From Finnegan's Wake, James Joyce

A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-sons. Dark hawks near us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, elm. Night night. Tehmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!

From Lavengro, George Burrow

There's night and day, brother,
both sweet things; sun, moon, and
stars, brother, all sweet things; there's
likewise a wind on the heath. Life is
very sweet, brother; who would wish
to die?

"Pretty Noises," A Pantoum for English 28D

My admiration welled up inside as she spoke:
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises.
My grin had become rictus; my eyes locked
To hers: they flickered as she read my face.

Her mouth movements produced pretty noises,
Still, on and on she went, until I pressed my lips
To hers: they flickered as I read her face.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, then

On she went, until I pressed my lips
Against my finger and she stopped truncated.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, as
She put her hand in mine. I could feel her warmth

Against my fingers and I stopped truncated.
It was over, all over. I understood.
She put her other hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Leave, as she made for the door.

It was over, all over. I don’t understand
And then there was nothing, nothing. I wasn’t ready to
Leave, as she made for the door.
The pretty noises still haunt the rafters, and I still don’t know.

Grievances to Lisa the Receptionist, Greenberg Traurig, LLP

From: Radocay, Jonathan (BStf-OC-Rec)
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 6:01 PM
To: Lidestri, Lisa M. (BStf-OC-Rec)
Subject: RIP

Dearest Lisa,

Our beloved printer has passed on. I think we should meet to arrange services. The mortician, Mr. Doray, placed the death at around 5:30 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, the first of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. I am grieved as I am sure you are as well, but we must concentrate on the good times we've shared; the laughs and cries; the wisdom imparted. I don't think we'll ever again be blessed with a printer of such outstanding caliber.

And our mouse. The water proved too much to bear; insanity has afflicted it. I'm sorry. This was my fault. I thought it thirsty -- little did I know then, water is poison to this gentle creature. Mr. Doray comforted me, though. Another mouse will enter our service.

Oh sweet heavens! As I write this morbid letter, our little tucker the mouse has grown well. Mr. Doray, however, has provided a companion just in case. It is in your personal drawer.

I fear of late I am the bringer of death; the bleak grim: a most accursed omen. Forgive me if you ever could. I've half a mind to enter the priesthood, after all that I have done. I can only hope God can forgive my most egregious sins.

With great sorrow and regret,

Jonathan D. Radocay
Intern
Greenberg Traurig, LLP

The Human in Supplication, Psalm 13

לַמְנַצֵּחַ, מִזְמוֹר לְדָוִד
ב עַד-אָנָה יְהוָה, תִּשְׁכָּחֵנִי נֶצַח; עַד-אָנָה, תַּסְתִּיר אֶת-פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי
ג עַד-אָנָה אָשִׁית עֵצוֹת, בְּנַפְשִׁי-- יָגוֹן בִּלְבָבִי יוֹמָם;עַד-אָנָה, יָרוּם אֹיְבִי עָלָי
ד הַבִּיטָה עֲנֵנִי, יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי; הָאִירָה עֵינַי, פֶּן-אִישַׁן הַמָּוֶת
ה פֶּן-יֹאמַר אֹיְבִי יְכָלְתִּיו; צָרַי יָגִילוּ, כִּי אֶמּוֹט
ו וַאֲנִי, בְּחַסְדְּךָ בָטַחְתִּי-- יָגֵל לִבִּי, בִּישׁוּעָתֶךָ:אָשִׁירָה לַיהוָה, כִּי גָמַל עָלָי

_____________________________________

For the Leader. A Psalm of David

1. How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
2. How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3. Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4. Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.

Satin, you're pedantic. Get off it.

Pedantry is like sheets of satin.
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?

To happiness

Its taste is sweet;
its passage down loosens the body,
like a draught of mulled wine quaffed in the company of friends.

The feeling -- worries are dulled -- brims about the heart,
but it nigh always'll overflow, roaring down the heart-walls.
What is left is a feeling not brimming, but sickly comfortable,
as if required to settle for a bit less than before.
In general, however, you feel untroubled, yet slightly wanting.

I suppose it's the nature of happiness, its fleeting quality:
the flower wilts because it is beautiful.
Pretty things are decked in fineries ephemeral.
You should know. You can't very well ooo and ahh all day long,
or laugh incessantly.

Do I express sorrow or regret?
No, quite the contrary.
Consider this -- this poem -- an ode.
An ode to happiness; may it forever be in flight.

Podcasts, podcasts, podcasts

"The Ethicist," Randy Cohen, The New York Times
Flight of the Conchords, Bret Mckenzie and Jemaine Clement
The Harvard Press: "Authors Off the Page"
IndieFeed: Indie Pop Music
KCRW's Bookworm, Film Reviews, Morning Becomes Eclectic, To the Point and Today's Top Tune
Animated Cartoons from The New Yorker
Fiction from The New Yorker
Wine Library TV

In the yard, flowering

Fair the flowers fell, crimped and cut.

Afternoons when the sun drooped lazy and its rays softened gold, she clipped roses in the yard. Though, she loved the rare occasion when ash from a nearby brush-fire filtered the sunlight into clay reds and orangey pinks -- those were best, she said.

I loved her sun-hat, whose shade stretched as a loose thatch across her face. Pocks of light shifted with each tilt of the hat -- snip, snip, snip. She worked diligently.

And her garden dress. She hated floral prints, but loved checkered colors of reds and whites and yellows: "you look like a tablecloth," I reeled playfully, but I could never hold for long and a smirk soon broke across my face; my eyes betrayed me first. She gave a giggle in protest and waved her clippers at me in playful indignation.

I loved her hair that day. She had stuck flowers she'd plucked from the annuals behind her ears. Her hair bloomed colors of red and white and yellow. She looked as part of the yard blossoms.

There was interruption in our play. I took her 'round the waist in embrace and kissed her. She sounded an "uh-huh" hum as our lips met. She always made this sound when one of my frequent advances pleased her especially.

After awhile, we parted, I went inside to fetch water and she resumed clipping. But I wouldn't return; I was opening up the blinds and windows to let the breeze in.

After awhile, she came looking; she found me -- on the couch. She took my hand and lead upstairs.

From So It Is in Life, Daniil Kharms, published in The New Yorker

A window with a drawn curtain was getting brighter and brighter because the day was beginning. The floors squeaked, the doors creaked, chairs were being moved around in apartments. Climbing out of bed, Ruzhetsky fell on the floor and smashed his face. He was in a rush to get to work, so he went outside, covering his face with his hands. His hands made it hard for him to see where he was going. Twice he bumped into an advertising kiosk; then he shoved some old man in a vinyl hat with fur earflaps, which sent the old man into such a fury that a janitor, who happened to be in proximity, because he was trying to catch a cat with a shovel, said to the increasingly agitated old man, “Shame on you, Gramps, for making so much trouble at your age.”

(1935)

A man to meet

I met a man today. He approached me as he walked across the street; I was standing at the corner of his destination. He looked flustered, muttering obscenities and curses upon himself. I asked if he had a smoke. He fumbled around his pockets, when at last he gave up and stammered an apologetic explanation. I told him not to worry and offered him a smoke. He accepted the offer, but gave a confused look. I did indeed lie. I had smokes. Truth is, though, I didn't want to puff alone. I figured he could use the company.

Our smoke wasn't to be seen; the morning fog hadn't burned off yet. The smoke became as the fog and only pinheads of ember could be made out from a distance. We chucked our butts and parted ways. The man went off feeling better, it seemed.

That was a good morning.

The Erector Set

Tried.

Yeah, sure. Let's construct the Erector Set on this rug; it has been too long since we last tried.

No Patience.

When we were kids, we never did finish. We never had the patience to piece it all together.
No, but this time 'round patience wasn't the obstacle; it was your

eyes
and
curves.

I let a piece drop; my eyes full of lust met yours, and like dry tinder, yours ignited. Your skin flushed. We both felt a tug below the waist. I cleared the Erector Set and we spilled upon the rug.

Piss and Wine

Churning in convection, the piss and wine, both bitter, and like acid, tear at him. Wine, which is sweeter, sinks, and piss replaces. And so it goes -- the heart furnace cycles piss and wine.

Nothing much satisfies him; but indifference certainly produces less pain. Useless as an assuagement, it only sweetens (but only a little) the wine.

From Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut

I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

So she turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes.

The Smell, Los Angeles, California

I swear I have better things to do

del.icio.us
43 things

The river's run dry

I'm leaving the Grand ol' Party.

The blithe and indolence of Orange County, California

From The Fall, Albert Camus

But allow me to call on our friend the primate. Nod your head to thank him and, above all, drink up with me, I need your understanding.

I see that that declaration amazes you. Have you never suddenly needed understanding, help, friendship? Yes, of course. I have learned to be satisfied with understanding. It is found more readily and, besides, it's not binding. "I beg you to believe in my sympathetic understanding" in the inner discourse always precedes immediately "and now, let's turn to other matters." It's a board chairman's emotion; it comes cheap, after catastrophes. Friendship is less simple. It is long and hard to obtain, but when one has it there's no getting rid of it; one simply has to cope with it. Don't think for a minute that your friends will telephone you every evening, as they ought to, in order to find out if this doesn't happen to be the evening when you are deciding to commit suicide, or simply whether you don't need company, whether you are not in a mood to go out. No, don't worry, they'll ring up the evening you are not alone, when life is beautiful. Af for suicide, they would be more likely to push you to it, by virtue of what you owe to yourself, according to them. May heaven protect us, cher monsieur, from being set on a pedestal by our friends!

Oh, Leslie