you know the way silence feels sometimes
like that instant just after slamming your hand in a door--
or stubbing your toe--
but before the pain comes?
that's the way now
wishing more than a hundred thousand times
on miles
that i could take back what i'd just said
and why

reasons my mouse might be sticky (or, what i'm doing at the moment)

killing time
eating a carameled apple

pencil panic: relearning the art of writing

although this topic merits more research than i’m going to give it here, i just had a thought as i’ve been marking composition papers again for the first time in months. my writers always compose their projects outside of class – ostensibly, this means that they are all using the latest technology to produce their finished work. so my question, after reading several accompanying handwritten notes to their drafts is:

do we need to start teaching the act of physical writing (here I mean the pressure of in class writing with only a pen and paper) in this age of electronic communication?

perhaps i ask this question for selfish reasons, as i suffer from extreme writing panic. i’ve become so accustom to electronic born writing that using a pen and paper to record something feels very foreign and also makes me unsure of myself -- constantly questioning the spelling of words, for example. in my student’s case, this time, their handwritten notes are filled with spelling and word choice errors, while their accompanying electronic texts do not reflect the same kind of issues. in my own case, i was terrified by the thought of taking my master’s comprehensive exams using a pen and paper and honestly had no idea how i would ever be able to write a clear and concise response to any of the questions using that mode of communication. luckily, that university offered the option of taking the exam on computer. but being able to write comfortably and with confidence without the aid of a software program is, from my perspective, an extremely important task. are we losing the ability to script? and does that even matter?

as a follow up to my post about sexual orientation and categorization and such

i wanted to say that for the few minutes that i accidentally landed on this show on vh1 -- i was appalled by the tone and implications presented. i'm emphasizing heavily that i only watched the show for about 5 minutes and so i don't really know what went on the whole time -- but the portion that i did see talked about the "gaying" of straight boys -- using such devious and unnatural evidence such as attention to personal grooming (gasp). the "gaying" also seemed to be presented as a very negative trend in current society.

i find it also curious that this description of the show mentions that the show will look at how these, supposed, changes impact ordinary people's lives. it was clear to me from the portion that i viewed, at least, that by ordinary they meant straight. and, probably, male.

[frustrated sigh]

four years ago, maybe more, i remember reading an article about these young guys who had developed some kind of free downloadable software that ended up being like a sort of public sticky-note concept for web browsing. it meant that if you had the system and you visited any site on the web, you could leave a note there -- saying anything you wanted -- and anyone else who came along with the same software could read the notes and/or leave one of their own. i can't recall the name of the company, but i wonder what ever happened with that idea and if people are still using it.

when i was more west than center (last year tripping)

i went here and purchased a small bottle of their 'double french vanilla' hand lotion. since, i've become addicted and i'd love to have the corresponding fragrance or to even purchase more of the lotion. the problem seems to be that they only offer the straight french vanilla via their web site -- which is not as delicious as the double.


things you make me think about (aside from roasted chicken)

go read this fabulous post spinning around over in jess's milk crate. i've been thinking all morning about the concept of "genderspace" after reading this article at and so jess's comments about categorizations and gender (or perhaps in this case, sexual orientation) labels for things like literature really caught my attention. it made me think about how that library, or others that are surely following similar practices, would categorize a novel like winterson's written on the body, which presents a very complicated gender/sexual orientation scenario? And are libraries, book sellers, publishers, now categorizing texts according to the author's sexual persuasion -- the way that black authors, too, are kept in some kind of strange ephemeral separateness (ethnic studies, black, african-american, etc)--no matter what the topic--simply because of the color of the writer's skin? and i know that these are not new questions. but i do think they are things we should keep thinking about and to which we should pay attention.

the newcool thing that happened yesterday

looks like i'm going to get the internship where i'll be able to learn and use xml and sql
in the context of literature and literary study

maybe in connection, i'll finally be able to sort out my messy code here at recimo on my own.

best words of the day


cribbing from other people's blogs: it's the new posting!

so, there's a great post over here at dvd's house about the node and the oed and it got me thinking about language and the way it changes in general. because after reading and thinking about the issues there, i'd also been working on lesson plans that had to do with categorizations and labels and the power of definitions. language and usage really are invisible sources of power in our lives and culture of which we could all be more aware. prestige and standardization have their places and their importance -- but we should always consider the opposite ends of that spectrum -- who is being silenced or misrepresented by these rules? if we aren't careful -- who will we bury into oblivion?

warning notes found on the packaging of a pin:

contains functional sharp point

i don't remember walking home from uni
other than feeling confused at the prospect of crossing the street just in front of my building
but i know i've been sitting in front of my computer now
for several minutes
i've no idea what i'm supposed to be doing
all i know for sure is that my ears won't stop ringing
and that i'm going to pile up under a blanket
in my office chair
and try to get some work done
because i can't bare to contemplate being sick
one more time today

inexplicable words in my head while applying mascara: just now


with not withstanding
just composed, then sent, the following email message to a good friend. and now i've stolen the thoughts for posting. because i know he won't mind. because lately, i've needed help with the process. with figuring out any words to say.


I opened the dictionary and first a picture fell out. It's one of me and my friend M-- in front of a building in P--. The wall, in gigantic mural form, declares the name of the downtown market -- Sassafras. Our faces reveal the silly pleasure of this discovery. So much, in fact, that we'd stopped our cab to wait for just that moment. And I remember him now, sitting just off to the right. Out of frame.

Then a word fell: [Crashed against me like something less cliché than a wave against the shore. How about an empty tin can into the garbage? A nightmare in an empty room? Those are all ridiculous tries. I'm still waking up.]

ispe dixit

I spent the night tied up in bad dreams. The kind that only let you really sleep for an hour, maybe two. That feel like entire nights or several days when you've finally broken out of them. Only to remain awake. Above or below the sheets. For another odd combination of hours. Until returned again to something awful that just can't quite be shook. That just won't leave you alone.

Now I need coffee. And a way to reinvent motivation.

If my love were light, it would smell like lavender vanilla. Always.

(in)combustibly yours,

these days
jay never returns my phone calls
into a house memorized by
bare feet against bare floors
in the dark
i let loose the words
likely tinny and distorted across the distance
through the wires
reduced to this
one blinking light
i only know. as soon as now. it isn't going to happen.

today i discovered
hidden half floors in the library that require a special elevator
a nasty virus on my office computer
several new meanings and variants of the word conk
a different way to wear my new hair
a 2.24 cent cheese sandwich that saved my life

right now
it's you i'm thinking of
hoping you arrive home safely
and that when you crawl into bed
you wrap my love around you
like blankets

best news of the day

he considers me to be his straight-girlfriend

it's going to be okay.
i promise.

i wonder what it would sound like
if you were to say my name
would it be brutal
would it wear consequences
like syllables
or fall into the ear
like the release of a rusted gate

i called you from my cell phone from the coffee shop down the street
and you said where are you
and i thought not there
not there at all
and i said i miss you
and you said you miss me
and somehow that made me want to write again
those 17 minutes made me remember what it feels like to be the origin of a smile


quarter of 8 on a friday
this is the first time
that i've signed into messenger
and no one
not one
of my contacts has been online


on constant use of the f-word (before noon)

ooo, look at me and my foul mouth shame

i saw a one eyed rabbit yesterday. crossing to safety, i said instantly. nodding my head without recognition. while hearing a constant loop of searching with my good eye closed in my head.
[i swear this isn't funny]
i changed my name.
and wished i had another word for remarkable.

my feet are firmly back. no longer fighting against the speed of flight. realizing somewhere between 7th and 15th that standing still isn’t calculated robbery. i’ve got two eyes to see.

currently, my hair isn’t blue enough.

not sure what's going on with my comments (error on page, huh? yep. huh.) or my inability to write anything to or for anyone (this includes me) at any time. yesterday i woke up in a stranger's house. a pair of my old sheets slung across our old couch. the pair to the one that's sitting under the windows in my new apartment. but i'm not home. the dog standing on my chest. waving his tail and kissing my face. are you still here?, i called. but he'd left for work. and i knew already, he'd never really been there at all. still here and the house is still strange enough -- filled sparsely with all my familiar forgotten things. still empty, even with me inside.

whenever it comes out--
i think i'd like to see
this film

what's going on?

something i haven't done in a long time

use this one
i dare you

my obsession with violence
especially in terms of filmic adaptation and in conjunction with such devices as text/poetry and voyeurism/visual fascination

lead me to watch C'est arrive pres de chez vous a 1992 release written and directed by Belgian filmmakers Remy Belvauz and Andre Bonzel. although the storytelling was mostly engaging throughout, the film really left little room for in-depth thought or investigation. i don't feel like i learned anything new here. violence is evil and often pointless. media interpretations and representations glorify and many times participate in the propagation of violent acts and behaviors.

this film seems to leave me thinking about the idea that, as good or bad people, we all die in unpredictably good or bad ways. motivation won't stop bullets or mad men or weak hearts. however, the plot offers absolutely no other commentary on that subject. so what? didn't i already know that 92 minutes ago?

[as i was typing this last sentence, i saw a black cat running across my neighbor's roof.]

an after-thought:
watch punch drunk love for a more intelligent and fresh perspective on violence as an element of love and anger and human behavior. violence as agent. violence as voice -- as an alternative to being silenced. possibly: as last resort. the colors that seem at once vivid while at the same time feeling washed also made the film stunning for me to watch.

honestly, i'm pretty sick of this

during the night

I had one of those terrible dreams. The kind where you wake up in a panic, with a shout, sit up straight in the bed and try to catch your breath, get your grounding. Focus. But you’ve really only woken up inside the dream and so you’re still sleeping and you haven’t sat up and shouted at all. Somehow in the dream, or in your sleeping head, you know this, but you still can’t move to wake – or don’t. And it just keeps happening over and over again. Finally snapped out of it, feeling exhausted.

things i cannot be trusted with