1. you’re thinking of john hejduk here

    Over time he improves his construction technique; more refined structures replace cruder ones. He differentiates structures by their purposes now – buildings designed for sleeping, reading, looking out, singing. Birds and cats start populating his buildings. One day he finds cans of paint, and so begins to decorate the structures with stripes, graphic shapes, and numbers.

    YOU’RE THINKING OF JOHN HEJDUK HERE

    He builds an observatory and spends long hours in silent watch over the field of wreckage, like the captain of a blighted ship, long ago unmanned by some sinister disaster.

    One of the white-cloaked creatures appears at the edge of what is now a little village of structures. The stranger touches the corner of one of the outer buildings with a little torch he is holding. As he does so, it catches the flame. The Builder quickly climbs down and runs over to find his building in flames, and tries to get the fire out by shoveling dust from the floor onto the fire with a sheet of plywood. He begins screaming at the stranger, his call echoing off the ceiling and finding no response.

     
  2. thirteen ways of looking at someone you’ll never see again

    1. paul revere, ravel, reelections. 

    2. pants design.

    3. not from here to there, not from 1981 to 1985 to 2010 to whenever.  not to be told twice either.  merging, merging and hiding the seams.  we would never know, never see the way things had been attached.  no ocean.

    4. sacrificial fish-pants of a man.  the whalebone, the whalejaw, ghastly and intense and savagely got.  forgetting, forgotten.

    5. a song called “things that we own”

    things that we own
    crying for the death of our thing
    45 to 5 oh, no
    things that we own

    on a hilltop, far away
    where ringtones do not roam
    the toothy grin will fade away
    goodbye the lifeless chrome

    things that we own
    goodbye today tomorrow
    shadows on the lawn
    things that we own

    6. fragmentary bits, bits of shore and lovely bits.  remnants.  things that beliterate and things that bevolve.  what we call it when we don’t know what it is or cannot bring ourselves to say, one way or the other, what exactly — that thing.  slip out of areas freighted with social color.  tire of hearing other people.  tire of smiling while others opine.

    7. crackle from a socket — unexpected and unwelcome.  people will be sweet, you wonder — could i vow never to repeat myself and still keep saying things?  how long would the language supply hold out?  how are its legs?  

    8. you never want to sleep, but you stay up late doing stupid things.  changing over time.  delta.

    9. what i thought would happen:  never really gets dull.  never really gets sharp either.  the mechanical pencil.

    10. sea of blue ribbons tied in bows.  see a sea of blue ribbons tied in bows and believe in what you see.how to bring it to life?  beans in a cup, mind’s eye.  mind’s eye going beyond.  would like someone to buy my photograph.

    11. nightfall each year.  what is nightfall, and who walks?

    12. run for the shadows

    13. OAR

    SOME EXTRA WAYS:

    i. a dad wants to be the good dad above all.  after all.

    ii. on the deck of a ship on the wave of a sand dune of an ocean of a tire pile.

    iii. i guess we thought of these as warm-ups and how you want to know how you want what you have not got.

    iv. like a beet:  dark, smoky, pulsed, bizarre; i do not love you.

    v. “forget-me-not:”  what can the other person really say?

    vi. obligation to the wrong masters.  a misplaced allegiance.  a sense of duty enforced from the outside, and reinforced through years of misguided loyalty to a productivist ideal.  extrinsic motivation.

    vii. charles mckim hiding

    viii. who are the defenders?  floating vertically.  moving inexplicably from place to place at seemingly arbitrary intervals.

    ix. someone’s empty office.

     
  3. a short list of productivity tips

    #1: Don’t spend all day dicking around on the Internet.

    #2: Seriously.

     
  4. i’ll fry anything once

    What was the food culture in your house growing up?

    I grew up in Connecticut and Rhode Island, but I have Southern roots, so a lot of the favorites at home came from that tradition: things like grits, Brunswick stew, fried okra, pulled pork barbecue.  Are chili dogs southern?  They might as well be if they aren’t.  In Rhode Island I picked up an irrational obsession with clam cakes (I think they’re basically hush puppies with clams in the batter) and an unreal beverage  called Del’s Frozen Lemonade.

    One food you won’t you eat?

    I find chicken livers hard to stomach.  Otherwise, I’ll pretty much try anything once.

    Favorite vegetable?

    Can I say olives here?  I want to say tomatoes also, but I guess they’re technically a fruit.  How about broccoli rabe - that’s good.  I’ll go with broccoli rabe for now.

    Favorite food experience?

    I love New York street food.  The basics are my favorite right now - summer in the city makes you want to simplify things, like having a perfect pizza slice, or a hot dog with the red onion sauce, from the cart guy.  Something about walking and eating is very New York.  It’s anathema in most other cultures - eating standing up? Walking? Ridiculous, but somehow it works in New York, and it’s great, and I love it.  I try to do it at least once a week - a slice or a hot dog.  Walking through Washington Square Park in June with a hot dog covered in those cart onions - that’s my idea of a good time.

    Favorite appliance?

    The toaster oven sees a lot of action at our place.  We’ve buried three or four since we’ve been married, so I guess I’m a serial killer of toaster ovens.  Without the refrigerator we’d be drinking hot beer, so maybe I’ll say the fridge is my favorite.

    Most disastrous kitchen or garden experiment:

    The several batches of home-brewed beer that yielded five gallons each of perfectly undrinkable fluid.  Very discouraging.  

    What’s the best lunch option near you?

    I work at home often, and when left to my own devices I’ll spend lunchtime standing in the kitchen eating leftovers… but the leftovers at our place are usually pretty good.  I also love Defonte’s sandwich shop, one short block away from our place, and I also love Fort Defiance, because it’s brilliant.

    What inspires you?

    In the kitchen, improvisation, mostly.  Improvisation in cooking comes from what I think of as an actively cultivated background knowledge, an understanding of the basic natures of the different ingredients you have available at any given time.  I’m always interested to know about basic, vernacular ways of food preparation, because the understanding the basics makes everything else possible.  My most enjoyable times in the kitchen are when walk in there at 6 p.m. with out the slightest clue what I’m about to make for dinner, or even what ingredients might be on hand.  For me the enjoyment of cooking is the solution of those challenges, not following recipes to the letter.  I have to experiment, observe, and try crazy things, or I’m not happy.

    Your opinion: Does talking to plants help them grow?

    No, not in itself.  But a side effect of talking to plants is that you’re near them for a longer time.  If you’re near them, you’re likely to observe more about their condition, and thus more likely to see what they need - more sun, less water, etc.  It’s the same as it is with people: paying attention to them lets you know what’s going on.

    Do you sing to them?

    No, but they’ve witnessed several heavy metal dance parties with M. and me.

    Best piece of advice you’ve ever been given?

    “Try again.” It’s something I tell M. every day.  Encouragement is so important.  I think a lot of the fears and obstacles that we face as adults connect with a fear of judgement or a fear of failure.  Failure and trying again is the way we learn real lessons, and if you look at it that way, the best thing you can do is to fail early and often!

     
  5. grandfather you nine-foot

     1

     

    nine feet tall and bulletproof, silver–tongued,

    and the anchor, now some years gone.

    sweet rain on our foreheads.

     

    one afternoon, hotter than the rest,

    you were building me a toy out of wood

    in the garage.

    sweat ran off your forehead

    so much that I was quietly saying

    the simple prayers of a nine-year-old:

     

                let your heart keep beating

    and stay

                teach,                        Love,

     

    a lake of it behind the house.

    can you see the other kids there behind the

    house                        laughing and running?

    now some years gone

     

    2

     

    I can wear your wool cap, Izod V–necks.

    Your wooden toolbox is filled with my own

    scanty collection of hand tools.  It is nothing

     

    I had a dream last night:  you really were nine feet,

    and sitting in a deep red chair.  you called out to me

    Long  Legs,  Help  Me  Stand  Up  .

    As hard as I pulled, I could not lift you,

    but you always had a grand way of insisting.

     

    3

     

    She does know things.

    For example, she may believe that her man is

    here, in the house, or she hears tools whirring

    out in the workshop, your big hands pushing

    sharp motors across wood, at four in the morning.

     

    on the carpet, she shows us

    the black circle that will not be cleaned,

    not as hard as she scrubs, the place where you Fell.

             (little pool of blood at your lips where you Fell,

          black circle that will not be cleaned.)

     

     

    it is not a body of marble, or of leather,

    or a traveling vessel.  even if you insist,

                still,

    it remains quiet in the theater of the shed

     

     

    April 17, 2002

     
  6. when r.e.m. was beautiful

    from the “chronic town” e.p.:

    There’s a secret stigma, reaping wheel.

    Stranger, stranger to these parts.

    Chronic town, poster torn, reaping wheel. 

    Diminish, stranger.

    which is sort of like how it feels to be in my own ever-fattening skin, in new york city, sweating into my clothes, all day every day.  

     
  7. daughter loves

    herewith an incomplete list of things my nineteen-month-old daughter desperately loves:

    motorcylces

    helmets

    bicycles

    cereal

    hummus

    tigers

    jonas

    feigning injurues (head!  hurt!)

    keys, keychains

    remote controls

    mobile phones

    shoes

    putting things in the toilet

    hammering with non-hammers

    headbanging to classical music

    dance parties

    making self dizzy

    falling down repeatedly

    anything with bears in it

    alice from day care

    noah and his ark

    alerting me to the presence of flies / bugs

    carrying crayons around

     
  8. new rule: don’t write questions

    i’m on a Big Wheels, going down a sloping grassy pathway towards the trees.  within a shadowy arch in a wall of trees, the path turns to fine taupe dirt, steepens, and ends at a little precipice above a gurgling brook.  water gliders, tadpoles, some sort of minnows, and frogs inhabit a kingdom of skunk-cabbage.

    this is a time when my only concept of leadership was what i saw on old WWII movies on channel 30 or in star trek reruns.  i didn’t have any idea what my battles were going to be in the future.  all i knew was that i would be way too old to possibly enjoy the year 2000.  the realization depressed me.

    i’m writing this here on my knee in a notebook on a couch in a hot apartment in brooklyn, the year 2000 long gone, feeling the weight of many wrong turns i have taken since some dry autumn afternoon when i was rolling down the grassy hill as fast as i could go down the hill to the other world by the brook.

     
  9. letting those minnows go forth

    continuous space, fluid space, contiguous space, trying to forget what the weather is becuase i am trying to work — work on what, i do not know.  trying to get into the deep end but drifting back ineluctably inevitably if you will towards the kiddie pool.  trying to get up into the silvery thin-line dream.  distractions multiply.  remembering a brian eno / peter schmidt “oblique strategy” saying “do nothing for as long as possible.”  the drama of the polymath is that he considers many tasks to be under his purview and the rest of the tasks likely to be learning opportunities even on a bad day, so he never really gets to a state of sustained focus.  easily derailed, and, if he’s honest with himself, ever at the ready to justify a change of direction; e.g.: “i have to have lots of projects going at the same time or i’ll go crazy.”  letting these minnows, many minnows, go forth and leave him alone is too much to ask.  never sharp, never dull, like a mechanical pencil lead.

     
  10. develop the cat or omit him: work in progress

    NOTES

    Write a simpler heaven.

    Are they his judges or his subjects? 

    Is he alone?

    Revisit the food slot. 

    Develop the cat or omit him.

    Schedule the day and night.

    Why does their judgment of him change?

    Is there a battle scene?

    He needs to overcome something in the eyes of the judges in order to be seen as worthy of their change of judgment.

    Develop outer appearance plus inner change.