It appears that I will be in Toronto tomorrow. My purpose in the meeting, roughly articulated - just barely, mind you - is to be the hip new media chick. Oh joy. Just me and my trendy spectacles. Later, we're meeting for drinks. Write if you want to join us.
I believe very much in frustration as what takes me from here to there. I don't much like it, but it gives me something to push back against.
It seems my far-flung family will convene in one place next week for Passover, which is wonderful and unexpected.
And thanks for your kind thoughts. In some cases your email addresses were mangled en route, so please consider this my reply. Thank you.
One of my favorite 5k entries is called Fun with Fibonacci, which takes a similar but hydralike form in an old episode (no.41, check the archives) of Modern Living.
Periodically I feel like twirling, standing in the street and looking up. But sometimes I just feel like crossing the street and moving forwards.
today's entry guest-authored by Audrey Herbst.
and Dirk's gallery
Some things are over or becoming over and while that seems good there's a bit of a sadness too. Sadness not necessarily related to the things that are over but just some small unlocalized malaise. I am doing a lot of reassuring these days. And am not feeling at all reassured. I am impatient with myself and recognize full well the ineffectiveness of impatience. I am owed and am owing great sums of money, as is fairly typical in mid-April. I am not connecting with people I very much want to connect with, people I see rarely and people I see less rarely, and can't even describe how that makes me feel.
And, oh yes. If you're reading this because you have some sort of data-sleuthing job that required you to track down information about me, you have no business here anymore. I don't want to see your IP addresses in my logs. Go away.
other nice flash from the finalists + winners of the Flash Film Festival
Every time I see Carmen or listen to a recording there's one phrase that gets stuck in my head. It's in the second act, after Don Jose gets out of prison and comes to find Carmen at Lillas Pastia's tavern. It's the small moment in the story where we understand that she loves him, and she begins to dance for him, just before the trumpets sound and he tells her he needs to leave. She puts on the castanets and circles him. Tra lalala la la la la. Tra lalala la la la la. Tra lalala la la la la la la la la la la. The melody doesn't change very much at all, yet it sums up the entire score in a few short moments, buoyant at the beginning and a sad unquiet resignation at the end.
After the opera we went to dinner and then Saturday I accomplished nearly nothing at all, falling into a coma-like sleep in the middle of the beautiful afternoon. Afterwards I went to dinner with Ranjit and Nora, and then saw High Fidelity.
on the radio right now: Lullaby Baxter
Just back from a nice walk with Jouke and suddenly from my window the city is completely still. Usually there is some sort of activity in adjacent windows or on rooftops and now even the clouds are somehow languid in the sky.
Last night was the First Things First panel and afterwards we talked about the fact that some of the audience left before it was over. I don't know, I said, it seems to me that the mere chance that Milton Glaser would open his mouth again was enough to keep me in my seat. That and lots of other good and provocative thinking. And a small commercial for IDIE from the tired but still charming Jouke.
and despite some unfortunate antics involving a paperclip, Paul is still one of my very favorite writers and the White Paper project he's doing with Catherine is truly a collision of remarkable particles.
I've been thinking quite a bit about singing lately. About what the purpose of singing was once upon a time, when Scottish weavers created walking songs as they walked the wool or how sea shanties provided rhythms for hoisting sails. All of this inspired perhaps by the prison songs, the pounding axes punctuating choruses. Sadly there aren't any songs for the work I do, no chants to ensure we're all moving in the same direction at the same time.
There is an appeal in writing molecularly. The tiniest capturable moment. Finding words to describe the specific way each small thing, like a key, can be shaped differently from others of its kind. The long vertical slashes. The scalloped dips on the edges. The trapezoid head.
Understand that like nanotechnology, sometimes nanoreportage is where things make sense these days.
Yesterday we saw the Nam June Paik show at the Guggenheim and then meandered through Central Park and other parts of the city I rarely visit. The show was very well curated, and displayed some of his older pieces in such a way that they appeared to have been designed for the curved galleries and unique viewing distances the Guggenheim affords. Of the new pieces, a six-story waterfall with a dazzling mirror and laser sine wave formation was the most riveting.
I was looking for poisson d'avril links and was excited to see that Altavista found Heather. Alas, Ms. Champ makes poissons of us with her 404. (the oddest p d'a tale)
And Emily Barton's The Testament of Yves Gundron is quite a remarkable novel.
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