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 Monday, June 23, 2008 breaking bread on sunday, we drove to central jersey for dinner. there was free flow of sangrias all afternoon. the uncles roasted an entire pig, and i taught the black and asian-american kids how to play lao ying jua xiao ji (the owl catches the little chicks). i wanna be the wolf, one of the kids said, ana said, no i want to be the wolf. why don't you guys rock paper scissors, i suggested. yes, he said, almost in glee, you said rock paper scissors! i stole a scooter. i played with the kids and ate fruit till the summer sun came down. i raced through the lawns screaming burger king burger king, marco polo. then we took the car home through the interstate 95. fell asleep in the car, woke up in tenafly, the mist all around us. i talk about the games i played all my life. zeropoint, circus-circus, pepsi cola (1-2-3!), sissy my baby. the games i played in shandong. the games he played. i haven't been blogging because my internet connection's been really bad. i havent been emailing because i can't write an email without being interrupted by a bad connection. work is waiting and feeling occasionally useless but at the brink of something wonderful. went to watch ted leo and the pharmacists in hoboken. ill be going to watch aimee mann live for 30 bucks at the highline ballroom downtown end july--i wish chit and pak were there with me. archiving media clips, shelving atwood and kinnell and a whole lot of poetry books and write press releases, rejecting slush manuscripts. i feel like i'm standing at the margins of a room i can't enter. i go to merce cunningham studio with meredith to dance after work. you have to pay attention to details, i snap. and you can't live in my room everyday, i say, i need my space you know, then i slam the door and leave the house, leaving him in the room with his boxers and taking the keys, boarding the 1 train to the west village, where i wander alone for hours. i come back, feeling guilty, holding a wrapped bundle of baby's breath, and a bag of groceries. let's bake bread, i say, attempting to undo the damage with gentleness. the two of us are in the kitchen pressing our fingers into a bowl of wet flour, butter, milk, yeast. we hold our breath, wait for the dough to rise. posted by dawn # 7:45 PM Comments: sissy my baby come home and play with me we will be darling friends under the apple tree flush down the rainbow into the toilet bowl we will be darling friends forever more more more one two three four four four behind the door door door bang! # posted by Anonymous : 6:13 AM split in fragments and all the pieces would talk to you aimee mann! <333 ): her new album's out, but there's no music shop where i am, so woe. pak # posted by Anonymous : 4:25 PM 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] his mother gave me a silver and glass pendant, it'... jaz The Summer Train i heart new york beautiful justin running with donald tired feeling whimsical love and desire [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

Monday, June 23, 2008

breaking bread

on sunday, we drove to central jersey for dinner. there was free flow of sangrias all afternoon. the uncles roasted an entire pig, and i taught the black and asian-american kids how to play lao ying jua xiao ji (the owl catches the little chicks). i wanna be the wolf, one of the kids said, ana said, no i want to be the wolf. why don't you guys rock paper scissors, i suggested. yes, he said, almost in glee, you said rock paper scissors! i stole a scooter. i played with the kids and ate fruit till the summer sun came down. i raced through the lawns screaming burger king burger king, marco polo. then we took the car home through the interstate 95. fell asleep in the car, woke up in tenafly, the mist all around us. i talk about the games i played all my life. zeropoint, circus-circus, pepsi cola (1-2-3!), sissy my baby. the games i played in shandong. the games he played.

i haven't been blogging because my internet connection's been really bad. i havent been emailing because i can't write an email without being interrupted by a bad connection. work is waiting and feeling occasionally useless but at the brink of something wonderful. went to watch ted leo and the pharmacists in hoboken. ill be going to watch aimee mann live for 30 bucks at the highline ballroom downtown end july--i wish chit and pak were there with me. archiving media clips, shelving atwood and kinnell and a whole lot of poetry books and write press releases, rejecting slush manuscripts. i feel like i'm standing at the margins of a room i can't enter. i go to merce cunningham studio with meredith to dance after work. you have to pay attention to details, i snap. and you can't live in my room everyday, i say, i need my space you know, then i slam the door and leave the house, leaving him in the room with his boxers and taking the keys, boarding the 1 train to the west village, where i wander alone for hours. i come back, feeling guilty, holding a wrapped bundle of baby's breath, and a bag of groceries. let's bake bread, i say, attempting to undo the damage with gentleness. the two of us are in the kitchen pressing our fingers into a bowl of wet flour, butter, milk, yeast. we hold our breath, wait for the dough to rise.

posted by dawn # 7:45 PM

Comments:

sissy my baby
come home and play with me
we will be darling friends
under the apple tree
flush down the rainbow
into the toilet bowl
we will be darling friends
forever more more more
one two three four four four
behind the door door door
bang!

# posted by

Anonymous : 6:13 AM

split in fragments
and all the pieces would talk to you

aimee mann! <333 ):

her new album's out, but there's no music shop where i am, so woe.

pak

# posted by

Anonymous : 4:25 PM