I never did get outside yesterday, I was so low, but I did distract myself with a movie--HouseMate has bought a large-screen TV--the first either of us have ever had.
I say "large", but by modern standards it's a "small", at 38 inches––and, as you all probably know, electronics are ridiculously cheap now. It cost less than $200.
I wouldn't have bought another piece of electronics myself, but I admit it's nicer to watch a movie on a big screen than on a laptop.
I watched a biopics, Walk the Line, about Johnny Cash. I'd loved it when it came out, and on rewatching too. I was thinking it was a recent movie, but it's from 2005. Ha! That explains why I didn't remember it very well.
When you're low, sometimes it helps to hear about suffering.
It cheered me up--watching someone wreck their life and then get it together. Also, my parents bought Live at Folsom Prison when it came out--I was seven--so Johnny Cash is part of my childhood.
That Joaquin Phoenix is so freakin' good, I'm even considered watching The Joker, though it looks pretty distressing. (Maybe on my laptop--the impact is smaller.)
Has anyone seen it?
Last night I started to read Ocean Vuong's On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous.
I can see why people love it––it's crammed with potent images––but I'm disappointed.
I do like the stories Vuong tells, but his writing is a kind I don't care for (and chose not to write)--the portentous kind, where every little thing is lustrous with significance . . . and described with words such as "lustrous".
(Maybe it's an age thing--I probably would have loved it in my twenties, when I loved Mahler.)
Vuong writes some truly great sentences. I already quoted the one about how being offered kindness is proof you are broken.
But then, sometimes a metaphor is a bit off.
For instance, "Can you tell the rain has grown heavy, its keystrokes peppering the blue shawl black?"
To me, "keystrokes peppering" is jarring.
Does it matter?
It does.
It's like when you're eating a piece of banana bread and your tooth hits a tiny bit of walnut shell.
For the rest of the piece, you're chewing tentatively.
I'm reading tentatively.
I don't know what you call this kind of writing.
I think of it as the Mary Oliver School of poetry.
I like it OK, and I do see why it means a lot to people:
it's tender and validating, and so many of us are traumatized.
But a little goes a long way.
And if it's not perfectly spot-on, it can be embarrassing.
Personally I always found Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese", many people's favorite poem, to be ridiculous. Meaning no disrespect--I can see why it means a lot to people--but this line, for instance, makes me laugh:
But the soft animal of this here body thinks,
"Yes! Beer and ice cream for dinner again!"
Which is OK––I do get to love what I love, I'm not evil for that––but I don't think that's the poet was going for.
Also, specific to me, "soft animal" is a plushie, which is also a bit ridiculous.
(My stuffed animals do love this poem! "More Treats for Bears" is their motto.)
Sometimes the writing is worse than ridiculous.
"You do not have to be good", the poem starts.
Again, if you've been humiliated with the idea that you DO have to be good, (when you were a naturally good kid), I can see that this line is a balm.
But I first read the poem when I was in the middle of a love affair with a married man, and that line was useless piffle.
It sounds to me like,
Finally, wild geese?
Wild Canada geese come up the Mississippi and camp out at the city lakes every year. While they look elegant in the sky and on the water, on the ground they are hostile pillows that walk, honk, and hiss at you.
They leave the park walkways slimy with green shit.
Still, as I say, the stories are good, and I'm going to finish reading it. But then I'll pass it along.
In contrast to Penelope Fitzgerald's lean and unsentimental Bookshop, which I am keeping. She leaves no soft toys standing.
I say "large", but by modern standards it's a "small", at 38 inches––and, as you all probably know, electronics are ridiculously cheap now. It cost less than $200.
I wouldn't have bought another piece of electronics myself, but I admit it's nicer to watch a movie on a big screen than on a laptop.
I watched a biopics, Walk the Line, about Johnny Cash. I'd loved it when it came out, and on rewatching too. I was thinking it was a recent movie, but it's from 2005. Ha! That explains why I didn't remember it very well.
When you're low, sometimes it helps to hear about suffering.
It cheered me up--watching someone wreck their life and then get it together. Also, my parents bought Live at Folsom Prison when it came out--I was seven--so Johnny Cash is part of my childhood.
That Joaquin Phoenix is so freakin' good, I'm even considered watching The Joker, though it looks pretty distressing. (Maybe on my laptop--the impact is smaller.)
Has anyone seen it?
Last night I started to read Ocean Vuong's On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous.
I can see why people love it––it's crammed with potent images––but I'm disappointed.
I do like the stories Vuong tells, but his writing is a kind I don't care for (and chose not to write)--the portentous kind, where every little thing is lustrous with significance . . . and described with words such as "lustrous".
(Maybe it's an age thing--I probably would have loved it in my twenties, when I loved Mahler.)
Vuong writes some truly great sentences. I already quoted the one about how being offered kindness is proof you are broken.
But then, sometimes a metaphor is a bit off.
For instance, "Can you tell the rain has grown heavy, its keystrokes peppering the blue shawl black?"
To me, "keystrokes peppering" is jarring.
Does it matter?
It does.
It's like when you're eating a piece of banana bread and your tooth hits a tiny bit of walnut shell.
For the rest of the piece, you're chewing tentatively.
I'm reading tentatively.
I don't know what you call this kind of writing.
I think of it as the Mary Oliver School of poetry.
I like it OK, and I do see why it means a lot to people:
it's tender and validating, and so many of us are traumatized.
But a little goes a long way.
And if it's not perfectly spot-on, it can be embarrassing.
Personally I always found Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese", many people's favorite poem, to be ridiculous. Meaning no disrespect--I can see why it means a lot to people--but this line, for instance, makes me laugh:
"You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves."I get it that if you've been told your desires are sinful and you are bad, this is redemptive.
But the soft animal of this here body thinks,
"Yes! Beer and ice cream for dinner again!"
Which is OK––I do get to love what I love, I'm not evil for that––but I don't think that's the poet was going for.
Also, specific to me, "soft animal" is a plushie, which is also a bit ridiculous.
(My stuffed animals do love this poem! "More Treats for Bears" is their motto.)
Sometimes the writing is worse than ridiculous.
"You do not have to be good", the poem starts.
Again, if you've been humiliated with the idea that you DO have to be good, (when you were a naturally good kid), I can see that this line is a balm.
But I first read the poem when I was in the middle of a love affair with a married man, and that line was useless piffle.
It sounds to me like,
"You do not need to ground your refrigerator.
Let the electricity travel its natural path."
Finally, wild geese?
Wild Canada geese come up the Mississippi and camp out at the city lakes every year. While they look elegant in the sky and on the water, on the ground they are hostile pillows that walk, honk, and hiss at you.
They leave the park walkways slimy with green shit.
Still, as I say, the stories are good, and I'm going to finish reading it. But then I'll pass it along.
In contrast to Penelope Fitzgerald's lean and unsentimental Bookshop, which I am keeping. She leaves no soft toys standing.
