Who is Larson Broome?

Pm/Phto: Blood

2009-08-23T16:56:00.001-04:00

Blood

if i am quiet enough
a need to serve makes my limbs hot with pain.

when the loudness of me me me dies back
a growling blood boils to be seen
to show you my happy ache
coming through a gauze on my fresh wound
that first sign of crimson showing you that
there's more where that came from.
a need spreads across the white
jumping crawling out like the dust
coming off of the wings of a moth
like fast-motion video of spiderwebs being built.

i need to be meaningful
i need to bring up a cautious breath
i need to choke on my empty throat
i need to cause a start, send people looking for
a better bandage.

when i am quiet enough i bleed out love
love for people and all their mistakes
love for lives and moments and grocery stores
and thursday happy hour and perfect attendance awards.

i may be wrapping wrapping myself up
to get by in my own everyday.
but if i'm quiet enough
but if i'm quiet enough,
a need to help my brother would pour out onto the floor.

-Larson

Pm/Phto: Thread

2009-07-29T08:22:00.003-04:00

when you look at me and expect me to be bound to my past a yesterday me, a yesterday mind
a thread is pulled from the muddy world, a root, a bog, to the tip of my toe up through the asphalt and between the guardrails of my past into my past-past self.

he is the one that has to own up to who i've been who has to provide you with continuity who wants to seem all together, and unquestioning in his identity. he is the one who gets the first few cracks at owning my face at running the levers and chords behind my lips, and nose, and irises.

the thread you pull goes from my big toe to my hip bone to my rib bone connected to my shoulder bone connected to my remote control bone. to the little levers and pulleys behind my face keeping my smile gentle, my eyes interested, my ears perked to the comfortable conversation that depends on a common contemplation on what i did and said the last time we talked, on that we are not strangers. on a certain dance we are dancing, a ritual meant to keep me bound to then and you bound to then and both of us circling now. now. now. now we are here looking at each other faces wondering what the hell do i have in common with this person? how the hell do i get this conversation back on the topic of me? where is the next reference, anecdote, TV synopsis going to come from? will we ever fuck? can i tell you about my mother, and how i am guilty? will you neglect me too? please?

we both need the thread, we both need the past, we both need the constant.
you dearly hope that i am included in the last three 'we'-s.

and maybe i am. and maybe i'm not. maybe i will snip the thread, cut away from my past. become a stupid, feckless, innocent member of now. a member of now. a member of the crowd of firey impossible people that always seem to be arriving, leaving, staying, all at once.

you ask yourself: will he cut my thread too? set me free?
i ask myself: will you cut my thread too? set me free?
instead one of us talks about family guy. we both find it funny.

Food

2009-07-26T23:06:00.004-04:00

It all begins with food. Sometimes, when life throws me off, gets me down, or pulls another one of those phrases that stand in for 'shitty', the best thing for me to do is go grocery shopping. At about 10pm on a Sunday. It's really the best time, but don't tell anybody that, because my Hannaford will be crowded, and that will suck. Then it'll become an underground club scene; therapy-grocery-shoppers trying to avoid each other via more and more obtuse places and times.

Anyway. Tonight I looked at raspberries, and realized I never eat them, ever, if they are in my fridge... the only time I find fit to eat them is when somebody else buys them. Tomorrow I'm helping my boss with my intern's evaluation. He deserves a great review; he put up with my obtuse, pie-in-everybody's-sky direction. I wanted his creativity to flourish, and it did, but not in the way I intended. He ended up persevering through my craziness, all in all.

Tonight I'm looking at the coffee. Sumatra, French Roast, Sumatra, French Roast. House Blend was all out. House Blend is the flavor of coffee for the people who are ashamed to be considering flavors of coffee. I am one such person, but tonight I have no choice but to make a choice. Sumatra won. Shortest name.

Black cherry seltzer. One bottle. Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm some kind of recovering alcoholic, and that I drink seltzer to fit in at parties. Yesterday I was fitting into a party, drinking tonic on the rocks. Luckily it was a 60's theme party, which means the one dance I know can finally be exercised: the twist. Pulp Fiction style. I know, I'm a bit of a douche. Luckily, movies give you the power to step out of yourself for just a second. Just long enough to pretend you are comfortable dancing, and comfortable fitting in.

Tonight I'm checking out. Of the store. There's only one line open, but that's the risk you take when you arrive at the grocery store in the middle of the night. Fine by me. I remember walking in and seeing one of the attendants balancing a grocery basket on his hand. He stopped when I walked in, but I smiled at another clerk to try to reassure her. I'm not here to stop your fun, I just want the food. Now the basket-balancer is my checkout guy. And he's really my check out guy. Two times I catch him looking at me and darting away his eyes. It's kind of juvenile, and I have no luck with the whole not-talking-but-still-being-charming thing. He was a little young, and working, so I left well enough alone. May the universe know that I am appreciative, however.

As I drove away from the grocery store, I sang along with the stereo. The car is the only place I sing. I'm not the only one, I'm sure, so don't judge. Mike Doughty: "happiness is coming for you" me: "happiness is coming for you" I believed him. I believed me.

-A

Pm/Phto: Sunlight

2009-07-19T16:51:00.004-04:00

Sunlight

This morning at breakfast the waitress
asked me if I was 'all set'.
I was watching the rain, drinking my coffee,
trying to see out past the parking lot.
I must've looked foreign somehow,
or at least desiring to be elsewhere.

I told her that I was OK, with a good smile on.
I can deflect inquiry, but that's about it.

Otherwise all I can do is collect sunlight,
drink water, and reach upward.
I'm like a plant in this way.

One, if you see me all green, it means I'm healthy.
Two, the wind blows and I lean with her like I know how to dance.
(note please that I do not know how to dance).
Three, when the soil is dry beneath me, so am I.

Should you see me at the side of the road,
know that one day I'll make it out of the grind;
my roots spread and take me somewhere better.
Just let me watch the rain.

Pm+Phto: Detective Story

2009-04-26T19:07:00.006-04:00

Detective Story

it's 1940, and i'm standing on the
outside of your police scene tape.
'what have we got here?' i ask the officer,
i'm not listening to the reply.
i'm rubbing something between my fingers,
crouching on the ground
trying to look busy.
trying to figure out what left you here in a chalk line.
why you aren't at my place making popcorn,
getting a blanket out of the hall closet,
telling me about your day,
giving me the chance to half-listen.

i take off my overcoat,
it's time to get to work,
my black suspenders,
my snazzy gun harness,
i'm ready to detect for you.
to sleuth to the very bottom,
to bring you back safe,
with a wool blanket on your shoulders,
and a steaming cup of coffee.

but this is a murder scene, i think:
from the number of concerned cameras,
blinking their big bulbs,
the number of times i have to say
'no comment, wait for my captain's release.'

i'm waiting for my release,
your release, something for us other than
long shifts with old documents,
glasses of gin, and fingers running over my eyes.
i'm leaning back in my chair.
i'm waiting for a lead on you.

i need a cause of death, i need a weapon in a plastic bag,
i need an arm to twist, i need something on tape,
i need to sleep in with you on a Sunday,
i need to quietly stare with a cup of foggy coffee,
i need a new job, with a better pension.

-Larson

Readin' Memein'

2009-04-23T23:43:00.003-04:00

Thank you This Book and I Could Be Friends for the reading meme thing...

1. What author do you own the most books by?

It's probably a tie between Julia Cameron, Anne Dillard, Amy Hempel, and Jeanette Winterson... I rarely buy more than one book by an author... in fact the winning score is two, two books ah ah ah ah. *thunder*

2. What book do you own the most copies of?

Don't own more than one copy of a book... not good for backup purposes.

3. Did it bother you that most of these questions ended with prepositions?

That is not something of which I keep track.

4. What fictional character are you secretly in love with?

The narrator from Written on the Body... who cares what gender this narrator 'really' is.

5. What book have you read the most times in your life?

I'm not a repeat offender. Multiple partakes are for movies.

6. What was your favorite book when you were ten years old?

It was this book about a boy who played flute for slaves on a transport ship in the olden days... it was kind of depraved... the boy eventually escapes, but not without learning a valuable lesson about human rights... and sinking the damn ship.

7. What is the worst book you've read in the past year?

I read so rarely that I usually enjoy what makes the cut for my rare reading time. However, I was not terribly impressed by The Sun Also Rises, especially since it was recommended highly.

8. What is the best book you've read in the past year?

I just finished Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott... really good. I like books about writing, they keep me reflecting.

9. If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?

I haven't 'tagged' anyone, first of all. That's just obscene. If I could make lots of people read books, however, I'd probably shove Reasons to Live by Amy Hempel in their hands. The reason is in the title, I guess.

10. Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?

Not qualified to make the call. I'm not even sure what the criteria are, but I hope they involve giving people a reason to grin in the muck we're in.

11. What book would you most like to see made into a movie?

The Raw Shark Texts, by Steven Hall. The plot is really cinematic. It even has a mind-bending climax.

12. What book would you least like to see made into a movie?

House of Leaves, by Mark Danielewski... only because it's too tempting and would be inevitably screwed up. The only good way would be a short or series thereof.... and even then it would be so tough.

13. Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.

I don't really have dreams concerning books, etc. However, while reading House of Leaves it was tough to get to sleep because a slight fear of the dark developed (and just as quickly passed). Don't tell anybody.

14. What is the most lowbrow book you've read as an adult?

I concur with the previous answerer, this is a fun question. I've read some poetry by Billy Collins... which is not low brow per se, but since he was a poet lauriette, I guess it was the most 'mainsteamish' reason to buy a poetry book.

15. What is the most difficult book you've ever read?

For the time I read it, Brave New World was tough, I think I was in seventh grade or so. As an adult, I can't say it's been hard to read anything... Descarte's Meditations were a little wordy (though I'm sure quite terse for 1641).

16. Do you prefer French or Russian?

I prefer your mom. And she prefers me. Sexually, I mean.

17. Roth or Updike?

Sorry, no dice.

18. David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?

Let's go with Eggers. I'm more partial to Amy Sedaris, really. So I'm changing my answer to her.

19. Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?

Steak, Fish, or Lasagna?

20. Austen or Eliot?

I'm not a huge Jane Austen fan... I like the movie and miniseries renditions of her work, but the reading is kind of tedious. So by default, Eliot, although I'm rather under-exposed... and I dare call myself a writer!

21. What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?

Just about everything. Really. There's so much out there, I can't find the time to even begin to wrap my arms. Although Henry Miller most comes to mind as a gap.

22. What is your favorite novel?

You are a jerk for asking that. What's a novel, anyway? Some of my favorite novel-length books are collections of short stories, poems, essays, etc. The whole of these collections is greater than the sum of their parts; they'd be different if taken piecemeal. Fine. Jerk. Sigh. Ugh. So far it's The Autobiography of Red, by Anne Carson. It's in verse. Take that.

23. Play?

Greater Tuna. It's a 20 role play performed by 2 people. I did it in college and it was a blast. If we are talking reading rather than performing, I'd go with R.U.R. because I'm still a sucker for robots overthrowing humanity.

24. Short story?

"In a Tub", "The New Lodger", and "Tumble Home" by Amy Hempel. "The Daughters of the Late Colonel" by Katherine Mansfield.

25. Epic poem?

You're mom's an epic poem. Or an epic fail. I can't remember which.

26. Short(er) poem?

"Fight Song" by Deborah Garrison. "Toward the Solace" by Adrienne Rich. Others too, lists should be in threes.

27. Work of non-fiction?

The Right to Write by Julia Cameron.

28. Who is your favorite writer?

You are. It's you.

29. Who is the most overrated writer alive today?

Going with Hemingway on this one. Recommended to me, but didn't make the grade. Except that he isn't alive today, to my knowledge, but this is my answer anyway.

30. What is your desert island book?

FM 21-76 US Army Survival Manual. Come on, what kind of question was that?

31. And . . . what are you reading right now?

Starting Last Nights of Paris, by Philippe Soupault... How we are Hungry, by Dave Eggers... and Between Angels by Stephen Dunn. Novel, short stories, and poems, respectively... I like to have something for each mood...

And that's that, you are now as informed about reading as I am. Thanks, E.L. Fay!

-A

Essy + Phto: Neck stuck out

2009-04-10T10:37:00.005-04:00

I was listening to supposed former infatuation junkie and noticed something about the album. A lot of the songs deal with someone trying to learn to be 'better' in a world that has taught them to be 'worse'. Compassionate in a selfish world. Giving in a taking world. Forgiving in a judgmental world, and so on. It got me thinking: are the emotional survival skills taught to us by our culture actually the very things that leave us alone and alienated? How much of our lives are spent unlearning all this wisdom and becoming more connected to the real world around us?

There's been some shaking up in my life lately; a lot of things have changed. I keep telling myself that I'm going to get back to normal, back to myself, back on my feet. So much of the word 'back'; so much of the belief that my best days are somehow behind me, and I need to turn back the clock somehow to achieve an idealized, paleoconservative self identity fully adherent to the rugged individualism our culture requires. I'm a little tired of trying to get 'back'. I was never really totally rugged anyway; I've always been a tightly wound ball of fears, anxieties, regrets, etc. Plus a dash of grace. Maybe I should just walk forward with that dash of grace. How poetic. In real life I really just want to start being more honest... because worrying about being to forward or too guarded is a tremendous waste of energy when there's so much to do in this life.

Today i am going to buy a bicycle, schedule an eye exam, and enjoy the weather. Later will be drum practice and reading, and probably a movie or two. All the while, i'll have my neck stuck out, my ducks out of their rows, my honesty spinal-tap-amp at 11, my sentences starting with anything but 'I', and ironically i will be the most 'together' person you know. Cheers.

-Larson

PS - This sick, sad confessional is not really poetry, so it's labeled as an essay in the title (though it's not very well cited, is it?). Thoughts, reactions, stories to share? Comment away!

Poem + Phto: Reasons i check my phone

2009-04-08T22:10:00.006-04:00

617am maybe someone called me last night, some people they stay up later than me.
737am i hit snooze a bunch of times, you know maybe the buzzing of the phone was drowned out by the soul crushing once every nine minutes nightmare called my alarm clock
804am coffee's on the way, stepped out
836am out of the shower, and my phone wasn't with me obviously, what you think i'm crazy or something?!
855am one more check before work, because they don't allow phones
856am just one more, i mean there's no phone for like nine hours i don't want to miss him... or her, you know it could also be a her...
857am i mean there's no phones, none at all. it's for security or something.

518pm back from work, been a long day, starving, but before i eat something i should make sure nobody invited me to dinner.
543pm ok i ate, alone, but maybe someone else is getting ready to eat, and maybe i'll be like 'hey i already ate, but i could just drink coffee or something and you can eat, i don't mind. really. at all.'
625pm it's about time for people to start making plans for the night. you know plans, those things people do. with their nights.
713pm practicing drums, and left the phone in the other room. i better put it here next to me in case someone calls for a movie or something
725pm that song was really loud, and if the phone rang i definitely didn't hear it... so i better check to make sure
840pm watching dvds... you know just chilling, maybe someone else wants to hang... you know pajama party... woooo... dvds....
932pm someone might be going out for a drink, even on a weekday, some people have like funky part timer schedules, don't hate. maybe i can grab just one, cause i have to work tomorrow. i'll DD.
1009pm nothing, no? really? fine.
1136pm almost soul searching time, so maybe someone called. making sure there's no soldier folks finally ready to risk it all with a secret affair. or astronauts tired of the spinning chair things and ready for some nerd love. checking for anybody... ready for anything?
1209am i better check this thing one more time. before going to bed.
1213am ok last time. i don't want to leave anyone hanging, you know?
1217am come on, i mean it's gonna be a long night... and some people they stay up later than me.

-Larson

PS - new headline. time for forward movement.

The Hole in my Bay, Day Tres

2009-03-29T12:48:00.007-04:00

Hey all-

Yesterday was mostly walking about. 'Cruising', as Speed Levitch put it. I decided to take him up on his offer, and plotted a course for my salvation. A pilgrimage across a bay; across a chasm holding me back from myself. I started on a bus, and then a train, and then another train, and finally another bus. I still considered this part of the cruise, because as my mind wandered to the music I had set aside for myself (side-note the Decemberist's new 'Hazards of Love' is fucking wonderful) my body stayed on its course. This dichotomy was a midnight blue on a pink stucco. I saw some pick stucco; somebody's house and lawn flamingo had a terrible scientific accident and merged before me in the hilly southern expanse of san fran.

The bus stopped suddenly and there was a mass exodus to Golden Gate Park. I followed, that is to say, my nose followed, and I was enslaved. I found my way through a rose garden, and met a bush named Betty Boop. I thought of my friend Heather, who is making her way in NYC as a fashion goddess. There were too many couples and small families at this park for my liking, however. They had too much of the pre-programmed cruise; the cruise that really isn't a freeing tarry, but rather a pre-scripted jaunt down invisible tracks. The park was a glorified Walmart parking lot, the task of getting the best parking spot akin to an orgasm, the walk to the store an awkward pillow talk while putting your shoes back on. After getting a street hotdog, something of a hobby for me while in larger cities than my own, I headed back for the bus.

This time I took line 28 all the way to Golden Gate Bridge. This is something of a boyish fantasy for me, when I was young watching Full House I wondered why the Tanner family didn't spend every waking moment on this red metal dynamo, defying the blue water and blue sky. Sticking out like a sore thumb that had always belonged there. After acquiring a new wallpaper for my phone in the form of a contrasting graffitied caution sign against the backdrop of the pristene bridge, it was back to the cruise.

The shapes and curves amazed me. People all around me were snapping pictures of the view of the bay. Pictures that may as well be postcards, worth every penny of the fifty cent price tag. Pictures that were beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as the real experience of walking across this bridge on a breezy day. Your shirt rippling in the wind, the sun keeping you oddly warm. I only snapped one picture on the walk, a juxtaposing shape of a street light against the bridge. The red, yellow, and blue coming together in a perfect geometric moment.

Once across the bridge, I realized that the little observation pen on the other side was decidedly anti-cruise. It was self-contained; requiring that you either escape by car or stay among the stones and old wood forever. I ended up walking down a bike trail, serendipitously following a group of Brits. The only lady in the group had cork wedges on, and I felt viscerally sorry for her. After a ways down the obvously pedestrian un-friendly highway, they went to the side to examine a hole in a fence, and I lost track of them.

Continuing on my illicit cruise down the hill, among the bikers (of which there were a great many), I came to a small town. I could tell by the cars in the driveways that these were very affluent folks. I worried for a time that my usual fallback plan of 'don't worry I work for the government' would not draw much water here. Then I noticed the time. My cruise had taken almost all day, and now it was in question whether or not the ferry's were still running. Now, with the possibility of being a poor vagrant tourist in the Western Cape Cod, my cruise had a singular purpose, escape.

Finding a small downtown area with cafes and shops (and the obligitory tourists), I made my way towards the water's edge. Here in this bay, the water was a deep green, and men with over-complicated T-shirt prints with women in seemingly early 90's wraps meandered among the rocks. Huddling in masses, the day travelers had the exact opposite goal of the locals with baby strollers. The ensuing foot traffic jam led to some very non-cruise moments... for which I am ashamed. However, I trodded on in hopes of finding the ferry and my survival.

Finally, I made my way to the dock. To find a very long line of bicycles. Aparently the myriad of bikers on the hills between the bridge and the bay also had to escape. Luckily, the ferry accomidated the lot of us. After a twenty minute ferry ride I was safely back in fisherman's wharf, known territory at this point in my journey.

My cruise concluded as I found my way back to the subway, the train, the bus. Having walked over six mile in that day, I was finally in a state where Speed Levitch had never commented on. I was so tired that my mind stopped racing. Finally.

-A

PS - Also, I managed to write a poem. It came upon me somewhere in the middle as I was trying to fall asleep. The Romans believed that there were daemons in the walls called 'geniuses' that would bestow work onto artists, who were conduits for such insights. The genius in the Comfort Inn did not follow my sleep schedule...

Train

They've turned the harsh overhead lights on in the train car.
it looks like the aftermath of a rock show; forgotten red party cups,
friends pulling each other to their feet,
and harsh florescent lights pointing out
all the pores and exits in the room.

this is the time of night when i miss you most
how trite to have that line there
when it should be obvious and unsaid

i'm sitting in the seat alone while the foursome in front of me
hides their coors lights in brown paper bags
"beer condoms" they laugh.

I am struggling to see outside of the car, something more than
dark blue outlines of palm trees and occasional neon lights.

this is the time of night when
the screens on the train ticket machines
are noticeable against the dark.
i'm looking for the dot on
the diagram of the line that leads me home,
or at least away from here.

The Hole in my Bay, Day the Two

2009-03-27T18:51:00.003-04:00

Hey all-

Today shouldn't count because I didn't go to San Francisco. I stayed in Palo Alto and followed my nose up El Camino Real. I had a theory that because the bus PA would announce 'now approaching El Camino and California' that there was something to be found on California Ave. And there was! A whole strip of shops and cafes, lots of hussle and bussle. Rogamaror. Razzle Dazzle. Etc. And so, I decided to check it out. My first destination was Know Knew Books, which Google Maps pointed me to as the closest bookstore (yes, I search for bookstores on vacation).

Know Knew was friggin' great. There were used CDs, VHS, and DVDs on top of all the used books. The best part was the myriad of unopened action figures for sale lining every shelf-end. I snapped a pic of Leon from Resident Evil 2. LEON! Anyway, I spent a good amount of time there, and got the following:

'The Long Kiss Goodnight' on VHS
'Escape From New York' on VHS
'Dune' on VHS
A souvinier for a Utica peep
A pic of two books by Margerat Thatcher
A pic of a Leon action figure from Resident Evil 2
A pic of 'Mad About You' by Brandi Carlile on vinyl
A pic of a 'Full House' young adult novel (the very heart of San Francisco)

I walked further on the Real, hoping to get to Long's Drugs to pick up some clippers for my face (I'm getting scruffly). When I happened upon it, however, I discovered that Long's was nestled deep inside a consumer frenzy of a strip mall. Complete with multiple strips. And little maps. It was weird. Anyway, I wandered about some more, packing away some more shopping. I came upon yet another bookstore, which just about made my day. This makes four bookstore visits for the trip. So far. Haul part two:

A 'Stanford' emblazoned T-shirt and pair of shorts
'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' by Milan Kundera
'Last Nights of Paris' by Phillipe Soupault
Clippers, for my face
Deodorant, not for my face

Then I took a bus back to the hotel and am resting my poor feet. Might read a bit and have some awesome Thai leftovers. Rock and roll, Palo Alto.

-Larson

The Hole in my Bay, Day the First

2009-03-27T00:03:00.004-04:00

Hey all-

Today's San Fran haul:

Death to Smoochy on teh DVD
Waking Life on teh DVD
Being Logical by D.Q. McInerny
Between Angels by Stephen Dunn
How We Are Hungry by Dave Eggers
A bar of Ghirardelli chocolate for my friend Alice
An 'I (heart) San Francisco' sticker from a foppish man who thought I should smile more
A photo of the flier for a Sandra Bernhard play
The chance to hear a street performer rhyme 'Macaron'
Up close and personal time with both a seagull and a pigeon
A laptop bag at the Gap because it was needed to carry the rest of the haul

Enjoy the referential nature of information.

Any suggestions for things to do with my second and third days here, leave a comment!

-A

Obama's Town Hall

2009-03-26T12:27:00.003-04:00

Hey-

I'm watching President Obama's Online Town Hall. That was all in title case, because it is a pretty cool thing. He opened up whiteouse.gov for questions from ordinary internet folks. There was also voting built in to identify popular questiosn. My trip to San Fran was delayed, gladly, to watch this historic event.

I really like how he handled the vastly over-popular marijuana legalization issue from the 'open for questions' website. I don't know what your specific position or opinions on this issue are, but get over it. It's illegal.

There was also a really insightful question on nurses... and the president's response was right on. Nurses pull so much of the wieght on our health system. They see you in the beginning, middle, and end of your treatment. The doctor comes in to wave his/her magic wand for two minutes, sure, but its the nurses who are really caring for you. Let's hope more education investments and wage increases bring more nurses into the fold.

The last question came from someone who was breathy and ethereal sounding. It was really wierd. Obama just talked about pre-existing conditions relating to health care. Good save.

Meanwhile, on other economic issues, check this out:
http://artismoving.blogspot.com/2009/03/experience-economy.html

-Larson

A Proud Boy with his Poster Bored.

2009-03-25T20:43:00.006-04:00

Hi all-

The print shop at work turned out to be total failures, so I had to use sharpies to draw out my poster for the conference. The picture is above. It ended up getting more attention as a work of hand jammed psuedo-art. Pretty cool, really. All the time I spent carefully preparing the poster, adapting the format into power-point, pruning the text, filling in PA forms, etc. didn't make much of a difference, after all. The title 'Turning Philosophy into Science (via Magic!)' was the real winner.

Overall, good conference. However, the constant fumbling foibles with 'are we science?' 'where's the data?' 'Woe is me, nobody likes us!' was a little off-putting. This was supposed to be AAAI. No slouches. I did end up meeting some cool people, and having incidentally insightful conversations about coherence, experience, truth, etc. Mostly with the gov'ies.

Also the taker of the above picture and her friend were pretty cool folks.

More pictures here...
http://picasaweb.google.com/secondzflat/PaloAltoWelcomesYou

Rock and Roll,
Anthony

Ontologies are Scary

2009-03-24T17:32:00.005-04:00

Hey-

I heard a talk on yet another ontology effort. The domain was well chosen, and I wish other so-called 'ontologists' would show the same prudence. Too often I see the 'one giant ontology' idea rear its ugly head on one way or another. The recent framing attempt claims that 'communities of interest' are the answer, allowing small enclaves of users define the world away.

Ontology frightens me. It frightens me because I believe that language is alive. It arises out of the mutual consent of its speakers and the world they live in. It is immersed, hot, sticky, and should never be pinned down. Yes, I know it's a problem when people disagree or mis-communicate. Yes, I realize that Webster's dictionary disagrees with some of this claim. But there it is. My belief is that the freedom in interpreting language as we see fit goes straight to our basic freedom, condition, essance, soverignty, etc. The very fact that I can't find a word for this concept is exactly the point. We should all strive to be at a loss for words. It means we still have something to learn; a reason to be engaged.

So let your words fly, do not let the Semantic Web folks hold back your torrent of fluid, esoteric, post-hoc, and violently misunderstood words. Because they are your words.

-Larson

The Referential Nature of Information.

2009-03-16T22:46:00.002-04:00

Yo-

I've been working on art lately, I don't neglect this poor blog only because of artistic drought. Although that's sometimes a good reason too. Honestly, I'll take any excuse to just ignore the little empty white space that is begging me for words. It's begging, I say.

A new series of paintings is in the works... I just have to solve one of those engineering problems that come with teh territory. It involves using metal frames to push canvas into shapes; stretched outside the traditional, Cartesian two dimensions. I'm striking a blow to the third dimension... it will never be the same. Or something.

Otherwise, I've been putting some music up on my myspace page. Normally, I would not be on the myspace-ness, because as a craze it's over... and I can't be on a social network for social reasons, only because of bleeding edge technology reasons. I'm a the most frenetic luddite in town, y'all. However, since myspace hosts music, there it is. More of that music stuff to come.

I've also been working on a writing peice on twitter. You can follow anything started with #letter, it will recap you. I haven't been keeping much track of it honestly; it's kind of wandering. Tarry with me, I say!

The photo above was taken from my picasa album. There are more of them, but I need to do a better job at organizing them. More on that to come... I have a trip next week and will be photo-ing profusely. Via some tarrying.

-Larson

Conduit + Photo

2008-12-20T00:18:00.001-05:00

Conduit.

I'm staring down at my paintings and
letting them haunt me with the need
for continuity.

I wonder how long I can
self-obsess and claim humility at once

how long I can
fuck strangers and still stick a flag in 'naive'

I won't have an answer that's found
anywhere outside the canvas,
and that's what's keeping me away.
it's what's keeping me trading
1/3 sized replicas of moments
when i knew myself,
in the form of a sterile canvas
and a dirty art.

dropping down the drop cloth is the only way.
putting away the old, and walking up to
my first really blank canvas
(whatever that means);
letting the sight and sound
make itself known, and letting the conduit
be the only continuity.

-Larson

Mimosa + Photo

2008-12-18T22:07:00.006-05:00

Mimosa

We are meeting for breakfast.
We are passive-agressiving at each other.

You: "It's great that you are still treating art
as a full time job, even after all these years."

you are my mother and this is the thirty-seventh time you've said that.

Me: "it keeps me busy, way busy. I just thank god
that I decided against having kids."

we let our forks make that squeaking sound on the plate... I know you hate it, and you know that I inherited that trait from you. We have our own mutually assured destruction that goes quite nicely with our own cold war.

You: "I talked to Jenny, that girl you used to date the other day.
Her fiancé's a doctor, you know. I told her you said hi."

Defcon one. There's only so much a man can take.

Me: "I made your mimosa with cheap champagne."

You grab the knife, but only to cut your omelet. For a moment, I saw some white knuckles. That means I win.

-Larson

Thank you card outside my apartment...

2008-11-26T19:25:00.005-05:00

Hey all-

I found this strange card on the ground outside of my apartment. I had my digi with me, so here it is...

I opened it up and it had some text inside. Looked like someone went through the trouble of typing a thank you message out inside.

Here's a wider shot, the thing was getting pretty wet... since it's snowy and such up here in Utica (welcome to the six month winter).

Kinda weird. Not the first time I've found litter, but this is pretty up there in the 'wtf' sense.

Malibu?

-Larson

Pm: The beach by the generator shack

2008-11-17T23:06:00.005-05:00

The beach by the generator shack

There was oil in the water,
we were on a little beach.

Not the kind of beach that faces the sea,
but the kind against a murky lake...
all mud and tree trunks and alive.

The wet sand is showing rainbows.
I'm reminded of a grocery store parking lot,
the smell just begging for rain.

We are making sandcastles,
laughing and choking about who-knows-what-anymore,
speaking our own words together.
My hands are putting mud on you,
making little towers on your shoulder blade in dribble
and wiping them away.

We jump into the brown water,
and we are both too squeamish to go out far.
We both try to open our eyes underwater, only to see brown.
Pushing, pulling, daring, tangling for the first time.
Later I will blame it on the fumes,
but for a while I don't even know what I'm doing.

On a hike, you are sitting calmly
on a rock, with deerflies all around.
I'm swiping at them frantically, like king friggin kong out here.
"Just be still, and they'll leave you alone." Like fuck that'll work.
I've always been excitable,
and you've always wished people thought you calm.

We worked in the restaurant downstairs that night,
and each got a T-bone steak to eat.
upstairs in the bedroom,
after we finally stopped talking in the dark,
I heard your breath heavy and your blanket moving,
but now that the fumes have worn off,
I'm going to pretend that I don't hear.

In the morning, we'll sit on the front porch while
the old people come to the restaurant,
and your mother works the bar.

In the fall, we'll sit side-by-side on the bus.
The beach and the oil and the deerflies
will be very far away.
and so will we be very far away.

-Larson

Sketches and Poem

2008-11-15T00:05:00.001-05:00

From Sketches

Hi all-

I posted some sketches up here on google photos. Handy little place to keep lots of pictures for the world to enjoy. I hope you get a chance to take a look and enjoy them.

-Larson.

Also, here's a short poem, also for your enjoyment.

Driving

It happens when I'm driving
sometimes, I can feel everything at once.
the seat under me, the slick wheel
all cheap rubber. the belt on my collar bone
the dead air and pin pricks on my face.

and then I realize I'm still driving,
and jerk back into place.

often it gets me angry, to be unsafe
but every time it happens
part of me wants it to never stop,
because my greatest fear is that
it will never happen again.

A Find at the Bar...

2008-11-07T19:58:00.003-05:00

Hey,

I went to my local pissing spot for a... well... a piss. After my second drink I headed downstairs to make room. Here's what I saw on the stall.

What the hell is that? I'm all for graffiti... it's the reason I carry my point-and-shoot. But this is something else. Here's a closer shot.

Thoughts? Nobody else at the bar knew what was up... but then again, they weren't exactly in an art mood.

-Larson

We have 'good', how about 'human'?

2008-11-06T13:23:00.008-05:00

Hey all-

We have 'good'. There are a lot of 'good' things in the world, cheaper cars, better toasters, smarter phones, bigger airplanes, etc. These 'good' things come from technology. Engineers tinkering away and getting paid the big bucks to come up with more 'good'. We have that, and we have a process to get more. However, I believe that the process to get more 'good' is reaching a critical problem. Really a couple of problems. First, there is no ending condition for 'good'. 'Good' can always be 'better'. There is always just one more thing to do, one more attribute to increase, one more factor to optomize. This is because the world is messy and imperfect and kind of crazy, but the engineers and business-folks who want 'good' will never admit it. The second problem is that 'good' also includes 'good' cost. In other words, the cost of designing, producing, shipping, and consuming 'good' things is dropping. In fact, cheaper is part of being 'good'. So these two problems get us one thing: never ending increases in quality combined with never ending drops in cost. And then the world gets its say, and kind of ruins it... or at least tarnishes.

So, we have a lot of 'good'. But do we have enough 'human'? To me, the human-ness of something admits the messy nature of the world. The uncertain nature of our reality. The conflicting nature of our decisions. The ordinary, everyday, profound ambivilence that consumes us all. On one hand, it's disabling because there is never any certainty. On the other, it's great because it means we can always act right from the here and now. Humans are finite. There is an upper bound. Despite the messy, uncertain world, people make decisions all the time. We go on regardless. And I'm talking something that '80% is good enough' kind of reasoning can capture. I'm talking about the world that blows a probability space away. Poeple act right from the seat of their pants, right from here and now, and don't even realize the power that's there or what kind of odds it overcomes. And yet here we are, and yet here we are.

What kind of technology is 'human'? And where can we get more?

-Larson

Sound Pm/Phto

2008-10-26T21:55:00.005-04:00

Sound

War is making the sound
that a car accident makes.
the kind of sound that
you feel in your hands,
and it’s nothing like the movies.

This kind of sound is a sham,
because they never show us
the real version on the screen.
I’d be ready if they did.

No, I’m a liar.
If they did that, I would
walk out… which is
something I cannot do right now.

But I have to… I am walking out,
getting out, going down the hall
to the other movie that’s playing
for the same eight dollars

I’m sitting down,
and I’m watching this film.

I’m keeping my eyes
steady while the world shakes.

I am watching the war we aren’t fighting.
the war over being able to
buy a person in Haiti for fifty dollars.
fifty dollars, U.S.

-Larson

Laura Jones, Suck on This

2008-10-19T16:59:00.004-04:00

Hi all-

Just finished my first comic book. So far, the pages are up on my google pics account as images. Each page is one image, so you can flip through the album like a book. here's the link to the album.

http://picasaweb.google.com/secondzflat/LauraJonesSuckOnThis

As I find a way to make a little flipbook for you to enjoy, I will put it up here for your enjoyment. In the meantime, enjoy reading the comic in 'raw' form. More to come!

-Larson Broome

Stressed but I'll be back soon.

2008-10-07T15:39:00.004-04:00

Hey all-

Sometimes I get really stressed out. We all do. In those times, I read posts like this from Gaping Void for perspective. Good advice is often free.

-Anthony

Little moments of Graffiti

2008-08-27T13:35:00.003-04:00

Yo-

Above from Seattle, WA. Sometimes I feel like I could walk by such a snippet anywhere, though. Part of me wants to. The side of a brick building, delapidated fencing, small moments of graffiti both obvious and inert. There's something about the illusion we have when we are walking down the street. The version of the world in our head and the version right in front of us. There's something to the level of importance we give to one or the other; how we pick and choose what to accent and what to ignore.

Sometimes my friends and I say that America is a third world country. We have a lot of stuff, a lot of money, and a lot of self-esteem. Really, though, what we have is the version in our head. The version that delicately leaves out the ones left behind. The buildings falling apart. The little corners of not-so-clean. We talk a big game, but there are still so many just not cared for, or cared about.

It's so easy to walk down the street and never let these things come into your head. It's also just as easy to focus only on them and get lost in the self-pity and dispair. What's hard is the balance between, where you know how to look for what should be there, and also see the little moments of graffiti. Look at the little dents in the perfection, that show us there's still a need for hope.

-A

Pm/Phto: Road

2008-08-09T19:01:00.001-04:00

The other day I saw a woman
walking down the street in one-inch heels
meandering into the road
like it wasn't anywhere special
like there was no word 'road'
and it wasn't a place of its own

I was angry at the time,
she was in a place that the car I was in
belonged to. I was in a car that I
belonged to.

Now I wonder if she's one person
pulled away just enough
to lope over the asphalt yard
and not even think
about the car she belongs to.

Wine Label

2008-07-02T23:15:00.000-04:00

you show your face to me like a wine label
and i'm trying to figure our what part of france you are from
somewhere warm where the wine is crisp,
or somewhere else and all dried up?

did you notice that i don't know a thing about wine,
besides that it is grapey?
and it involves something called a bouquet
(but not the kind you give someone)

And so I keep you on top of the refrigerator
or in the downstairs cupboard
and you'll stay there
because I never know how long you should keep
or if this birthday, or anniversary, or graduation,
or thursday, or boat christening, or memorial day
is toast-worthy enough to spoil you for a moment
and a whiff of your bouquet.

Strawberry

2008-06-25T21:00:00.004-04:00

it's a quiet and beautiful life when you know how to
make yourself exactly half a pot of coffee.

i leave things around accidentally
like tissues with my blood on it,
a cat scratch or dry day for my nose
i forget that there's things here that aren't from the inside of me.

does it bother you to know that i can be so forgetful
of the kind of hygiene that keeps everyone separate
and not part of each other?

I eat strawberries with the coffee and I'm trying to remember
not to make that sucking sound
when I bite them off the green part on top.

It's quiet at this part of the afternoon.
There's light in the window and I can see the dust floating in it
it is floating up and down like it's getting heavy and it's
getting light all at once only to stay in place all told.

Let me make you some coffee
and you can hold this bag while I tidy up this mess.

Who is Larson Broome?

2008-06-19T17:42:00.002-04:00

Hi all-

Looks like I'm starting back into this thing again. I've just gotten done with a huge event, presenting a conference paper. This is crazy stuff, this Giving Talks, this Having Work. Being someone who actually asks questions like "What do you consider to be knowledge?"

Here's a link to the paper, that you can read:
http://www.dodccrp.org/events/13th_iccrts_2008/papers/037.doc

Now that the presentation is behind me, I'm feeling a bit better... Like it's time to stop being in Crisis Mode, that the hurdle is past. That it's a whole story I can tell myself now. That it's OK now to come up for air.

Life has been happening so much over the past few months, and I've been neglecting these artifacts I can leave behind. In the wake, in the moment. So I'm wiping the dust off.

So Larson Broome is back, and we are still asking who he is. In Second Life, Larson Broome has a redisigned art gallery / AI lab that you should visit. In First Life, Larson Broome is still awash in his own concept. Still a blur we aren't pinning down yet. Situated, embodied, and nowhere. So stay tuned, there is more to ask of Larson Broome; more explaining himself that needs to be done.

In the mean time, I have several new poems that I've written in the months since we left off. I'll be sharing those and writing some more. So, Rock On.

Best,
A

On New Notebook, New Second Life.

2008-03-11T11:47:00.002-04:00

Hi all-

I got a new morning pages notebook. It has heavier paper, so that I can use a felt-tipped pen without it bleeding through. Intead, it bleeds out, just about a half a milimeter in every direction. I imagine it makes a hissing sound as it falls outward, like it would ina movie. Anyway, it's those little things that keep me comming back to the page. I'm just a simple creature after all.

In other news, I am working on an art gallery / AI lab in Second Life also called 'Who is Larson Broome?' I will let you know when it gets rolling... there are only two photos up on the wall right now. I'm in the Excellens region... if you are a Second Lifer, come find me.

-A

On Arting it up More, Getting off the Ground.

2008-03-05T10:49:00.006-05:00

Hi all-

Things are looking up. I wrote my morning pages (that's three pages of freehand writing) for the first time in a long while. I mostly went on about how guilty I should feel for meing away from the page for so long. But I realized that is just ego. Julia Cameron talks about "the wall" as a block we put up for ourselves about 2/3 of the way through a project. The part where we are crippled because we start caring about the product rather than the process. I think much of my artistic endeavors have hit their own "walls". This doesn't mean I have to backtrack to a more artisitic, idealised past. Rather, I have to check myself, my perfectionism, and my ego and get back into the thick of things.

If you are looking for inspiration, sometimes the best thing to do is stop worrying about it. Just get out there, put yourself on the line, and something will come to you. Get into survival mode.

I can't promise that I will become magically more artistic, or even that I can keep doing morning pages everyday, but I will be putting myself out on the line for it. Accepting that I've fallen off of it, and get back on. When you fall off the horse, you have to get back on. Or more pointedly, when you fall off the horse, you have to admit you are on the ground, dust yourself off, and then get back on the horse.

Here's to looking up from the ground.

-A

On Sideways Smile.

2008-02-26T11:22:00.004-05:00

Sideways Smile.

He had a funny, sideways smile,

like he was trying to tell me something.
maybe it was that he had nothing to say,

at least nothing i hadn't heard before.

it's not like I had been around the block or anything,

but i could smell bullshit,
sometimes from almost a whole foot off.
and maybe, just maybe, he could smell that i could smell.

that's why he was a little lighter.
that's why every sentence was weaseled:
"Some people say..."
"I heard somewhere..."
"A lot of people think..."

Maybe it's those little nose hairs that

won't let him say something and mean it.
or maybe it's those little ear hairs that

won't let him hear himself
and how ridiculous it is to never actually say anything,

even though there's
so much talking.
so much talking.
so much jerking off, going on and on about ourselves.

it's your little smile that gives you all that power.
some people believe in shit like that,

maybe because if they called your bluff
they'd have to call theirs.
it's an uneasy truce; it's a delicate circle-jerk.

On The Wall

2008-02-14T10:25:00.004-05:00

The Wall.

Me, I realize that I am a good man and deserve a good stack.
for too long the idea was a light through a wet tree...
the branches are a fun way to grow; just know where your roots
are and you should be in a basic beat.

He's a military dork like me. he had a great time just
running errands, those late night runs.

And then I got used to being elbow deep
into the nearest wall putting our mouths
so close, so close, so stumbling in the dark.

He leaves me now in the bright field, basking in the sun.

On Corners

2008-02-08T11:41:00.001-05:00

Corners.

They talk of the music we'd make strangely this day.
Dream all day that I have read to them in a big corner mirror,
and I wondered why they were me.

I realize that I am, after a good sentence. Oh I know now life.

I am the party that occurs each weekend because
of the photos of my grandfather. He was in the service.

He had nothing to say, at least not in this post, to sound off
on what they don't seem to escape this moment, those right-proper peeping toms.

On Believing with '-ist', Being with '-er'

2008-01-25T11:49:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

That's my cat Ralph. Just giving the model credit.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what happens when you put '-er' at the end of a verb and call yourself that. What does calling myself 'writer' or 'photographer' or 'drummer' mean? What does it do to my expectations about the work. Gaping Void, in its ongoing 'How to Be Creative' series, talks about what happens to your work when you 'make it'. I'm talking about the step before that.

What happens to your work when it becomes 'you work' and not just something fun you do. Something that takes up your time. What's the difference between you owning your art and your art owning you back? I feel the expectations rise every time I get really into something and start calling myself a 'something-er'. I'm going to actively avoid that kind of language for a while. Let myself be a 'scientist and artist' and letting anything in between those poles come my way.

-A

On Hitting the Button, Not Showing Off, Capturing Moments.

2008-01-23T16:23:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

Someone about to take a photo has to answer a fundamental question: is this the moment I want to capture? Because really, even in the age of digital photography and very large memory cards, you only get one chance. Even if it comes out blurry, that was the moment. That's what you got of it, and it is never coming back again. It's a big part of taking the best snapshot, or effectively using the time of a photoshoot. Both are just instants, and even though in some cases you can try again, it's not really the same anymore. I don't need to convince you of this.

It takes judgment. Knowing when to hit that button and commit to something. Maybe not the best photo in the world, but something. I'm learning more and more in music that technique in and to itself is not enough. You can have the best technique in the world, but without the judgement to put it to good use, you are just showing off. You have to trust yourself. Maybe the best photo, or the best drum piece, is kind of handjammed and simple. Minimal and kind of blurry. A little off focus, but really what you needed all along.

-A

On Everyone, Hopping Planes, Art.

2008-01-14T15:26:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

We live in a world where everyone can touch everything. Within a day or so, I can hop a plane and be nearly anywhere on Earth. Then, once I'm at the closest airport, a few days of searching might put me in contact with any one out of the 6,000,000,000 people out there. And we all leave a mark. Not just cosmically, but sometimes in very real ways. The lives we affect, the places we change, the bits of ourselves we leave behind. Here we see a little of everyone, all put together in the same place, in Philadelphia. These pieces of art are connected to people, who are connected to each other, so on and so on until everyone has been in or watched a Kevin Bacon film. And here it is for you, and now you are connected to it, and to me. What do we leave behind? Can it all be art? Please?

-A

On Wire, Ego, Law.

2008-01-09T11:24:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

There's all sorts of stuff shooting around on these wires these days. I'm just an old fogie for even bringing it up. It's moot. It's last year's news. It's law, like gravity. It's over, old Joe, turn in your badge and gun and go home. But it just keeps nagging me. Not that I think we are getting too advanced. Just that we aren't advanced enough. Is there such a thing as a consistent identity on the wire? Not just an IP address, but something human. Something consistent. We see more and more expression everyday. More than anyone has ever been able to before. Sometimes I just don't want to talk about it anymore. Sometimes I'd rather just totally integrate. Make the wire something not so other. Is it that distance that still lets us keep our human egos? Is the lack of human identity, or its redefinition, the thing that keeps corn fed boys at bay? One thing is for certain, we as humans have an unprecedented opportunity to express ourselves. So much so that it's becoming impossible to be heard. But then again maybe it always was. The wire becomes the world.

-A

On Concrete is Not a Pun, Only One Inch of Sky, And Oh Yeah, Faith

2008-01-08T14:47:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

Sometimes the prospect of faith can be daunting. I know that's a really abstract statement, but what can I say besides that's just the rub of it. We are trying to tackle some idea or conception of something we've never seen. Maybe we don't want to see it anyway, worrying about the disappointment our perceptions would be to some notion of Platonic ideal. Ruining what we represent as an object of faith with a mundane reality. Yet people still flock to buildings like the one pictured here. Maybe it's not as abstract as I first thought. Maybe people are afraid of not seeing, not having this concrete noun to pin as the center of faith. I'm not sure either way, I guess it depends on the individual. The real or the ideal. The building or the sky behind it.

-A

On Trash, Walking By, Sitting Down

2007-12-26T16:07:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

This was taken outside of an antique store which closed before I ever went in. Here, outside the store, is an antique-looking thing just relaxing on the sidewalk. It has almost become a chair here, inving me to sit down, but I was busy that day, like most days, and didn't see it at the time. That I should just chill. Take it a bit easier. Stop seeing trash as trash, and realize that the antiques inside the store with price tags and the antiques outside the store are really the same thing. What you pay for is the promise that what's old isn't trash. What's free is the perspective to not need the price tag to tell you that.

-A

On Tweeting, More Soon Stay Tuned.

2007-12-12T16:12:00.000-05:00

Hi all-

Working hard at my science work lately, so no new art to share. Worked on part of a poem last night though, so there is light at the end of the tunnel.

The topic of my current research paper is the establishment of truth in case-based reasoning. More simply put, how can we believe the stories other people tell us?

More upcoming. Also, I have a twitter now. See links on the side and stuff.

-A

On Criticism, Flowers, Etc.

2007-10-18T10:23:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Took this one a while back. Submitted it to a photo contest and it made it to the final round... to be honest I'm not sure how it would have done because I didn't get the release in on time. I was a bit less confident then.

Sometimes I wonder if times like that we aren't subtly sabotaging ourselves. We get all big and inflated when we create the art, but then when someone shows interest, we withdraw. "Who me? I'm no artist, don't look at my work." We say to ourselves. Well maybe someone wants to look, and maybe it doesn't take being an "artist" to make things worth seeing. Maybe I'm channeling Julia Cameron here, but we all need the space to create. Once you make that space, don't let the fear of criticism (positive or negative) scare you out of the territory you found.

-A

On Ice Cream in Boonville

2007-09-27T11:41:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

I ate ice cream here once. It was about a year ago around this time of year. It was sixty degrees out and I sat outside on the trunk of my car. I was listening to 'On Your Shore' by Charlotte Martin. More specifically 'Steel'. Which I was. Or at least was becoming.

-A

On Changing the Pace Here

2007-09-27T11:38:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

The pace of only putting things up here that are 'finished' just isn't working for me. I think I want to peel this process back open a bit. Expect more snippets and pieces rather than defined wholes.

The page is the trail home.

And this time it's one step at a time.

-A

On Round Smooth Stone

2007-09-04T22:16:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

"i was standing in a red-lit room
near the front of the mirror
we were all playing dress-up
going topless but throwing on a blazer
and everybody was looking at themselves
in a big corner mirror.

and i wondered why anybody would
want to do that
when there is a perfectly good kitchen door
that you can prop yourself up in
if you stand sideways and push with your legs
like a caver

and i wondered why they were looking at themselves
when it was me who actually exercised
and ate right
and lived healthy
well, in most ways
they were all looking at his abs
which had seen too many crunches and
not enough heavy lifting
(i'm speaking of the emotional sort as well here)

i used to wonder if the people at the mirror then
could get though eating a bowl of cereal
without staring at the glassy milk until it spoiled
and i realized that climbing the kitchen was
much more fun than the blazer was

eventually i skipped the scene
like a round smooth stone over the water
only not leaving any ripples on the mirror
(because heaven forbid)
it was more like i
bounced

and i got used to the awkward silence
and i got used to the being alone
and i got used to the $10 DVD as boyfriend
and i got used to the late night runs
and then i got used to being on my own
and then i got used to the peeps who gave a shit
and then i got used to the laughter
and being ok with being
a round smooth stone

and i still don't really look at the only mirror in my place
except to brush my teeth
to get out all that cereal
because baby i'm eating three bowls a day
with my eyes wide closed."

-A

On Washer Standing

2007-08-21T00:46:00.001-04:00

Hi all-

Washer Standing

"You only get mad about
being seen doing things
you know are wrong.

That's why the man
yelling at his kid in the
Laundromat doesn't care
if I hear him or pretend I don't.

That's when I saw you.
In one of those fleece
coats with logos on the
chest and on the back
as if it's also the chest

You have one of those
hats you've bent the
brim into blinders on,
and it frames your glasses well.

It's your calfs that get me.
That little muscle you can see
flex when you're just so
reaching into the dryer.

I stand against my
washer where you can see me.
Reading my book and glancing,
trying not to be as awkward as me.

Because I'd never actually
start a conversation with a hot man.
Waitresses, strangers in line
at the store, they're a different story.

At least you know your
clothes are well-folded, as
you meticulously put them away.

And I know my T-shirts are
brighter white, like our track
records as we pass each other by."

-A

On Plastic Bubbles for Only a Quarter

2007-08-19T14:31:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Plastic Bubble

"She was one of those people
that if you put a quarter in the machine
and turned the crank
you'd get out in a plastic bubble
when you really wanted the bouncy ball
or the plastic spider ring

when you've forgone jerry's kids
and a handful of decade old madeup fruit candy
to try your luck at something longer lasting

now all you have is this woman
standing outside the bar and smiling
with men all around her
and you wonder what they see in her
that makes her a better toy
than this plastic bubble."

-A

On Graffiti

2007-08-10T21:44:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

"when i see graffiti. I'm glad to see that the post-industrial bullshit thats put up all clean and white can still get its hands dirty. all the future lawyers and firemen, the aggressive youths of today are really just human vines. creeping up the sides of the white concrete and holding that overpass back down to the earth. nature's vines are curvy and wet... human vines are all angles and dry. blue and purple and covered in a name sake only possible by something with so much self and so little self-control. Much like a vine. Much like a future."

-A

On Tans and Spears

2007-08-08T08:40:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Cross posted from LJ...

"These plants need water like I need this tan I'm trying to get. That tan that makes sure that my first long day out in the sun this year won't bake me like a potato. That's what winter does to you: it makes you pile on aluminum foil that's guaranteed to melt the butter on you before you escape.

I don't water his. I leave them to whatever plan or schedule he follows. They aren't mine to encroach upon; it's not my place. Besides, they are exotic things with stiff leaves and ceramic pots. My plants are things like ivy and bamboo in whatever plastic container they came in. Watering them is easy. Do you have water? If so, give them some. End of story. His plants are complicated, and I best leave them well enough alone.

The sun is crisping the edges of the leaves in this window. I wonder how many times I'll have to lay in the sun to get the tan I'm looking for. Five, ten? No way to know. When I go from looking like a lima bean to a coffee bean without stopping at kidney, that'll be how many times. No, coffee beans are too dark, that's too lofty a goal for my complexion... I'd be setting myself up for failure.

I only want to be as dark as the construction worker I saw as I drove home today. the kind of tan you get when you haven't quite let your last sunburn heal before you go out and get another one. The kind of tan that he never even asked for, he was just doing his job. Roofs, decks, front lawns. He became beautiful by complete accident, which is something working in an office does not afford you. I have to go out looking for my accidents. Day by day I have to stalk them. If I did so in nothing but a loin cloth, beauty would come faster I think. More sun that way. More muscle from carrying that heavy spear."

-A

On Afternoon Coffee

2007-08-07T12:05:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Cross-posted from LJ...

"afternoon coffee

I've taken to having a cup of coffee and some fruit in the afternoon. This is much like tea and cakes but without either. Today is strawberries. It's summer now, and time for strawberries, although the ones from the grocery store are all bruised and either too ripe or not enough. One has a green tip, and I eat it anyway. When you live in a place with four seasons, it's not enough that you hate winter, you have to love summer too.

Only two of the five are worth eating, despite the begrudging acceptance of sub-standard berries. I sip my coffee occasionally, trying to take in a book. There's some white paint on my hands that I forgot to wipe off, and some blood too. I had itched my ear hard wrong. Moments like that you hardly think about until you go to shake someone's hand. In this case, I'm more worried about staining the page.

I painted some sunflowers this afternoon, which is where the paint came from. The painting looks like a five year old made it for their grandma. They would've taken more care if it were for mom and pop, they are paying attention to skill, after all. We all know grandma just appreciates the thought. Above the four sunflowers I had written 'sunflowers... always cheer me up!' This is both a statement and a command. Sometimes there's need for one or the other. Paintings should be flexible. I'll probably put this one somewhere obvious for a while, on the pub table or near the console. I want to be cheered up, and I want people to see that, yes, I do paint like a five year old, and no, it's not just to be charming, I really am that bad at painting. No need for pity, it's the summer time and sun flowers are the bee's knees."

-A

On Coupled Profiles

2007-07-31T09:51:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Here's some writing...

"I love looking at the online profiles that members of a couple keep. The little notes they leave for each other, the inside jokes, the goofy widgets couples always seem to find.

I saw the profile of a man I went on a date once. He's coupled now, and his profile gives you the whiff of it from ten miles off. I'm so happy for him. Really... these guys are so cute together. It's one of those blonde/brunette couples, where you can tell them apart by hair color but thy are otherwise generally similar. Those are the best couples, really. Very egalitarian.

It's very cute. Little anonymous gifts... doodles... photo comments where they are both in every photo anyway... the whole nine. I wonder if 4x6, 5x7, and similar aspect ratios of photo are specifically built to catch two smiling faces side by side. Or one half in front of the other, both about to drink from their beers. Under a tree. In front of a lake. The frame of a photo is just enough to lay out flat the room for two we already see the world in. Photos don't make a new frame for anything; we are already framed. None the less, they are perfect in photos together, like every couple.

So I'm happy for him. Happy for his cute, filled up profile. It was only one date anyway, what do I care? He's doing all right, the photos tell me so. I'm happy for him. I'm so happy, I can't stop crying."

-A

On Hello World

2007-07-31T09:01:00.000-04:00

Hi all-

Yes, I know everyone has a blog already. Yes, I know it's sort of a five-years-ago thing. Yes, there are bigger and better ways to write things down, etc. However, I started a blog anyway.

Why? Well, I'm a bit nutty. Also, this will be a place to put my writing that is not intermingled with my everyday life. This way, my LiveJournal can be for my friends, and this Blog can be for writing, photography, art, etc.

This is my Blog for when you don't want to know what color my socks are today (I only own white ones anyway), but there is some cool stuff I want to talk about. So have at it.

First post forthcoming.

-A