february 9, 2000 Bluesilver & Snotgreen

Go Back Move Along The Menu  Give Me Props Notify List  My Peeps  Other Peeps

ME I wrote three poems today MATT Are they about how much you love me? ME N… no, but you inspire all my poetry, baby.  You’re my inspiration! MATT No I’m not.  You’re inspired by child molestation and death. ME No I’m not! MATT So what are your three poems about? ME Um… well, they’re about…  MATT I thought so. ME Okay, okay.  So one of them sort of touches on child molestation a little bit.  MATT Yep. ME And the other one sort of is about cancer in an offhand way…  MATT Mmm hmm. ME But the third one is about e.e. cummings!  There is a PAUSE. MATT Nice try, honey. In fact, sex, death and “I hate the Catholic church” are my big themes.  I really don’t have many poems about child molestation.  (I’ll avoid the obvious Catholic church joke here.)  In the poem in question (which I did not post) my protagonist was bringing her boyfriend back to the home where she had been abused, and past molestation was implied.  I’m not the child molester poet or anything.  He just happened to guess right. I swear. Actually, one of my favorite poets is Ai.  She writes from the perspective of molesters and Marilyn Monroe and rapists and murderers and Lee Harvey Oswald… she’s amazing.  I was thrilled when a collection of hers, Vice, was released last year.  I had been trying to hunt her books down but they were all out of print, so that was difficult.  I recommend picking up Vice if you’re at all interested in being inside some very deranged minds.  Those of you who read “To Tell The Truth” have probably already figured this out, but I guess I’m just comfortable with the dark side.  I’m reading Ulysses, a thing I think I would not do if I was anything but desperate.  As soon as I get into the groove of the chapter and really start understanding the nuances of what is going on, the chapter ends.  Then the next one begins with an enigmatic proclamation—a puzzle for the weary reader to decipher.  My goal here is simple: find out what’s so great about this book.  There must be someone out there who is a worshipper of this book.  (Melissa, didn’t you say something about being a huge Joyce fan?)  Anyway, so far, Stephen and his mopey Catholic mind are annoying me to no end (and, as Stephen is the author’s alter ego, I doubt this is intentional).  There are a few interesting moments—the discussion on life as a series of piers (or disappointed bridges) and God being “a shout in the street”—nice moments along those lines. But on the whole, it is striking me as pretentious and self indulgent.  Which is why I have to read it—otherwise you can safely accuse me of calling  it pretentious because I don’t understand it.  Of course, you don’t have to call something pretentious if you don’t understand it.  You can also go the other way and call it the greatest novel of all time.  I have my suspicions about that, believe you me.  On the other hand, thanks to Ulysses, now I know what an omphalos is.  I went to go look it up (which you’re going to have to do too, because Nancy would get angry at me if I just told you) and I had this sneaking suspicion that the dictionary would say:    omphalos.  om-phal-os.  noun. Hey, you’re reading Ulysses aren’t you?  You’ll never be able to figure it out, you poor sap.  Listen, all you have to do is memorize a paragraph or two from chapter seventeen, or one of the opening lines to one of the chapters.  Try this one: “Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane.”  See?  It’s just meaningless babble.  Just recite that and then talk about how the book is either 1. the greatest novel ever written, or 2. incredibly pretentious.  Either way, you sound like an authority and nobody will contradict you, because they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about either.  Oh, and I’m not going to tell you what an omphalos is.  You know why?  Joyce just made it up.  In fact, there are 7,324,990 fake words in this book.  That jokester!  Then again, I’ve only read three chapters so far, so I could be wrong. Xeney ranted about Ally McBeal the other day, and I’m with her.  I’ve been waiting for the punch line to “the new Billy” for a long time and I’m finally starting to suspect that there isn’t one.

What I'm Reading: See the entry. What I'm Writing: I wrote a whole lot of journal today.  I was on a roll.  Mood Ring: Banana. Journal Quote of the Day: "What started as the three of us having pizza and talking ended up being a threesome that was surprisingly enjoyable. ” ~ That would be Meghan of World of Confusion.     Random Tidbit: Something to be happy about: a parking space right in front of Jamba Juice.  A miracle!