Lobster and the sound made by typewriters

While looking at the search engine terms used to find my blog, I came across “lobster + sound made by typewriters.” This isn’t much, but it’s a start, or rather, a sea turtle daring the dash.
“Sebastian, Sebastian.”
So, we’ll try this anew, though I promise nothing to the lobster searchers.

In other news, I suspect penguin-sporting SNOOT prescriptivists (try that three times) of booing at the Met.

t/b/c…

will

Pullus: the false grey of the backs of hares. It is the Greek color of mourning; an attempt to camouflage us to the eye of life for a brief moment.
When we are color blind, all the world is pullus, and together, we can dye quietly, in peace under the burning white lights upon the stage.

I’m not even proofing this one.

It takes a martini and a father caring for a son for me to finally get here.  and write.  a letter, okay, and email, a poem.  but blog? a responsibility that just doesn’t work now.  Just doesn’t seem possible. I’m drunk blogging and that’s okay.  Some are afraid of their officiality being swallowed.  The French are very afraid of this.  They publish, and Americans seem to be twittering ’til twilight and then poof, which can be unfortunate if you are a dead rock star’s very much alive rock star wife, even if poof. Because if they can save your sorry ass interrupting the Father’s son’s Mother, then they can certainly save your tweets. And they will. because they’ve nothing better to do, like watching some celebrity hit on everyone at The Beatrice Inn.  That’s fine. But no one wants to save mine. So this is fine, because in comparison to the tweeting teens, this one is very anon, and no one will have the patience to read it, which is fine with me.  That permanence can be so immediate and finalement, présent, figé, processus d’un instant de la vie; hmm temporality is different these days. And nice and yet fleeting, did you know? betcha ya didn’t, that data rot exists.  yep, the times. data rot.  all your memories, all your thoughts, rotting away on silver slivers of plastic and in your lap on labyrinths of metal, tiny structures that hold you.  and you thought you were immune!  arrogant you.  25 or is it 24 kids, people, have committed suicide in Wales, in a small area in Wales. is it an epidemic?  They can’t figure it, but blaming phone posts seems to be the trend, or internet pacts. Ah, but I don’t twitter, or tweet, or whatever, and I don’t want to find those who I don’t want to find on Facebook.  

It is spring again.  It’s spring again. The trees are remplising leurs branches encore.  The baby is gagaing.  Gaga.  Singing notes that I can’t get to. Surprise. That’s fine.  enfin… as in anyway…   And here it is: My courtyard.  I had thought of writing this but then stopped.  Didn’t want to seem like a stalker.  And ignorant as can be, more so than my ultra-cultured friend, S, who seems somehow to know everything, even the existence of some terribly idiotic philosophies that shouldn’t even exist, much less be published and he says ‘oh yeah, them!’  And goes on to make me feel like a fool to his bibliothèque of a brain.  So, I shamefully didn’t know the existence of this person.  I admit.  And now I do and am ashamed.  Always ashamed to say, no I’ve never read that.  What is it?  The red running up to one’s face.  The not-so-rare moments when I say, who?  The rare moments when everything is silent, when everyone is sleeping, or crying in their sleep, but at least sleeping.  Across the courtyard is a man up there on the top floor who types on a typewriter, who is behind a tree and next to a wall of books.  I see two paintings hung on the wall in the first window which seem to be not framed, and in the second, a white-haired writer, like me, a writer, but, my God, like when Aperghis said to me, when you say you are nothing compared to Beethoven, you are comparing yourself to Beethoven, a white-haired man who is typing away until about 2:30 every morning. And I can tell you, when I was pregnant, when the baby was born and now, when sleep is so rare so rare so rare, I open the curtain, look up there and see that white hair in the window.  

I only suppose that he is writing, though I can’t see his hands.  I can’t see his table.  I can barely see him. I’m drunk blogging and he’s writing.  Me martini, him, TV?  Old and white.  But so it’s spring again and birds on the wing again and so the trees are going to be filling up again with leaves again and this is my last spring here and so I’m drunk blogging while the baby now cries with daddy, not the mommy, so the mommy can martini her evening away,  and the darkness lets the orange light shine in all those windows in the courtyard where that father reads to his multi-cultural kid dressed in black, where that old guy sits reading the times while his wife cooks, and this one, feeding the unfortunate cat who cries often in 0 degree weather to the tune of Buddha bells in the same garden, oh how i hate them and their buddha bell and desperate cat     this person sits typing away on a machine and I, on a machine, and writing, writing not singing not materning. Maternally typing, but not tweeting.  tap and kiss, tap and goo goo, tap and webern, tap and gawker stalker, what?, yes, it’s true, tap and gawker stalker, you try living in chelsea and not gawk stalking, too fun, where the baby is now screaming, having fallen on his head, it’s okay, not really, but a fall nonetheless, of which, oh dear, there will be many, that it’s spring again and it’s the last winter I’ll be able to see between the branches the beast writing at his table, the Ashbery on 20th street, who calms me when I can’t sleep, knowing that someone is still keeping the writing guard, that someone is doing something important, even in his old age with white hair and green? is it? sweater, me, shaking concoctions, official concoctions of powders and liquids FDA approved for the brain, the development, the eyes and whatever, of my little thing, shaking bottles and feeding to this ever mommy-knowing, mommy-recognizing baby with huge eyes, recognizing me in the night, in the morning, dark night-morning, like some sort of rabbit-child, eat your carrots, who is definitely screaming now, right there, right across the courtyard, whose poems, thanks to S and his culture, of which I am lacking oh dear, soverymuch, I have now read. And that is huge, to secretly watch a poet writing in his window.  That one.  THAT poet.  That John.

No Blog for a week or two

WYE Ô WYE

BYE BYE for a while.