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 Tuesday, January 06, 2009 the wages of dying is love the whole point of a subsidiary rights department is to advertise and sell, what is essentially, a construct--the right to rework a piece. it is almost like making money out of nothing, which reminds me of the idea of the hedge fund. today i wrote a pitch letter advertising the right to serialise a book--pitch writing will probably constitute most of these two weeks, but the notion of selling a right (what is a right anyway?) will remain deeply ambiguous for me. the cat here misses kerry, the renter, very much. in the middle of the night, she starts clawing at the door, making me or chris (the other renter) open it for her. when we open the door, she looks outside, sees nothing, and walks away. when we close it, she falls into the same funk, clawing at the door, and asking for it to be opened again. she sleeps on my (kerry's) bed all the time, and enthusiastically receives me, rubbing herself all over me. perhaps she is trying to believe that i am kerry. today justin sent me an email. it was very out of the blue, very uncharacteristic of him. he wrote: Do you remember when you said something to me about not wanting me to die before you, so you could always have me around, or something like that? I know this is a bit morbid, but I just got this weird fear while looking at some pictures, like what if you were no longer around, and I could only view you in retrospect, only in pictures? It scared me a bit, because we have so many things to do together before I ever want to let things get to that. i sent him a text, i said the solution is clear. at 90, we need to od on e and weed. he burst out laughing, on the phone, adding that by then, he would have accumulated enough contacts and credentials to make sure we would not be foiled. i came to the conclusion that anxieties about death are really only anxieties of agnostics. i consider being anxious about death a good thing. this anxiety is partly a recognition that nothing exists after this life. and this frees us from the burden of trying to live this life to fulfill another. on the train back today, i remembered the boy who was so adamant about being a good christian, till he was unable read with pleasure, casting books into categories of good books/bad books. he called the bad books, "postmodernist," something which was especially irritating for me at that time, because i was just starting to slowly love the grumpiness of derrida. i felt sorry that because of that insistence on shelving books, he would probably never understand a lot of things, and if he finally did, it would be too late, as our disastrous relationship ultimately proved. i also felt sorry for him for being so insistent on living right (vague as that was, to him) that he was unable to grasp the idea of forgiveness. he was unable to forgive other people, and unable to forgive himself. i think forgiveness is an attempt at rewriting the actions of the past, smoothing away hatred and turning it into gentleness. but rewriting is always the affirmation of the trace of what was written. the paradox of forgiveness is that it solidifies the past in writing. posted by dawn # 5:12 PM Comments: I remember a time when you were trying to map out forgiveness here, in writing, a few months ago. And now that you are writing about it again, it seems like you understand it better, that you are more assured, and wiser. I am happy for you, I truly am. # posted by Anonymous : 9:45 AM oh thank you. who are you? # posted by Anonymous : 3:28 PM oh thank you. who are you? # posted by Anonymous : 3:29 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] tarts pre-departure hello, america reeling from the snow bill's mechanics history doctors and nurses things to do when you have lost your voice sick to the core wedding glassware [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

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

the wages of dying is love

the whole point of a subsidiary rights department is to advertise and sell, what is essentially, a construct--the right to rework a piece. it is almost like making money out of nothing, which reminds me of the idea of the hedge fund. today i wrote a pitch letter advertising the right to serialise a book--pitch writing will probably constitute most of these two weeks, but the notion of selling a right (what is a right anyway?) will remain deeply ambiguous for me.
the cat here misses kerry, the renter, very much. in the middle of the night, she starts clawing at the door, making me or chris (the other renter) open it for her. when we open the door, she looks outside, sees nothing, and walks away. when we close it, she falls into the same funk, clawing at the door, and asking for it to be opened again. she sleeps on my (kerry's) bed all the time, and enthusiastically receives me, rubbing herself all over me. perhaps she is trying to believe that i am kerry.
today justin sent me an email. it was very out of the blue, very uncharacteristic of him. he wrote:

Do you remember when you said something to me about not wanting me to die before you, so you could always have me around, or something like that? I know this is a bit morbid, but I just got this weird fear while looking at some pictures, like what if you were no longer around, and I could only view you in retrospect, only in pictures? It scared me a bit, because we have so many things to do together before I ever want to let things get to that.

i sent him a text, i said

the solution is clear. at 90, we need to od on e and weed.

he burst out laughing, on the phone, adding that by then, he would have accumulated enough contacts and credentials to make sure we would not be foiled.
i came to the conclusion that anxieties about death are really only anxieties of agnostics. i consider being anxious about death a good thing. this anxiety is partly a recognition that nothing exists after this life. and this frees us from the burden of trying to live this life to fulfill another.
on the train back today, i remembered the boy who was so adamant about being a good christian, till he was unable read with pleasure, casting books into categories of good books/bad books. he called the bad books, "postmodernist," something which was especially irritating for me at that time, because i was just starting to slowly love the grumpiness of derrida. i felt sorry that because of that insistence on shelving books, he would probably never understand a lot of things, and if he finally did, it would be too late, as our disastrous relationship ultimately proved. i also felt sorry for him for being so insistent on living right (vague as that was, to him) that he was unable to grasp the idea of forgiveness. he was unable to forgive other people, and unable to forgive himself. i think forgiveness is an attempt at rewriting the actions of the past, smoothing away hatred and turning it into gentleness. but rewriting is always the affirmation of the trace of what was written. the paradox of forgiveness is that it solidifies the past in writing.

posted by dawn # 5:12 PM

Comments:

I remember a time when you were trying to map out forgiveness here, in writing, a few months ago. And now that you are writing about it again, it seems like you understand it better, that you are more assured, and wiser. I am happy for you, I truly am.

# posted by

Anonymous : 9:45 AM

oh thank you. who are you?

# posted by

Anonymous : 3:28 PM

oh thank you. who are you?

# posted by

Anonymous : 3:29 PM