THREE YEARS AGO TODAY

North Dakota

ON IGUANAS AND WEATHER

Bottled here is a taste of spring which arrived in Paris last week. Inside is the sight of flowering trees; the song of birds chirping loudly all day, calling you out to lay in the grass and soak in the warming weather. There are also memories inside, memories I’ll happily share with you of walks along canals lined with Parisians out to soak up the sun––they come out like iguanas, say my friends from Columbia. Can you feel the warmth on your freckling cheeks as you sit outside at a cafe table having doffed your coat? Can you feel your soul lifting and relaxing in the spring air?

Let me apologize beforehand if by writing this I curse someone somewhere, if I bring winter back upon our heads, let it be known I‘m sitting next to the wooden beams that hold up my ceiling and I knock upon them now. Here’s the thing: I can’t believe I’m going a whole year without snow. I’m a bit dazed, I’ve never had a year without snow in my life. I suppose many people would find that wonderful, certainly many who’ve suffered the polar vortexes back in the States, and as a proper North Dakotan I don’t want to seem ungrateful…I just feel…dazed. This winter didn’t rage around me, dominating my life giving me snow days that I treasure as a sweet blessed relief from routine. This winter I was never blinded by white as I looked out the windows of my home. And no one has been able to understand how I’ve been the happiest on the rare nights when the wind howls across the roof that’s two feet from my head. This winter, plus spending a month and a half in the horribly hot Mediterranean last summer really cemented how much I’m a woman from cold northern plains.

Recently I had my two week vacation which I spent traveling Europe. I’d harbored secret little hopes that Germany or at least Denmark would have a little snow. Denmark did have a more bitter cold and less daylight than anything else I’ve experienced this winter but still all I got was some light rain. One night, when there was no rain, we drove out to a beach. It was seven or eight at night, pitch dark with no stars or moon breaking through. The pale sand faded away not far from us into the sound of the Baltic Sea we couldn’t distinguish from the black sky. It was like standing at the edge of a terrifying and beautiful hungry nothing. With everything so dark, would you realize how close you were to waters edge before it was too late? Before it ate you up and sucked you into its lonely vastness? It was as close as I’ll ever get to my dream of returning to earth in 10 billion years to see the blackest sky that envelopes when the stars have drifted too far away for anyone but butterflies to see their shining light. The Baltic Sea at night was possibly better, though, because of the sound of waves rolling invisibly in and out.



PS. Here's an actual photo from my trip to tide you over as I slowly pull myself together.

Corsham, England

pennies for may

Obamaweather isn't being very reassuring. It says Groundhog got into a fight with his lover and is now moping in its overly cozy burrow listening to Grouper.

Listen, Groundhog, it doesn't get better that way. Instead, why don't you take this handful of pennies for the boatsman on the river Styx. I want you to retrieve Persephone. Hades is having a bad year and in his taciturn mood he cursed us with the Orpheus Proviso. We weren't allowed to look at sweet Persephone's face as we climbed the backbreaking steps through all the rings of hell to heaven and the surface. But who could resist taking deep, heady breaths of spring? The sun was too strong to not stare directly into its rays.

So she fell.

And now we remain here 
beleaguered.

hunted by arachnids

The day in which happily find myself in the middle of nowhere and I work pleasantly until I discover a large black spider settling into my bag yet I manage to remain calm, gently dump everything out over the rocks, put them back in one by one (excluding spider) and avoid being killed or killing anything else.
Until twenty minutes later and I find that same spider has sought out my foot, then I smash it, all without swearing.

Danged human hunters.

But I was so impressed by my bravery I decided I was finally ready to face la biblioteca. On my way home from my new favorite nowhere I checked out: The Book of the Spider: from arachnophobia to the love of spiders by Paul Hillyard.
Right next to arachnids and insects were the birds. I told myself not to look too deeply because I'm trying to learn this new skill of focusing and not being scattered shallowly over many topics...but if you saw something entitled The Bedside book of Birds what would you do? Duh.






the above picture is from Montana's Gallatin Canyon. It's a favorite drive of mine.

i wonder how long rogue framed poetry lasts on center street

well. it was guerilla poetry night. we poetry-warred all over this town.

before the battle commenced someone showed me a long poem by a wordsy guy who said, "why use one word when you can use six?" so i read and felt that i would only find the coherency through a thorough study but that, for now, i enjoyed sections of words put together. particularly the use of one word, "scumble."

which brought me back to my topic of thought from yesterday:


why from hence came this book called revelation?
am i looking for angels shaking out the earth like a bed sheet from the four corners?
if i met a man on the street with six wings i'm sure i'd fall over dead.

i read and thought and imagined and wondered
i hypothesized and cross referenced but mainly
slowly and not too deeply, just wondered.


then came chapter five verse eight:
"golden vials full of odours, which are the prayers of saints"
and then i knew that was all i needed to read that day.






Read Revelations 5 here.

moo-oooon

When it finally came to raining last night (as predicted by Bestie J. Bottoms), I didn't mind at all. Pas de tout. Parce que I had defied headache-worthlessness by calling on dear Karonius to massage/beat the tension out of my back. Then I drank water at the command of Karonius as we (M + K + A) all laughed over text prediction knowing not "doodle" but "fondle". (P.S. It also does not know "Bronco". I have now named my phone Pidgin.) Then came the rained on run. Cold, wet, relieving. Didn't mind the hole in the toe of my shoe letting in water. Didn't mind I couldn't really see where I was going in rain soaked glasses. Just ran. Outside and laughing friends heal everything.

Yes. Yesterday was a most blessing-filled day.


Have started incorporating more raw garlic, ginger tea, and more yogurt (is that possible?!) in hopes that my stomach will give up its weird acidic notions. Am concerned that I might have to give up onion. Some lovers just aren't good for you, I guess.

This morning as I dressed, I slipped my tape into the player and was blessed to hear the sweet twangling melodies of Michael Nesmith. At that moment I severely missed my old walkman. All I want to do is listen to Michael Nesmith and his first national band always. But I'm being a good budget child and restraining myself from laying out more mulah before the god iTunes.

I leave this for you to ponder:

freckles on my forehead

This morning.
Rode Bicycle to a meeting place, we did yoga on the lawn. Uplifting. Learned new bits of yoga. Lotsa new bits. Lavender essential oil on my forehead. I could use more lavender in my life.
I could always use more outside in my life.


mid-day perfect text from bestie-J.


BICYCLE RIDE.
Forever. Left my house at quarter to six came home at quarter past eight.
I felt my soul grow.
Here is why:
I am getting better at riding with no hands. I'm up to four seconds.
Wonderful people.
We rode through farmland.
Stopped and watched cows eat.
Out of city confines.


Maybe we should address the always desire of mine to be out of doors. What is it that drives a body so? Some of the best of childhood was spent barefoot, ignoring mother's request to wash feet and brush hair, digging through the dirt for buried treasure, feeling the gloaming air descend as we raced around playing detectives. How do you get better than earth, plants growing, fresh air, and a bit of adventure and wildness? You can go any direction once you've stepped out your front door.


(back to 8:25p.m.) Walked in my back door, grabbed a jacket and was out my front door. We rode north debating eatings/not eatings/time crunch then settled on putting off dinner. For....

Mon Oncle, the little French Jacques Tati pretty, gets better every time. I never laugh less, I only laugh more for M. Hulot is a best friend. He socked that guy right in the jaw! Then everyone is back in the cafe/tavern for an accordianed evening. What silent commedy charm.


End conclusion of grrrrrreat outdoor day: cooking rice in a microwave is tricky.

persephone's returning from the underworld

I just walked through the glorious outside world (so much inside time lately ughhh). It felt like spring. I feel like I'm going to make it. Birds chirping, a mild humidity to the air(?), one little scratch of bright pastel blue sky, green grass grows all around all around.

Yesterday, I sat under my sister's sun lamp. And when the sun burned through the clouds (though not diminishing them) I stood in the window and I could feel the warmth on my skin! Then the thick, green lawn lured me out and I stood with bare feet and felt grass. We're alive.

I read this poem last Wednesday in Poetry magazine of March 2010.

I have to tell you
by Dorothea Grossman

I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything,
even your ears. 

a third world summer

For most of the summer you'll have to pretend that I'm sitting next to you (you know, all sidled-up and friendly like) because mi casa is not like su casa, mi is internet-less.

Whoa.

I've lived with the internet as my bedmate since Al Gore invented it.

The internet walked out the door sometime the morning of May 4. I have missed it, but not in the ways that I expected. I'm not feeling deprived of musica (although my iTunes has been "application not responding" for two weeks), nor do I worry about email or the trendy ol' facebook, I miss having a web of recipes and food blogs at my fingertips. And I can't google what time businesses close or where to buy glycerine (petrolium jelly does not cut it).

In the evening before I fill my brain with unconsciousness and I wrap myself up my cozy blankets (despite the summer heat my camarade de basement bedroom and I are contemplating acquiring a space heater from someone.We seem to be inhabiting the southern hemisphere) I find my fingers scratching at the air aching for some typing, some clicking, some internet reading. Today, since I'm obsessed with documentary production meetings and had to be on campus at 8am, I started my plan for coping by picking up a New York Times to devour tonight. Less clicking and tapping, but still a wide wonder of delights.

Hopefully, though your favorite blog in the [pick your favorite prefix]-iverse will be less posted, my posties will be more toasty. Thoughts more thought through and grammar more grammared.

[sigh] Don't worry, kids, sometimes I even annoy myself with my incessent playing with words.

Love you all,
Marge

i'm in the fridge

I feel as though there's an organ lying beneath my ribcage that has been rubbed raw. Maybe you were trying to marinade me for your barbecue this weekend. A salt rub? Perhaps you wanted to start with a good salt rub? And now none of us are sure what to do for fair weather is not here and how long will I keep in the fridge?
Sitting in the fridge here I feel tender. Like Achilles heel, the underbelly of a dragon or a snake, I've got this tender muscle in my rib cage. It never broke when we did. Since day two I have never been sad that we broke. But now, a long time later, something has peeled back this layer of stalwartness and I've realized this muscle is tender because it is absorbent and it's absorbed all the wrong things. It absorbed all the times you weren't charming, all of those--well, I won't make a list here. Mainly, it's tired because it works very hard when people work their way into its vicinity.
I've told this organ, my muscle, that resides here, under my ribcage, that we could take a vacation. We could take a break. We could take it easy. We will potter about and curl up in bed with a book and go out to breakfast with friends.
Sometimes, though, we go out on the town. Sometimes my dear organ, that muscle inside my chest, has been a little fearful but we've had a bit of fun. I've winked at a few fellas and let a few of them have my phone number and even pay for some of my meals. A few times, this dear little organ was fluttering about in a manner many call "twitter-pated." We quite enjoyed that for a couple of weeks. But at the end of the night, we like to come home and rest and read Chekhov and listen to Grizzly Bear or Possessed by Paul Jones or the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band or Lovin' Spoonful (or etc. etc.) and be alone.
I was looking inside my ribcage this weekend, investigating and wondering like Nancy Drew what to do and I thought that maybe, just maybe, because it's a muscle in there, maybe it wasn't so much to worry over that we were feeling a little sore. I've heard muscles when they work ever so hard (like when people come into their vicinity) get little tears in them, then they stitch themselves back up again and all the stitching embroiders a wild pattern filling up all of the weak empty spaces.
But, right now, if you open up the fridge, and you've found something that is tenderized and about the size of my fist or something like that, it's actually mine and I'd like to keep it for sometime to come. So shut the door, please, don't leave the refrigerator open long, it wastes electricity. We're taking it easy in here. (And I think we'll keep for a long, long time.)

the looming documentary crisis

I am huddled, ensconsed in the cave, being stared down by three computer monitors. They're staring down into my soul asking me if I really have any idea what I'm making a documentary about.

"I do!!....." but my last exclamation point falters off.

"Then what is it about, Mz. Bjork?"

"Well, uhh--"

"Is it about the kindergarten teacher like you said it was going to be? Because she speaks in run-on sentences that rarely have clearly defined subjects and direct objects. She is lacking in the necessary sound-bite-ableness."

I will show them! They will stop leering at me! "But then we organize it into something coherent and we visually represent her thoughts that aren't clearly communicated. Plus, her run-on sentences will serve to illustrate her character, a dynamic character that will engage our audience."

"Mm-hmm," they are not convinced, "Good luck creating that portrait of a dynamic character. We think you're going to have to write up a script and bring her into a sound booth for some ADR. Or, ha ha, you'll hire a narrator!!!! That's right! The Voice of God Narrator!! There go your dreams of an 'organic' documentary! Ha ha! You'll have a Flaherty train wreck on your hands then!"

I'm deflating, "Noooooo......I still have hope......We'll address that when that happens...."

"And if you care about illustrating her character why is she always talking about that literacy program?

"Well....ok, it is really about the literacy program. You've got me there."
Oh the glee that shines in their technological gadgetry, "You're making a promotional piece?!!!" The peels of laughter are now reverberating around this cave.

"No! No! No! No!!! NOOOOOOoooooooooo!!! Never! It won't be like that, I swear! It will all turn out and then you'll see and it will not be promotional it will--the truth will prevail!"

"Certainly. And when it does you'll have spent a pretty bundle of money that belongs to people who have a great influence on your education and carreer on that Voice of God and that nifty animation your mentor is pushing for."

"I could pull this power chord right now! Then we'll see who's laughing!"

"You pull the power chord and you lose nine months of work, little girl."

I sigh. I sigh and watch a few more hours of kindergarten classroom footage.

free as the wind and the demise of my french academia

Hey guys, I'm back to a good academic standing! I got cleared this morning.
I worked really hard both times in that Advanced French Composition class. At least I passed this time.

death of a saleswoman

There is definitely something growing inside of the drain in my sink. I remember seeing a preview for a horror movie when I was a young young young'un child. There was a giant man-eating slug that came up out of the drain in the bath tub (note: it might not have been a preview, I might have dreamed it. I did that a lot as a child). Well, that slug is now gaining strength daily in the plumbing of my bathroom sink. Trust me, it's invincible. I started with generic drain cleaners, I moved on up to a name brand tonight. The drain now drains....but the slug is not dead. It is still there, I can see it. It's something whitish and growing.

If I mysteriously disappear, I have been eaten.

Do I pour bleach down my drain?

I just finished the enormous room.

e e cummings words are so beautiful I could cry.

it is determined that we are two separate feathers in two separate wings

(I'm in the F wing)


I was at this evening of poetry tonight at another's little home, the stock of university kid's dwellings kind of place (though of the artsy's nicely decorated variety), and I had to use the upstairs bathroom because the downstairs with the women's sign on it also had a sign that said "out of order, go upstairs" scribbled on purple construction paper. So I headed up the steep flight of steps and there crammed into a corner was a crooked shaped bathroom with the toilet stuck in the eaves and a door for a crawl space to my left hand and a pile of rolls of toilet paper to my right. All I can think is, why would I want this to ever end? Why would I ever want a million dollars and your newly constructed condominium? Why would I want your plastic picket fence? I'm living in charm. I'm living in quirks. I'm living in revolution. I'm living in poetry.

And it was great to have a discussion of poems and ideas this noche because my body has been going through some sort of spring reworking. I go to sleep at 12:30 and wake up at 6am and have nothing to do but read e e cummings and Gwendolyn Brooks.

discaught

only in the library for a minute and already I'm on twelve tangeants.

Three papers, neighbors, and I'm done with school work. C'est tout !
But what happens? Not three papers. What happens is I open up my lap top in the cubicle that is in the very back corner of a quiet floor, but I let myself glance up and across a few crowded shelves my eyes lock on a large red book: THE FIRE DREAM. I can't resist the fire dream's draw, I walk closer and see underneath it all sorts of amazing titles: "American Mischief," "Armed Love," "KILLSHOT," "God's Ear."

Don't you see? I'm doomed to failure! I already have four library books at home, two for leisure reading on top of the e e cummings book I bought a few months ago that I'm reading now and the Gwendolyn Brooks poetry book that was on sale in the bookstore today. Now I have four more books stacked beside me.

Oh help! Oh help! I'm drowning in a sea of print and yet my thirst is still not satiated. And I'm distraught because I just found a band from the 1960's that I am in love with and I'm not sure what to do about it.

At least it was a lovely, lovely jogging evening.

a pagan for rodeos

I believe one should pour a cup of dirt over life. I miss gravel roads and people in Wrangler jeans and fields and wild spaceness. I've got the upper midwest still in me blood. Though I hardly passed as a native, I could never bring myself to say "bayg" instead of bag and other some-suches. You know, never took to the binge drinking and barn dances too much. I gobbled up books to have a form of metropolitan support of art and literary societous discussions and detective adventures.
Maybe I will start an afternoon tradition of pouring a glass of water into the garden in front of my house then squishing my toes in the mud. I could make raucous proclamations about the healthiness of dirt and never letting my mother have the satisfaction of having a daughter with clean feet.
(Though I do wash them every night, Momma.)

My sister is crocheting damnation. OK, I take that back, she's crocheting flames. And I'm contemplating crocheting the sea this summer. I want it to star in my next film. We're reviving the old yarn arts currently. Very dangerous stuff.
Accordion dangerous.

i shall dig a hole from my garden to yours and then grab your ankle

I'd grab your ankle and we'd pretend we could stop smiling that we were in our earthenware tunnel together. If I had enough forethought I'd grab a record player, a phonograph, a turntable. A few albums. What's a phonograph without albums? What albums would you like me to bring if I were to dig that tunnel from my garden to yours and if I were to even think with some forethought to think to bring some things with me?

Well, anyways, I wouldn't be able to stop smiling.

met you in st. louis but had definitive feelings about not meeting you again

or a ramglings from a slightly nerdy direction


Today I learned lots of FANTASTIC THINGS and it confirmed my ever growing desire to stop stuffing my brain with cotton and instead do nothing but study my major, play with balloons with children, and do manual labor or work in a restaurant. And read poetry in periodicals and eat grapefruit.

I learned FANTASTIC THINGS from books entitled things like "Television and Child Development, third edition" and "In Front of the Children, Screen Entertainment and Young Audiences." And I might have snuck in "Dibs in Search of Self," because I love that book madly, truly, deeply. So now I have perused a lots-a-bit of what is going on in brains of children when they watch Blues Clues and Mr. Rogers.

Let's face it, Media is just about the coolest thing to hit this planet. Makes me want to don my proverbial glitter dress and dance on my roof.

ahem, to quote a great Saint (or Santi), "Another song."

canteenuh

Was it oil paint or wool felt that set the trees to life tonight? They were not frescoed nor co-ed, but fully three dimensional and diverging all their plains. planes. playns.

I wish to make something beautiful. I wish to be a modern artist, I wish to be a little poet, I wish to be a happy musician, I wish to paint your clothes to appear in Super 8 [mm] formatly rich colors.

La, la, la, let's quit wishing. Let's become construction workers and drink out of thermoses. I'm not that strong now, but I imagine after a few months I could keep up a little better with all of the other construction workers. It might not be the most ideal job in some ways, I sunburn very easily, but it would be free of three to four minute French persuasive presentations. I wouldn't feel a stroke of pretention unless people kept asking me how to spell things. I kind of like manual labor. O to work all day long with a hammer at my hip then to trudge home to some tea as I fight the pleasant sensation of impending sleep long enough to brush my teeth and to read a half a page of a clever book and then surrender to heavy sleep which is not beknotted by twisted subconscious dreamings.

How perfecto that'd be.

¡viva!