sparkling trees and flights of stars

Fireworks make me happy. The glittering blast of color falling in fragments on black, black dark. Such extravagance. Explosives and chemicals and bright, cheap packaging all in the service of something so pretty that lasts no time at all.

Though I have to say, seeing boxes and boxes of them piled on top of each other in busy stores is a little strange.



At least a small fire extinguisher stands ready to avert disaster. (I wonder though, how much can one brave red canister do against three aisles of pyrotechnics?) We resisted greed and only took a single box.

Oh, the anticipation. I can't wait for it to be dark.

in which we have much fun

My friend, the lovely Kathleen Howard, and I have strange conversations. If anyone overheard us, they would think that we were either mad or irretrievably unmoored from reality. This evening, we discussed linguistics. Which somehow led to us discussing elderly vampires in the British Library (a picture of the Library here, from The Nonist). Which, somehow, led us to discussing resurrections.

We decided to write a story about it all. And, for some reason, we decided to write it on Twitter. 140 characters is a challenging allotment for two people fond of long sentences. It isn't finished yet, and I don't have any idea where it will head (we alternate passages and we haven't planned anything), but this is how it starts:

Russell Malconperry had a certain arrangement with the janitors who cleaned the British Library. They would stay out of his reading room, and he'd help with the vermin control.

I think the rest can be found here. At least, the rest that we've written so far. I'm not sure how the Twitter tag thing works, but I think that's the right link.

a goodbye

Sometimes, the words I need to use seem to be worn out from too much use. They aren't thick enough anymore; they don't have the breadth or the depth or the bottomless echoes that they should.

I'm sorry, for instance. What does that say? I am so sorry. Better? No, not really.

My insides are stripped out, hollow, stringy, and pithed. The ribs crumble, the lungs unexpectedly deflate. This lack, which I never expected, stretches out the skin and fills it with something heavy and hard to move.

No, better off with keeping I am so sorry and leaving the rest.

Except:

Ashley Taylor was a woman of magnificence. When she danced, she swung her arms and threw back her head, and she was a mad, glorious creature who ate the world with abandon. Her hands sliced up space and lavished it on everyone. She was beautiful and smart and full of warm, golden humour. The corners of her eyes squeezed into charming points when she smiled, and she always looked like she was about to say something either wicked, or delightful, or both.

She gave the kind of hugs that make you feel the entire day just got better. I will miss her.

words that make other kinds of sense

Asian product quote of the day, from a rather dubious pancake recipe:

"Grill to meedium heat until cake reaches darkness of color."

There's something charming about that sentence. It's perfectly understandable, but the way the words are arranged make them seem like they're talking about something else. Something much more exotic than pancakes anyway.

Once, when I was in an Asian market, I saw a jar of something called "Gelatinous Mutant Coconut." It made me feel like I was somewhere special, a place where wondrous things like Gelatinous Mutant Coconut lined the shelves and turning the corner might mean bumping into a Push-Me-Pull-You, or a Snark, or a Boojum, or a Bandersnatch. Something that would feast on Gelatinous Mutant Coconut as a matter of course.

a few things without much commentary

A video of pastry performing a bit of La Traviata. My sister found this while trying to determine whether the strange film of animated hands dancing to Lakme by Delibes was a figment of our overactive imaginations.

Another video, this time a super brief clip of Glen David Gold discussing Sunnyside (his new novel, which is a vast mash up of many things, including war, lighthouses, and Charlie Chaplin). I had to film this with my tiny point and shoot camera. The bookstore hasn't quite figured out what to do with the clips we collect. I know there are some more of other interesting writers, but I don't think you can see them anywhere yet (lame).

The first chapter of Catherynne Valente's The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making. I adore serialized fiction.

Excitement! DV8 Physical Theatre is coming to the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. The Cost of Living was the first dance film that made me realise that, when done right, dance on film can say certain things that dance in a theater can't. They are brilliant.

That is all. I have to wake up early tomorrow if I hope to get to ballet class, otherwise known as exquisite torture/satiating yearning. All the things that you want to be and all the things that you are, bashed up with sweating and grumpy muscles and unreliable will.

dandelion dancetheater

My friend, the lovely Julia, got me tickets to see Dandelion Dance Theater's new show, so on Tuesday evening, the always magnificent Heather and I went down to the Travelling Jewish Theater (which is in the Artaud complex).

This is (pretty much) what I thought:

It is a small, casual space, and it makes you feel less like you are settling down to watch a show and more like you are in a room where anything might sweep you out of the ordinary world. It’s a good venue for Dandelion’s work, which explores the vulnerability and absurdity of being human through a mad mixture of music, dialogue, and movement.

The first piece on the program was We love you to the end of the world, directed by Kimiko Guthrie. It examines an unwieldy chunk of layered subjects—war, media, family, consumption, delusion—and the performers achieved some striking images, but the work felt slightly unclear. It seemed like it was trying to say too many things at once before it knew exactly what it wanted to talk about.

The second piece, Mutt 49 Crosses the Line, created by Eric Kupers and the entire performing ensemble, was funny, awkward, bizarre, and deliciously absurd. It made me laugh, made me uncomfortable, and made me goggle at the immense range of the Dandelion performers. Here they are playing the banjo, the guitar, and the harmonica in a deranged country band. Here they are singing, dancing, reading a list of shameful transgressions, and telling a story about a dog with four freckles on its beloved toes. They enact submission with a violin, drift across the stage like a blind moon, and introduce each other like circus impresarios or announcers at a rodeo. The piece is a collage of emotions and unlikely visuals. It careens through them, but it doesn’t close itself off or become inscrutable. The performers seem to be having a conversation with you, telling you what it’s like to be them and wanting to know if it’s just as strange and difficult and funny to be you.

(I do have to say... I thought the nudity was mostly pointless. I don't mind nudity in shows when it says something. But if it just seems to be there to make me uncomfortable, or to be shocking, I get irritated.)

I’m glad I went though. I look forward to seeing how Mutt 49 develops as part of the larger project, MUTT, which is set to premiere next year. You should see this. Then you can look forward to it too.

helpful hints for bookstore customers, part 3

If you ask me what sort of book you should read and then say that you like Laurie Halse Anderson, A Million Tiny Pieces, and stories about people experiencing difficult things, please, please don't then say that you're afraid my suggestions will creep you out and give you nightmares. I still feel guilty about handing you a copy of The Lovely Bones. If I had known you were prone to nightmares, I would have given you something else. More sunshine and less gruesome.

I did not love The Lovely Bones or Special Topics In Calamity Physics or In Cold Blood, but I will still recommend them to you if I think you'll like them more than I did. Just please don't tell me that they give you nightmares.

However, if you feel moved to read me the first page of your favourite book, please do (and, as long as there are no sparkling vampires involved, I mean that). It's a surprising thing to have so much affection for a book that you will read it aloud to a stranger just in case they like it too. It's refreshing.

With thanks,
Me