the campaign I envisioned--a race between democrat and republican that made cultural history while concerning itself with the kinds of tangible political and economic issues that currently worry real Americans--is becoming a pipe dream.
Don't do it, Obama. Hillary, hold back. Let me, like so many young people, people who have never been moved to vote before this historic election, retain some shred of my old, dewy outlook. For one, just one, election cycle, let me believe democracy can do more than the Bush administration has demonstrated is possible. Let the race be smart, let it have a little dignity, let it have a strong democratic candidate to stand up for and shed light on the issues that concern folks like me.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Crappy Poem for Y'all!
My latest crappy poem. Pirated from pieces of another, longer work (of my own) as per a poetry class assignment. Freudian bits. Not sure what THAT means...
Becky Adams
Stage Blocking
Blocking the "light" of heaven,
this continuing gloomy mind.
Ironic—to be arrogant
takes life. He who has not experienced
unconsciousness may not fear death.
I thought this image was death:
a penis.
Being treated as dead before dead? Horrifying.
Resurrection that is too late, and reverses? Terrifying
human reality.
High class against the workers:
enlightened destruction, symbolic exploration,
intellectual understanding.
Forced from Utopia, humans succumb to vermin.
This seems to sum up "vigorous health"
([though] I don't think poor farmers would see it)—
unity. Circles. Extravagance
sometimes judges
true fantasy, romanticizes old doubts.
Metaphor has been literalized then turned
back to metaphor, has reached a fevered pitch.
Unheimlich meanings,
like algebra,
depend on the nature
of the journey we intend. Metaphor
now literal, projecting memories—
man without community:
sickly, unhappy.
Becky Adams
Stage Blocking
Blocking the "light" of heaven,
this continuing gloomy mind.
Ironic—to be arrogant
takes life. He who has not experienced
unconsciousness may not fear death.
I thought this image was death:
a penis.
Being treated as dead before dead? Horrifying.
Resurrection that is too late, and reverses? Terrifying
human reality.
High class against the workers:
enlightened destruction, symbolic exploration,
intellectual understanding.
Forced from Utopia, humans succumb to vermin.
This seems to sum up "vigorous health"
([though] I don't think poor farmers would see it)—
unity. Circles. Extravagance
sometimes judges
true fantasy, romanticizes old doubts.
Metaphor has been literalized then turned
back to metaphor, has reached a fevered pitch.
Unheimlich meanings,
like algebra,
depend on the nature
of the journey we intend. Metaphor
now literal, projecting memories—
man without community:
sickly, unhappy.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Queen of Sleep
Anybody who's known me for long knows--if only peripherally--that I have long lauded myself the Queen of Sleep. I've fallen asleep on park benches, in classes, in airports and bus stations, etc. It's not that I can't keep awake when I want to (I'm not narcoleptic), it's just that if I'm tired, I don't have trouble nodding off. And, unlike, say, Kasey, I can be asleep at night in seconds flat. I've never woken up for small sounds and I've never really had any chronic problem with insomnia. In my past life, I could just lay down and wake up eight hours later, rested, with no trouble at all.
Emphasis here is on "past life." I don't know what it is, but for the last month or so I just can't seem to get a decent night's sleep. I either wake up every twenty minutes or wake up after two or three hours and stay awake. Tonight, I feel into bed at 1 am and was up for good at 4. WTF? What am I doing? Sometimes--like tonight--my body is tired, but my brain is just roiling, but sometimes I'm not even worried/excited/plotting/tense. Sometimes my head is quiet but my body just won't stay tired enough to sleep.
Those who've been caught in insomnia's half-nelson before probably think I'm just whiny or naive. But this feels so weird. This doesn't feel like me at all. When I find myself just--awake, night after night, I almost feel like I'm in someone else's body. Occasionally it makes me freak out about my health, and I just roam my room in my underwear, asking silent questions while I pick things up and put them down again.
Am I eating the wrong foods (quite possibly)? Have I started drinking too much (almost certainly)? Am I not getting enough exercise (definitely)? Is this some weird, hormonal, sexual thing (just what the fuck would that be)?
I don't know. But I don't think I like insomnia. I may still be the me that can float off in front of the TV, on top of someone's leg, and in the doctor's waiting room, but I've lost my cardinal ability--the taken-for-granted privilege of being able to drop into deep and restful slumber. The kind with REMs. The kind that, you know, knits up the raveled sleeve of care, repairing whatever damage the day has done. And I really miss it.
Emphasis here is on "past life." I don't know what it is, but for the last month or so I just can't seem to get a decent night's sleep. I either wake up every twenty minutes or wake up after two or three hours and stay awake. Tonight, I feel into bed at 1 am and was up for good at 4. WTF? What am I doing? Sometimes--like tonight--my body is tired, but my brain is just roiling, but sometimes I'm not even worried/excited/plotting/tense. Sometimes my head is quiet but my body just won't stay tired enough to sleep.
Those who've been caught in insomnia's half-nelson before probably think I'm just whiny or naive. But this feels so weird. This doesn't feel like me at all. When I find myself just--awake, night after night, I almost feel like I'm in someone else's body. Occasionally it makes me freak out about my health, and I just roam my room in my underwear, asking silent questions while I pick things up and put them down again.
Am I eating the wrong foods (quite possibly)? Have I started drinking too much (almost certainly)? Am I not getting enough exercise (definitely)? Is this some weird, hormonal, sexual thing (just what the fuck would that be)?
I don't know. But I don't think I like insomnia. I may still be the me that can float off in front of the TV, on top of someone's leg, and in the doctor's waiting room, but I've lost my cardinal ability--the taken-for-granted privilege of being able to drop into deep and restful slumber. The kind with REMs. The kind that, you know, knits up the raveled sleeve of care, repairing whatever damage the day has done. And I really miss it.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Hot or Not Defines My Human Worth
As of right-this-moment, I am hotter than 68% of women who have pictures posted on hotornot.com. I put my picture up as little more than a joke to myself, but, when I was only hotter than 42% of women (this was an hour ago, not that I'm checking) I felt...offense.
Strangers had decided I wasn't cute! I immediately browsed my files for a hotter photo of myself and swapped my faux-hawk shot for this picture where I have really, really red lips and my face is turned in such a way that the camera suggests I have a profile.
All told, I've spent about 55 minutes, now, monkeying with the internet in an attempt to make myself look more attractive to people I don't give a fig about and will never meet.
This does not seem healthy. Why doesn't grad school assign more homework?
Strangers had decided I wasn't cute! I immediately browsed my files for a hotter photo of myself and swapped my faux-hawk shot for this picture where I have really, really red lips and my face is turned in such a way that the camera suggests I have a profile.
All told, I've spent about 55 minutes, now, monkeying with the internet in an attempt to make myself look more attractive to people I don't give a fig about and will never meet.
This does not seem healthy. Why doesn't grad school assign more homework?
Friday, December 01, 2006
The Late Night Villanelle
Guess what comes of a Thursday night hopped up and full of caffeine, my friends? That's right, a villanelle--otherwise known as writing done in the world's most difficult poetic form. Inspired by love, sponsored by Diet Coke.
Becky Adams
My Lover's Actions
My love is a magnolia tree
dripping scent,
and full of bees
who settle down among its leaves
like campers in an airy tent.
My love, like a magnolia tree
is blind and deaf. It can't see
or hear the messages it's sent,
except through humming of the bees
who come for what it breathes.
To accurately represent
my love as a magnolia tree
is to impart the tragedy
of needing to depend
on bees,
on anything that stings and feeds
off beauty's stupid innocence.
My love is a magnolia tree,
flowering and full of bees.
Becky Adams
My Lover's Actions
My love is a magnolia tree
dripping scent,
and full of bees
who settle down among its leaves
like campers in an airy tent.
My love, like a magnolia tree
is blind and deaf. It can't see
or hear the messages it's sent,
except through humming of the bees
who come for what it breathes.
To accurately represent
my love as a magnolia tree
is to impart the tragedy
of needing to depend
on bees,
on anything that stings and feeds
off beauty's stupid innocence.
My love is a magnolia tree,
flowering and full of bees.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Dear God, Why?
Dear God,
Though I have sometimes postulated that you, perhaps, do not exist, I still think it is rather cruel of you to send cockroaches to my bathroom sink. After all, though I allow Stephen Colbert to make fun of your believers, I rarely mock them myself (at least, not to their faces). Also, I went to church that time with Megan Tanner when we were in the fifth grade and I feel that ought to count for something. Especially since I wore my best Dalmation sweater.
Love,
Becky
Though I have sometimes postulated that you, perhaps, do not exist, I still think it is rather cruel of you to send cockroaches to my bathroom sink. After all, though I allow Stephen Colbert to make fun of your believers, I rarely mock them myself (at least, not to their faces). Also, I went to church that time with Megan Tanner when we were in the fifth grade and I feel that ought to count for something. Especially since I wore my best Dalmation sweater.
Love,
Becky
Monday, November 20, 2006
Injury, Love, Turkey
I may have just irreparably ruptured the thigh muscle I pulled Saturday night. I've been babying the injury all day, but tonight it hit me that no one--not even my dog--was home, and that it might be a long time before I had this kind of solitude again. So I turned the CD player up insanely loud and sprang all over the apartment singing like a crack-head at a rock concert. I did the Egyptian. I did the twist. I head-banged and played some mean-mad air guitar. I did that weird ska step and smashed into the breakfast bar while skidding across the linoleum in my socks.
My vocal cords will heal. The neighbors who might have passed by the kitchen window and seen me gyrating in my bra will also (probably) heal. My leg might not. I might have to hobble around on a House-like cane for the rest of my earthly days.
But God--if a body can't sometimes spaz dance alone to the Decemberist's "July, July," what's left in the world? Not a goddamn thing worth having, is my take. Times like this--when you're taken with joy for no reason and there's no one around to tell you you're making an ass of yourself and destroy that perfect, initial moment when you're making an ass of yourself--are what I might be most thankful for this year.
Happy turkey day, everybody.
My vocal cords will heal. The neighbors who might have passed by the kitchen window and seen me gyrating in my bra will also (probably) heal. My leg might not. I might have to hobble around on a House-like cane for the rest of my earthly days.
But God--if a body can't sometimes spaz dance alone to the Decemberist's "July, July," what's left in the world? Not a goddamn thing worth having, is my take. Times like this--when you're taken with joy for no reason and there's no one around to tell you you're making an ass of yourself and destroy that perfect, initial moment when you're making an ass of yourself--are what I might be most thankful for this year.
Happy turkey day, everybody.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Biting the Bullet
So, after a month or so of looking for next year's housing and having nothing but lousy experiences, touring A2 apartments that are all a)teeny, b)dumpy, c)vastly, ridiculously, over-archingly expensive, d)did I mention teeny? and e)surely I've mentioned squalid? I have had enough.
No more flesh-gouging landlords shall toss casually over their shoulders "Oh, by the way, my wife and I have decided to raise the rent for next year--we'd been thinking Barely Affordable, but now we're completely behind Not Even With Two Good Jobs and a Sugar Daddy."
No more men in ball caps shall walk me through 300 square feet of rotting carpet and Bacardi-stained linoleum to tell me, with a self-important air, that "this is a very desirable campus unit."
I will no longer consider forking over every penny of my grandmother's hospice money for a "cozy efficiency" in a "quaint bungalow" on the "highly sought-after" Westside. I will not be placated by rumors that the filthy, mold-eaten kitchen will be "completely remodeled" before move-in or by the fact that I can lean out of the rotten, warped window casing of the cigar-box-sized bedroom and spit onto Main St.
I am leaving the Big Rock Candy Mountain. I am taking my money with me. Together, we are eloping with a forbidden love.
Think of me (and my money) as Billy Joel's Virginia, falling into the burly arms of a man who Runs With a Dangerous Crowd. A laughing man. A man who knows what it means to rent a decent motherfucking house for SLIGHTLY LESS THAN EVERY GODDAMNED DROP OF YOUR LIFESBLOOD PLUS TAX.
Yes, folks, it's true: I'm moving to Ypsilanti.
For those of you sure that such a move is tantamount to falling off the end of a squared-off globe, never fear; you can visit me anytime you like just by driving toward (and then past) the giant penis tower. If you're scared to do this but would still like to communicate, send me an e-mail--Ypsilanti is likely to develop connections to that new-fangled "Information Superhighway" any month. Even better, build me a care package and mail it to the Armed Services. I'm pretty sure there are still allied drop zones around Frog Island.
No, Ypsilanti, for all the hard knocks he's taken in a world that may be Separate but is never Equal, isn't bitter. Ypsilanti will laugh his raspy, cigarette-addled laugh and cough the phlegm of brotherhood into the bottom of his whiskey glass when you mince up. He'll give you Ann Arborites a hearty slap on your white-collared backs, and after you've picked yourselves up off the Tap Room floor he'll even buy you a good dinner (and maybe a peanut butter shake) over at the Chick Inn, just to show there's no hard feelings.
Ypsilanti is a good egg, even if he did try to send me to Detroit that time. Know why? 'Cause Ypsilanti is cheap.
Just as every good man should be.
No more flesh-gouging landlords shall toss casually over their shoulders "Oh, by the way, my wife and I have decided to raise the rent for next year--we'd been thinking Barely Affordable, but now we're completely behind Not Even With Two Good Jobs and a Sugar Daddy."
No more men in ball caps shall walk me through 300 square feet of rotting carpet and Bacardi-stained linoleum to tell me, with a self-important air, that "this is a very desirable campus unit."
I will no longer consider forking over every penny of my grandmother's hospice money for a "cozy efficiency" in a "quaint bungalow" on the "highly sought-after" Westside. I will not be placated by rumors that the filthy, mold-eaten kitchen will be "completely remodeled" before move-in or by the fact that I can lean out of the rotten, warped window casing of the cigar-box-sized bedroom and spit onto Main St.
I am leaving the Big Rock Candy Mountain. I am taking my money with me. Together, we are eloping with a forbidden love.
Think of me (and my money) as Billy Joel's Virginia, falling into the burly arms of a man who Runs With a Dangerous Crowd. A laughing man. A man who knows what it means to rent a decent motherfucking house for SLIGHTLY LESS THAN EVERY GODDAMNED DROP OF YOUR LIFESBLOOD PLUS TAX.
Yes, folks, it's true: I'm moving to Ypsilanti.
For those of you sure that such a move is tantamount to falling off the end of a squared-off globe, never fear; you can visit me anytime you like just by driving toward (and then past) the giant penis tower. If you're scared to do this but would still like to communicate, send me an e-mail--Ypsilanti is likely to develop connections to that new-fangled "Information Superhighway" any month. Even better, build me a care package and mail it to the Armed Services. I'm pretty sure there are still allied drop zones around Frog Island.
No, Ypsilanti, for all the hard knocks he's taken in a world that may be Separate but is never Equal, isn't bitter. Ypsilanti will laugh his raspy, cigarette-addled laugh and cough the phlegm of brotherhood into the bottom of his whiskey glass when you mince up. He'll give you Ann Arborites a hearty slap on your white-collared backs, and after you've picked yourselves up off the Tap Room floor he'll even buy you a good dinner (and maybe a peanut butter shake) over at the Chick Inn, just to show there's no hard feelings.
Ypsilanti is a good egg, even if he did try to send me to Detroit that time. Know why? 'Cause Ypsilanti is cheap.
Just as every good man should be.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Global Orgasm
A friend sent me a link today to the Global Orgasm, a project attempting to achieve (or at least, push toward) world peace by harnessing all the positive energy created by near-simultaneous human orgasms. Bizarre, certainly. But sort of sweet. Sex for peace? Why not try it--sounds much more pleasant than Occupation.
I couldn't resist a quick, reactionary poem about the project. Here 'tis:
I couldn't resist a quick, reactionary poem about the project. Here 'tis:
Becky Adams
Sex for Peace: The Global Orgasm Project
On the day of the Winter Solstice
December 22, 2006
people around the world
are going to lay down together
and make love for peace.
Everywhere there are
Friends of the Common Good
Friends of Harmony and Trust
people will be knocking
and entering into each other.
The world, they say, has become
an urban lot snowed over—
one big, aluminum-sided bungalow
standing between our peace
and the hushed, oncoming dusk.
On December 22 we will be lamps
plugged in to the shared power
of the human orgasm
and we will send the light
bat-burning through our house.
Also, rather incidentally: if anybody knows of any poems about Paul Revere besides Longfellows' ever-famous "Listen my children, and you shall hear.." bit, let me know. I'm doing research.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Robert Lowell
Apparently operating under the delusion these days that I'm a poet.(Tell this to my workshop leaders. It will thrill them.)
Walked home from the SF reading group tonight with a new volume of Robert Lowell (Life Studies and For the Union Dead), a book I will admit I slavishly purchased because Phil talks about the guy with some regularity and I no longer wish to feel myself an ignoramus. After a quick glance through the poems, I can tell I'm going to like the guy. Good bread-and-nails winter reading, I think. Steel. Grit. Humanity.
This is Robert Lowell (though that very well might be Lyle Lovett's hair). What a dish! Poets know that all they have to do is publish a chapbook or two to get the girls.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
What it Would Take
First draft of two (very) new poems. I don't know if I like them yet. Also, for reasons I don't quite understand, Blogger refuses to recognize the subtleties of format "Lover's Philosophy" ought to display. Why???
Very blah outside today. I'm melancholy without any real excuse...somebody call me. Anybody. Seriously. Save me, at least for a few moments, from this Sunday-afternoon funk.
in all places I have never been,
then what is left for me
but to trust you
always, and implicitly, so that you may
say to me anything
—the moon is a great tightening
of the galactic larynx—
and I will have to believe,
or to trust you never, and reject
you inherently
—I love you, I want you,
I think you have a beautiful mind.
Very blah outside today. I'm melancholy without any real excuse...somebody call me. Anybody. Seriously. Save me, at least for a few moments, from this Sunday-afternoon funk.
Becky Adams
What it Would Take
and a snarling teenager with a butterfly knife
and seventeen German Shepherds with no training
collared in bulging chains whose stamped steel links
I could eat dinner through,
coming at me in the dusk that is worse than dark
because it distorts the light like a fogged-up
bathroom mirror rubbed with a wet towel
or those teeny eighteenth-century window panes,
could probably convince me to start seeing
someone else. Barring their maiming/cutting/jostling/
angry words/bony teeth/physical obliteration,
I own you. You’re mine, baby.
___________
Becky Adams
Lover’s Philosophy
in all places I have never been,
then what is left for me
but to trust you
always, and implicitly, so that you may
say to me anything
—the moon is a great tightening
of the galactic larynx—
and I will have to believe,
or to trust you never, and reject
you inherently
—I love you, I want you,
I think you have a beautiful mind.
Friday, October 20, 2006
MFA Soccer
With a turnout of about twelve, I'm going to call today's MFA soccer match a success. Granted, I'm the worst player in the group, and granted, yes, that Peter's gross finger-dislocation and Cyan's possibly-broken nose did dampened the old European zeal, briefly, and granted that team white-shirt (my team, surprise-surprise) lost by about eight bazillion points, but still! Fun! Running around and kicking, and all that!
But seriously. I was terribly nervous by the time I arrived at World Wide Sports--I'm awful at soccer--but the first person I bumped into was Peter and he did his best to put me at ease. No need to worry, either, because even the people I'd never met before today (which was most of them) were very kind about my obvious physical handicaps. I plan to play again, even though I'm sure a number would rather I not. I like the spirit of everyone bringing white and red shirts and yelling out at random intervals, "does your side need a seventh? Okay, then, just let me change." A come-together, all-in-the-spirit-of-play attitude, that.
I really ought to practice, though. Anything I could do to improve would be a kindness.
But seriously. I was terribly nervous by the time I arrived at World Wide Sports--I'm awful at soccer--but the first person I bumped into was Peter and he did his best to put me at ease. No need to worry, either, because even the people I'd never met before today (which was most of them) were very kind about my obvious physical handicaps. I plan to play again, even though I'm sure a number would rather I not. I like the spirit of everyone bringing white and red shirts and yelling out at random intervals, "does your side need a seventh? Okay, then, just let me change." A come-together, all-in-the-spirit-of-play attitude, that.
I really ought to practice, though. Anything I could do to improve would be a kindness.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Spinach
Okay, I got a haircut. Actually, I got all of them cut, and the mullet is no more. Nobody seems to have noticed the change but at least I feel better about my place in this decade.
What's up with the spinach scare? Are a number of restaurants really taking spinach off the menu? Jesus, people, spinach is probably the safest now that it will ever be---about eight million watchdog groups (or at least, eight million people working for one or two watchdog groups) are now staring spinach down in great, natural, man v spinach contests. Daring spinach to become a threat. Just daring it.
And spinach is backing down, because the heat is on. There will never be a safer time to eat spinach than right now, when the national crop has been tested a bazillion times.
In the spirit of my point, I ought to check my e-mail on a computer with a Dell battery while spinning in a Firestone tire swing and eating a big ol' rabbity spinach salad. But I'm not. Know why? 'Cause I'm a little scared.
And that's why, no matter the intellectual debate, no matter the grey cells' cooing and reassurance, the spinach farmers are totally fucked this year.
What's up with the spinach scare? Are a number of restaurants really taking spinach off the menu? Jesus, people, spinach is probably the safest now that it will ever be---about eight million watchdog groups (or at least, eight million people working for one or two watchdog groups) are now staring spinach down in great, natural, man v spinach contests. Daring spinach to become a threat. Just daring it.
And spinach is backing down, because the heat is on. There will never be a safer time to eat spinach than right now, when the national crop has been tested a bazillion times.
In the spirit of my point, I ought to check my e-mail on a computer with a Dell battery while spinning in a Firestone tire swing and eating a big ol' rabbity spinach salad. But I'm not. Know why? 'Cause I'm a little scared.
And that's why, no matter the intellectual debate, no matter the grey cells' cooing and reassurance, the spinach farmers are totally fucked this year.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Mean(s) Morning
Halfway through my day with David Means (a workshop, a lunch, a walk, a tea, a reading, and a signing) everything is absolutely swimming along. The guy is friendly and funny. He thinks I'm funny. He's as easy to talk to as if I'd known him for years and is absolutely unpretentious. Also, the weather today is GORGEOUS which adds a vitality to being outside and circling through events.
All in all, this day-long date is turning out awesome. I'm glad now that when my alarm went off half an hour late this morning and I woke up tired and hung over I still got my shit together and went to Means' workshop. I take back most of what I said about time with authors not doing much for an MFA student--this morning has been a big breath of air and a reassuring clap on the back. Good for the writer's spirit.
All in all, this day-long date is turning out awesome. I'm glad now that when my alarm went off half an hour late this morning and I woke up tired and hung over I still got my shit together and went to Means' workshop. I take back most of what I said about time with authors not doing much for an MFA student--this morning has been a big breath of air and a reassuring clap on the back. Good for the writer's spirit.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Promise
Today I woke up and the morning felt as full of promise as one of those early summer days when I was a kid. Haven't felt that kind of joy about meeting the day in a long, long time.
Maybe this means things are getting better? Or maybe the weather is just SMOKIN' today. Go outside and feel that sun!
Maybe this means things are getting better? Or maybe the weather is just SMOKIN' today. Go outside and feel that sun!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Like the Butterfly Bursts From its Cocoon...
...so do I, too, smush aside the gelatinous goo that doth clothe my voluptuous, vibrant person and emerge freshcheeked and slimy into the light of radiant day.
Updating! For the first time in months!
I had a rollicking summer of many ups and downs (got drunk in the river, read a lot of Robert Service, hiked the Tetons, was nearly eaten by a bear, got lost in the woods, turned 22, etc). Now I'm having a first-term-of-grad-school full of ups and downs, and I think everything's going to turn out well. I'm working on a new story that shows some promise and the dog is no longer bouncing around my heels like a crack-addled Chihuahua. Saw a severe librarianwalking some Mexican hairless dogs the day before yesterday. What's not to love about this life?
Here's a poem for my return to the internet. It's a first draft and not very good. But fuck you guys, okay? It's fine.
Retrophilia
Becky Adams
If this were a Bela Lugosi movie
you and I would wear white white
pancake and stare deep back
beyond the camera into the shadows
of the catwalk.
Low voices and eerie
lighting, a dab of technicolor here
and there, an old woman’s handkerchief
at your neck, and I could slit
the bag-blood of your throat
with my mouth
and flee
in a series of fading stills
while you bled, and died,
and slid slowly down the castle door.
Updating! For the first time in months!
I had a rollicking summer of many ups and downs (got drunk in the river, read a lot of Robert Service, hiked the Tetons, was nearly eaten by a bear, got lost in the woods, turned 22, etc). Now I'm having a first-term-of-grad-school full of ups and downs, and I think everything's going to turn out well. I'm working on a new story that shows some promise and the dog is no longer bouncing around my heels like a crack-addled Chihuahua. Saw a severe librarianwalking some Mexican hairless dogs the day before yesterday. What's not to love about this life?
Here's a poem for my return to the internet. It's a first draft and not very good. But fuck you guys, okay? It's fine.
Retrophilia
Becky Adams
If this were a Bela Lugosi movie
you and I would wear white white
pancake and stare deep back
beyond the camera into the shadows
of the catwalk.
Low voices and eerie
lighting, a dab of technicolor here
and there, an old woman’s handkerchief
at your neck, and I could slit
the bag-blood of your throat
with my mouth
and flee
in a series of fading stills
while you bled, and died,
and slid slowly down the castle door.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Camp Davis, Baby!
Folks,
In a day or two, I'm off to Wyoming for the summer to hike around and clean bathrooms. Unless the spiders eat me, I will be receiving mail. Since our internet access is spotty and shared, and cell phones black out in our valley, for the greatest part of the summer I will be receiving ONLY mail. Feel free to write me e-mail, just understand that I may not get back to you for awhile. CERTAINLY send real mail--it will be the hub of my communications, and, quite frankly, existence. Here is my address:
Becky "Where'd you leave those tacos?" Adams
c/o Camp Davis
13405 S. Bryan Flat Rd.
Jackson WY 83001
I will be there between June 17 and August 12. Don't expect anything to reach me until about a week and a half after you send it.
I'm really, dreadfully, going to miss all of you--so much!!!!!! Jon, have fun in France. Ross and his idiot consort, recall me fondly when your new friend comes over to eat all your food, drink all your Coke, and swim in your pool. Cliff, don't find a new favorite student. Sara, get that job in South Africa. Margaret, try not to regret promising to live with my tiny dog. Rohin, don't you dare move to NYC before we go to the Aut Bar in August. Everyone else I love, kiss each other for me! Then write. And keep writing. Everyone who writes me will get at least one letter back.
In a day or two, I'm off to Wyoming for the summer to hike around and clean bathrooms. Unless the spiders eat me, I will be receiving mail. Since our internet access is spotty and shared, and cell phones black out in our valley, for the greatest part of the summer I will be receiving ONLY mail. Feel free to write me e-mail, just understand that I may not get back to you for awhile. CERTAINLY send real mail--it will be the hub of my communications, and, quite frankly, existence. Here is my address:
Becky "Where'd you leave those tacos?" Adams
c/o Camp Davis
13405 S. Bryan Flat Rd.
Jackson WY 83001
I will be there between June 17 and August 12. Don't expect anything to reach me until about a week and a half after you send it.
I'm really, dreadfully, going to miss all of you--so much!!!!!! Jon, have fun in France. Ross and his idiot consort, recall me fondly when your new friend comes over to eat all your food, drink all your Coke, and swim in your pool. Cliff, don't find a new favorite student. Sara, get that job in South Africa. Margaret, try not to regret promising to live with my tiny dog. Rohin, don't you dare move to NYC before we go to the Aut Bar in August. Everyone else I love, kiss each other for me! Then write. And keep writing. Everyone who writes me will get at least one letter back.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
John Spencer
I've been thinking a lot lately about John Spencer, a wonderful actor who died at the age of 58 this past December. Celebrity gossip is not something I'm very interested in, and I don't tend to follow the lives and times of very many actors or actresses. But I had a real respect for Spencer, who always impressed me as a driven and talented man. Like Anthony Hopkins or Richard Harris, Spencer was an actor's actor---a professional; someone, according to his colleagues, to be respected and counted on.
I have no desire to be an actress and I hope very much that I won't pass on as young as 58. But I hope that when I do die, people will say the same kinds of things about me that were said about Spencer. He did for people. He opened his heart and worked quietly and well. Not too bad a legacy, is it?
I have no desire to be an actress and I hope very much that I won't pass on as young as 58. But I hope that when I do die, people will say the same kinds of things about me that were said about Spencer. He did for people. He opened his heart and worked quietly and well. Not too bad a legacy, is it?
Saturday, May 20, 2006
LAND
Live deliberately
Apply yourself (may become "Act out")
No decisions from fear
Do no harm
My CUVWEBS. "Land," a word both secure and inspiring, a rock and a-roving, creating the best and worst elements of the American Dream, but a vital component of that dream nonetheless. We want it, we sweat for it, we protect it with our lives. Land.
Apply yourself (may become "Act out")
No decisions from fear
Do no harm
My CUVWEBS. "Land," a word both secure and inspiring, a rock and a-roving, creating the best and worst elements of the American Dream, but a vital component of that dream nonetheless. We want it, we sweat for it, we protect it with our lives. Land.
Bite-sized Update
Those of you who visit this sight with any frequency may have noticed that the housing pictures are down. That, my friends, is because I have FINALLY found someplace to live! 829 Brown Street, an unassuming apartment in a quiet residential area, will be my home three months from now. We're painting, I'm bringing Columbo, the bathroom is huge. There will be room to cook pies and set up at least two bookshelves in my bedroom. Life? Not so bad.
The Davinci Code? Rocked my socks. Ian stole every scene he was in. I'm so glad the movie lived up to my high anticipation, because last night was certainly a celebratory occasion.
In other news, I'm writing my own version of Clifford's CUVWEBS. Anyone who knows what I'm talking about should feel free to join me so we can get together and test our mantras on each other. I think mine will only be four letters instead of seven, but that's alright. I'm younger and am only trying self-wisdom on like a big hat.
The Davinci Code? Rocked my socks. Ian stole every scene he was in. I'm so glad the movie lived up to my high anticipation, because last night was certainly a celebratory occasion.
In other news, I'm writing my own version of Clifford's CUVWEBS. Anyone who knows what I'm talking about should feel free to join me so we can get together and test our mantras on each other. I think mine will only be four letters instead of seven, but that's alright. I'm younger and am only trying self-wisdom on like a big hat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
