Greetings From the Depths of a Sugar Coma.

So, yesterday was, of course, the big Feb-1-4, &, as I've already spewed some vitriol on the subject hereabouts, I won't give my cynicism too much play—suffice it to say that my Valentines Day consisted mostly of a Sunday-through-Monday all-nighter in the library with Immanuel Kant, furiously expounding on the Categorical Imperative, killing the occasional cockroach. & no, that's not a euphemism—though it is, I think, an apt metaphor for a lot of things.

Still, it would be unfair to disregard my evening: after a brief & pseudo-delirious disco nap, I hopped up to celebrate a friend's birthday—which involved pink pancakes & Salt-n-Pepa & all kinds of loveliness—so it wasn't all bad. It's never really all bad, I think.

Anyhow, when I got back to my bed, the sugar buzz hadn't quite worn off, so I spent a little while awake reading poems (because, yes, I'm that kid) & I stumbled on one of my favorites by one of my favorites: a tribute to a saint's day—perhaps not the right one in name, but jiving quite ideal with its (or, at least, my) spirit. (Especially parts II & III. Especially the final stanza.)

Song for St. Cecilia's Day.
W.H. Auden, July 1940.

I.

In a garden shady this holy lady
With reverent cadence and subtle psalm,
Like a black swan as death came on
Poured forth her song in perfect calm:
And by ocean's margin this innocent virgin
Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer,
And notes tremendous from her great engine
Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited,
Moved to delight by the melody,
White as an orchid she rode quite naked
In an oyster shell on top of the sea;
At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing
Came out of their trance into time again,
And around the wicked in Hell's abysses
The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions
To all musicians, appear and inspire:
Translated Daughter, come down and startle
Composing mortals with immortal fire.


II.

I cannot grow;
I have no shadow
To run away from,
I only play

I cannot err;
There is no creature
Whom I belong to,
Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat
When it knows it
Can now do nothing
By suffering.

All you lived through,
Dancing because you
No longer need it
For any deed.

I shall never be
Different. Love me.


III.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall,
O calm of spaces unafraid of weight,
Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all
The gaucheness of her adolescent state,
Where Hope within the altogether strange
From every outworn image is released,
And Dread born whole and normal like a beast
Into a world of truths that never change:
Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds,
Playing among the ruined languages,
So small beside their large confusing words,
So gay against the greater silences
Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head,
Impetuous child with the tremendous brain,
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain,
Lost innocence who wished your lover dead,
Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin
Is drawn across our trembling violin.
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain
O law drummed out by hearts against the still
Long winter of our intellectual will.
That what has been may never be again
O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath
Of convalescents on the shores of death.
O bless the freedom that you never chose
O trumpets that unguarded children blow
About the fortress of their inner foe.
O wear your tribulation like a rose

From Selected Poems, Ed. Edward Mendelson, © 2007, Vintage Books.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Valentine's Day—Klaus Nomi.

It is hopelessly tempting to truck out an entry's worth of really beautiful love songs—Leonard Cohen, the Beatles, the Magnetic Fields, covers of Massive Attack songs that make you weepy—but it's one thing to talk about love, & another to sound like it. This track is one of my favorites from Nomi's unfinished opera, Za Bakdaz—fading & receding, intertwining, invaded by stilted politesse—light without ever fully floating away.

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot.

[ Well, apparently my resolution not to procrastinate is already done for. However, I can tally some points for my resolution to spend less time mainlining internet—or, rather, traveling & being forcibly kept from it, twitching in my sans-wireless straight jacket. However, I wrote this, so it's going up anyway. I'm being resolute, after all. ]

I'm on a bus right now, actually—New York-bound to flail a bit with old friends—but I realized that I should probably post something internet-ward, 1) because I haven't in a trillion-zillion years (finals like a Sisyphean triathlon, I swear), & 2) it's almost the New Year, & that's a time when people are supposed to publicize feelings of good cheer. So, with that in mind, here are some scattered thoughts:

—For Decorated Evergreen Day this year, I received many wondrous wonders, the most striking of which was ultimately Rat Girl, the recently published memoir by Kristin Hersh (former frontwoman of Throwing Muses, since gone solo). It's one of those books (as in, the best kind) that grabs you by the throat & shakes, made of phrases that burrow inside your brain like termites & yell, loud, until you exorcise them with your own creativity. After devouring most of it in a matter of hours, I wrote 300% more songs than I've written in the past two months combined (that is, three), & even started writing prose again—structured, personally, with intent. So, that's been beyond wonderful—feeling inspired, fingers electrified, full of fizz—& it bodes well when it comes at an ending/beginning, I think.

—Also now mine is a special edition, bound-book publication of the Inception script—which, I'm going to be honest, was one of those gifts that makes your face into a bad-smell grin: "Oh…! Thanks…! …" & even your pauses have a rising inflection. Still, after investigating it a little, I found it was actually pretty fascinating: a transcribed conversation between Nolan & his brother (who wrote the short story on which Memento was based) reveals my once-derided idol to have totally admirable intentions & right-on opinions about cinema. I meant to type up a section of it here as proof, but I just realized I left the book in Bostonia (& I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling stupid-brain!). I may revisit this when I get back, though—it's definitely worth sharing. Anyhow, my point is, Happy Birthday, Jesus: I've officially forgiven one of your brethren.

—Apparently, this is a time of year when people get resolute. Here's my list (published, honestly, for my own later self-guilting more than anything else; I assume you are, at best, neutral):

• Keep up with my own writing—both this online outlet & the ramblings so recently begun.
• Stay healthy, in mind & body.
• Learn to play guitar with a pick.
• Learn to appreciate my brother's pet rat, despite its really, manifestly gross tail.
• Respond to text messages.
• Avoid oatmeal.
• Remind the people I love that I love them, because that doesn't happen nearly enough—at least in proportion to just how much they all (you all) mean.
• Use erasable writing implements until March (at least), so the last two digits of every date won't be messily crossed out. (I can Never. Remember.)

—Last night, as another sort of year-winding-down activity, I had a chance to reconnect with Childhood Friends—the kind who, though you inevitably go months without communication, having grown up & out of your neighborhood proximity, you still can fall immediately back into kinship with at the drop of a dime. One of the many topics broached—as we are Wild & Wooly Women of the World these days—was the baffling & kind of wonderful stupidity that tumbles from most people's mouths when they're trying to hit on you. Of course, I've collected a list of my favorites ("Hey, that shirt's very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you, I'd be coming, too." B-dum-chhh!), but all of this is really just a set-up for the breathtaking realization I had just now:

That guy Dave from Slime Time Live is blessed with a plethora of the world's most beautifully disgusting pick-up lines. (You're welcome for the pictures in your brain.)

—Tonight, at midnight, I'm blowing a kiss to the sky. Feel free to catch it. [ POST SCRIPT: I'll do it at 11:11 on 1/1/11, too. ]

Happy Fuckin' New Year.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Counting Backwards—Throwing Muses.

An excellent album-opener (The Real Ramona: check it), as well as a literal description what we'll all be doing in a scant few hours (10!… 9!… 8!…). A beginning about an ending—a seething, surreal rock song—Hersh's gift to me meets my gift to you—sound's gift to everybody—like the snows of yesteryear, & Auld Lang Syne.