Mood: Hijacked
Drinking: Liquids
If you live in or around San Francisco, stop by the SF Women’s Film Festival tonight to see Slow Roast on the big screen. Our third cinepoem, filmed last year with Sarah Beach, is being screened at 7 p.m. during the festival’s Shorts Program.
My co-director Michelle and I are going, as are a few of our friends. So if you’re there, I’m the tall girl in the red skullgyle cardigan. Stop by and say hi!
-Lo, who does not have a speech prepared.
Mood: Ready for the day to end
Drinking: I’ve emptied the bottle
My list of favorite poets is very, very short. Back in high school, we dutifully covered the Maya Angelous and the Emily Dickinsons and I was mildly intrigued by Robert Frost and his two roads in a yellow woods somewhere.
But, all in all I found poetry to be either cloying and claustrophic or ridiculous and arrogant, and I wasn’t rushing out to stock my shelves with anybody’s chapbook. And then I was ambushed by Bukowski and Blackman, and suddenly my shelves started filling up.
Recently I’ve become increasingly enamoured of e.e.cummings. It all started when the lovely S quoted this line: “nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”
The line is so shockingly beautiful that I found myself mumbling it under my breath at all hours. So I went out and bought myself the $33 volume of e.e. cummings’ complete poems, 1904-1962, so I could touch the page and read the words whenever I wanted.
If I ever write a line half as lovely, I can die happy…
“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”
-Lo, who loves the rain and all its tiny hands
Mood: Pleasantly Tired
Drinking: Agua
I’m a sucker for a well-told fairy tale. Pretty much any story involving magic, elves, and winged things has caught my attention from an early age.
So when I picked up Eragon, the first book in Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance trilogy, a year ago or more, I was hooked pretty quickly. Talking dragons and ancient languages and elfin warrior maids, oh my! I finished Eldest, the second book, a few days ago, but there’s one chapter that is still stuck in my head…
It’s a conversation between the story’s protagonist, Eragon, and his dragon, Saphira. (Seriously, just read the books, okay?) In the first book, during a great battle, Eragon sustained a terrible wound on his back. Though the wound is healed now, physically, he is still experiencing agonizing episodes of pain that spring from the scar. The conversation I keep replaying in my head is about this wound, and it goes like this:
Eragon: “I have a new name for pain.”
Saphira: “What’s that?”
Eragon: “The Obliterator. Because when you’re in pain, nothing else can exist. Not thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it’s strong enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we are, until we’re reduced to creatures less than animals, creatures with a single goal and desire: escape.”
I don’t know if this thought would have resonated so deeply with me before my recent injury. It’s the biggest “wound” I’ve ever sustained, and definitely the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. From the moment my wrist bones cracked in February, I was in a great deal of pain day and night for six weeks or more.
The cast came off a week ago, and I started physical therapy today, so I’m about six weeks or so from being back to “normal”. (The fingers don’t bend and the wrist doesn’t turn the way it should. ) Although I have an itchy new rash from being wrapped up in a cast for so long, the pain is nothing now compared to what it was. Mostly I’m just relieve to see my arm again and to have a list of actual exercises I can do to help myself heal.
But in the first few weeks of this ordeal, I came to know the Obliterator. I couldn’t think about anything but the need to get away from the pain. All the creative bones in my body were held captive by the two broken bones in my wrist. They demanded all my attention. They forced me into silence.
Painkillers were prescribed in plenty, but then comes the detached medicine-head feeling, with attendant nightmares of the actual and headcase variety. So now, nearly two months later, I’m pill-free and nearly pain-free, and feeling like I have so much to catch up on. So many unwritten words, so many unanswered emails, so many unfilmed poems, so much that didn’t get done because I just wasn’t able to do it.
More than one person has said, “Well, I’m sure you’ll write some good poems because of this.” But I haven’t.
Physical pain isn’t inspiring. It isn’t romantically tragic. It isn’t something you can analyze and compartmentalize in your head. It is relentless and real, and unlike the emotional version, I can’t turn it into something beautiful.
A few weeks after surgery, when my new robot arm was causing all kinds of trouble, the San Francisco Chronicle ran a series called “War Without End”. It followed two soldiers in physical therapy at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Both of them came back from Iraq without their legs.
I was incredibly moved by their stories. Here I was, sitting at home feeling sorry for myself, while my injury, though serious, is neither life threatening nor permanent. And these guys can’t even go home yet. Their lives are changed forever by bombs and fear. I just got six months of discomfort because I was 4-wheeling on vacation. It knocked a bit of perspective into me.
But I guess the Obliterator visits us all in different forms. Reminds us that we are not invincible. Keeps us humble. Reduces us down to the simple liquid sum of our parts. We live. We breathe. We hurt. We go on.
I don’t have any especially profound revelation from all of this. I just know that I’m acutely aware, now, of my own frailty. And in the end, for all of us, there can be no escaping it.
-Lo, who has a long way to go to catch up on all those unwritten poems. Is it really April, already?
Mood: Anticipating
Drinking: Diet Coke
Tomorrow!
The cast is coming off and I’ll get to start flexing the new robot arm. Sure, it’ll be scaly and mummified, but it will be free. I’ll be a two-hand girl once more.
Meanwhile, all you PC people can rejoice. My kick-ass friend and wizard EO has transformed the cinepoems to Windows Media movies, and kick-ass friend #2, CB, has uploaded them all to the Cinepoems page. So go, feast your eyes. And rest assured that there are not one but TWO new cinepoems in the works and on the calendar for later this month and next month, too.
I have to go pick the scales from my arm. Nasty, yes, but oh-so-satisfying.
-Lo, who used to know all the words to all the Annie songs.
Mood: Itchy, Scratchy!
Drinking: Stale Tea
Things I have only recently discovered you really need two working hands to accomplish with any measure of success:
1. Ponytailing one’s own hair. Or anyone else’s, really.
2. Walking one’s dog past a growly Rottweiler. (Or, let’s face it, a growly teacup poodle.)
3. Typing with some semblance of speed.
4. Buttoning one’s own jeans.
5. Assembling two-piece earrings. (The ones with hooks are A-OK.)
6. Opening jars of pickles. Or bottles of water. Or jars of jam. Or anything requiring any variation of the hold-and-twist maneuver.
7. Talking on the cell whilst typing.
8. Talking on the cell whilst driving.
9. Talking on the cell whilst walking the dog.
10. Talking on the cell whilst doing anything other than talking on the cell.
11. Shaving the armpit that belongs to the arm that still works.
12. Socks. Socks are bitches.
13. Tights. See above re: socks.
14. Tying one’s shoes.
15. Zipping any damn zipper.
16. Drying one’s back.
17. Applying fingernail polish to all 10 fingers.
18. Making a sandwich.
19. Flat-ironing hair.
20. Curling hair.
21. Doing much of anything at all to make hair even remotely attractive.
22. We aren’t even going to discuss one-handed bra handling.
23. Pouring liquid from a container which does not have a handle.
24. Sweeping.
25. Shoveling.
26. Scooping.
27. Digging.
28. Clapping.
29. Squeezing.
30. Waltzing.
31. Swimming.
32. Bicycling.
33. Motorcycling. (Alas, Shirley has been dust-covered!!)
34. Eyebrow tweezing.
35. Nose blowing.
36. Putting change away speedily at checkout counter while other customers huff impatiently behind you.
37. Eating a burrito, sans fork.
38. Peeling a banana.
39. Carrying popcorn, milk duds, AND soda into movie theater. (Without spillage!)
40. Flipping the double bird.
41. Giving two thumbs up.
42. Throwing both hands in the air and waving them about as if one doesn’t even care.
And I could go on, but it’s just getting ridiculous.
Mark this date down and circle it twice: Thursday, April 6th, 2006. The day the cast comes OFF!
I know my new robot arm won’t be completely functional by then but damn! It will feel so good to straighten out my elbow.
-Lo, who does, indeed, enjoy cheese with her whine.
Mood: On Hold
Drinking: Sweet Tea
She’s here!
Alice is my middle name is up and ready for viewing on The Cinepoems page.
This was our biggest shoot ever, with fancy costumes and a big crew and a lot of mystified passersby. So be sure to stick around at the end for the credits…I promise they’re not at all boring!
What are you waiting for? Go meet Alice.
A quick P.S. for the PC users…I know you prefer Windows to Quicktime, and I’m working on it. Soon you’ll have more options.
-Lo, who does not prefer blondes.
Mood: Bed-bound
Drinking: Done for the day
I come to you a different girl, for I am now part metal.
No. Seriously.
The surgery on my twice-broken wrist was a week ago this past Tuesday. I’ve never had surgery before, and I can’t say that I recommend it. From the anesthesia that makes you throw up to the “dissolvable” stitches to the yards of bloody gauze and complete loss of dignity, it’s all rather unpleasant.
The good news is that my bones are on the mend, thanks to a very impressive bit of metal that now lives under my skin. On the x-ray, it looks like a robot arm. Or a garden rake. Or possibly a toothbrush. I plan to get a wallet-size print of the film so I can carry around constant proof of my cyborg innards.
Meanwhile, I’m still a one-handed typist, Boy is still struggling with the finer points of ponytail making, and at least three of my girlfriends have had to help me re-button my pants after a visit to the loo. The silver lining: All my ubergoth arm warmers are getting a second life as sexy cast covers.
In more exciting happenings, M and I are almost finished with Alice is my middle name, the newest cinepoem. She may even debut as soon as tomorrow. Hold your breath.
-Lo, whose left arm still says “yes” in bright blue marker — they scribbled on me for surgery, but now I’m castified and can’t scrub it off.
Mood: Ever-changing
Drinking: Water to melt the vicodin
I was twelve the first time it happened.
Like millions of other twelve-year-old girls, I dreamed of owning a horse of my very own. I would have even accepted a pony. What I got was a donkey.
His name was Jackie. He lived for years on the farm of some unfamiliar relatives. I ended up at their house, along with my family, for one of those generic end-of-the-year holiday celebrations that bring all the unfamiliar relatives together, the overly-attentive uncles, awkward cousins, and busybody aunts with their sweet corn casseroles and green jello desserts.
Being the loner tomboy type of twelve-year-old girl, I wandered out to the barn to inspect the herd of lumpy sheep and long-eared goats and hide from a blue-haired and frightening great aunt. And that’s where I met Jackie the donkey, lumpy and long-eared and bored out of his fuzzy little burro brain.
Somehow I convinced my dad that Jackie wouldn’t be as much of a “hayburner” as a horse would be. He was smaller, for one thing. Almost pony-ish. And somehow my dad convinced our cousin-twice-removed Martin to part with his much-ignored donkey in exchange for two tens and a five.
And that’s how it happened, the first time I broke my arm. Because donkeys are really nothing at all like horses, and Jackie had no intention of making my equine dreams come true.
I’d try to gallop off into the sunset and he’d plant his tiny hooves, do a little fancy bunny hop with his back legs, lower his stubby neck and whoop! Off I’d slide, right between those rabbit ears. Which was great fun, in and of itself.
Yep, it was all fun and donkey games until the day our friend Nathan wanted to pony up and ride double. I hopped on first and my mom hefted Nathan’s bulky bottom up into the air. He had barely touched down when Jackie decided he’d had enough and showed us all a new trick ? a very fine impersonation of a real bucking bronco.
Nathan flew right back off the way he came and immediately set off howling.
I hung on for a few more seconds before sliding off Jackie’s other side and slamming my shoulder into the ground much harder than I ever thought possible.
My first broken bone was just a cracked humerus requiring only a sling and the indignity of wearing button-up flowered pajama shirts to school. My mom took over pigtail duty and I remember only a few aspirin and a quietly persistent achiness.
This second time around isn’t nearly as cute. Boy isn’t very skilled at ponytails, although he does try hard. And I’ve got more than one bottle of doctor-prescribed painkillers and plenty of pain to kill.
There was no bucking burro, either. Just me and a four-wheeled ATV and an unfortunately placed sand dune.
Here’s how it happened: Boy, LeeLoo, and I went down to Pismo the weekend before last to meet up with my sister, her just-home-from-Iraq husband, and their marshmallow of a hound dog, Yoda.
The plan involved a lot of food, fun, and four-wheeling on the Oceano dunes. It did NOT involve me snapping my left wrist in an unnatural manner whilst hitting a mogul kind of, um, fast and hard.
But here I am, a one handed typist, with my ulna and radius bones broken at the wrist joint.
Tomorrow I’m going in for surgery to become part bionic woman as they insert a metal plate to hold my wrist together. I’m hoping this means future fun times in airport security lines!
In the meantime I’m trying to come up with a good technique for covering the keyboard with just five fingers. Oh, and I’ve got a skull and roses sling on order. No pajama shirts this time.
Wish me luck, internet!
-Lo, who got not only riding lessons, but an actual horse out of the last broken bone mishap. Wonder what I’m gonna win this time?
Mood:
Drinking:
every day is a cliché
the things you do to keep hope alive
to keep yourself from falling
to keep her satisfied.
the things you do are worse
than you expected
worse
and far more dull.
every newborn morning
comes your chance
to make a run for it until
the clock beats its ringing hammer
against the drum inside your ear
singing: “No more dreams,
bring no more dreams.”
and every morning
you wake up
and fall for it.
the floor devours your feet
the mirror’s horrified
to see you. the toothbrush
shrinks away in terror from your teeth.
your daily routine is blinding
you to what you have become.
once you were a denizen
of imaginary continents.
once you sang an aria
in a papier mache dress. once
you were a pirate. a bareback
ballerina. you were anything
and everything
all the time and all at once.
you had impeccable timing
for making believe.
but once upon a time runs out
and then
a paler version
takes your place
fingers your pulse
changes the dress code
talks you safely away
from the ledge and further
flights of fancy.
Her logic is immaculate:
“You need a marketable skill.”
“Get a degree. And a real job.”
“Poetry doesn’t pay the bills.”
“After the man comes the house. And the dog.”
and it might be wrong
but it soon feels right
and this is how
these things become
the things you do
to keep yourself
from falling…
-Lo, who wonders if dreams are stunted by safety nets.
Mood: Exhausted
Drinking: Definitely should be
Finally saw Heath & Jake. God, what a beautiful movie. I’m still caught in its spell. Had to sit in the darkened theater and compose myself during the credits so I could see to walk out safely.
If you haven’t seen the cowboys yet, you’re missing out!
That is all.
-Lo, who went location scouting all over the city for an upcoming Patti Monaghen photo shoot all day and was already beat before those brokeback boys did me in.
LaDonnaWitmer 