HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Sunday, April 27, 2008 oberon i got home really late last night. i wasn't doing anything crazy or anything, i was driving. except that it really, really scared me, because at the lake, there was something there. what is that, i asked. flickering lights nearby, and the sound of fire, balls of fire. when we drove out, there was no one, absolutely no one where the lights had come from. only a mist rising in the afterrain. and then i had that horrible guilt complex, i texted him, and i said sorry, i shouldn't have been out so late, and gotten myself into an uncomfortable, awkward, one-to-one, potentially physical, situation. nothing happened, because i'm a lot more mellow and sure of myself, my body. but it was a reflex from before--how whenever i was out, i'd be overwhelmed with an irrational guilt, and i would be met by with irrational anger, coming from another city. he called back. he is in another city, and he has a different face. because i always fall in love with cities when i leave them. you don't owe me any apologies, he laughed, honestly. and i then i laughed too, finally. and then--although i don't know how we got there, oh yes, because he started talking about his grandma who makes the best fried rice ever--i talked about that fantastic night market in yantai university, the best fried rice ever (it even had tomatoes and cucumbers in it) the woman who cooked with dirty hands, the best food ever, the cheapest watermelons. and then i did my remarkable translations, conversions, "it was so big it was the size of 3 manhattan blocks," and that strikes me as hilarious to have said that. i think if there is ever a way to leave the past, it might be through him. - other random thoughts: eric says he is writing a systems proposal based on my paper on metaphorical displacement, i am so intrigued; sasha tells me she has broken the kosher prohibition against bread, maybe i will write a poem about that; also, he is writing a song about the circus that came to new york, we are planning to write about mary blumberg, the scam artist on craigslist who scammed me almost; i have found temporary housing with a 60-year-old man who paints for a living, on the far east side in stuyvesant and alphabet city. i have never been so far east in nyc before. after that i will be moving in with a columbia med student and a disabled woman called denise. posted by dawn # 11:18 AM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] eve was smarter than adam i'm so blue today. new york city gets you down lik... back children's book week growth dividends at least a little bit a big room when the thunder called relieved mothers and brothers [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Sunday, April 27, 2008

oberon

i got home really late last night. i wasn't doing anything crazy or anything, i was driving. except that it really, really scared me, because at the lake, there was something there. what is that, i asked. flickering lights nearby, and the sound of fire, balls of fire. when we drove out, there was no one, absolutely no one where the lights had come from. only a mist rising in the afterrain.

and then i had that horrible guilt complex, i texted him, and i said sorry, i shouldn't have been out so late, and gotten myself into an uncomfortable, awkward, one-to-one, potentially physical, situation. nothing happened, because i'm a lot more mellow and sure of myself, my body. but it was a reflex from before--how whenever i was out, i'd be overwhelmed with an irrational guilt, and i would be met by with irrational anger, coming from another city.

he called back. he is in another city, and he has a different face. because i always fall in love with cities when i leave them. you don't owe me any apologies, he laughed, honestly. and i then i laughed too, finally. and then--although i don't know how we got there, oh yes, because he started talking about his grandma who makes the best fried rice ever--i talked about that fantastic night market in yantai university, the best fried rice ever (it even had tomatoes and cucumbers in it) the woman who cooked with dirty hands, the best food ever, the cheapest watermelons. and then i did my remarkable translations, conversions, "it was so big it was the size of 3 manhattan blocks," and that strikes me as hilarious to have said that. i think if there is ever a way to leave the past, it might be through him.

-

other random thoughts: eric says he is writing a systems proposal based on my paper on metaphorical displacement, i am so intrigued; sasha tells me she has broken the kosher prohibition against bread, maybe i will write a poem about that; also, he is writing a song about the circus that came to new york, we are planning to write about mary blumberg, the scam artist on craigslist who scammed me almost; i have found temporary housing with a 60-year-old man who paints for a living, on the far east side in stuyvesant and alphabet city. i have never been so far east in nyc before. after that i will be moving in with a columbia med student and a disabled woman called denise.

posted by dawn # 11:18 AM

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