tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23182785287545184682024-03-05T00:30:15.185-08:00peace of me.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-8266683079456927862013-11-08T12:18:00.002-08:002013-11-08T12:18:08.811-08:00thinking of you.<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="826DC" class="saveImage" src="http://static.designspiration.net/data/l/416267335256_xblzWkth_l.jpg" /></div>
Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-54087605782498164272013-11-06T11:56:00.001-08:002013-11-06T11:56:24.600-08:00on yeast and deathThere are three objects decaying in my apartment as I write.<br />
<br />
One, a plant that has long since perished after a summer apart and the resulting dehydration.<br />
Two, a jar of sourdough starter that has since developed its own malignant growth.<br />
Three, a pot of chicken pho that was already in the process of decomposition before I started it.<br />
<br />
<br />
The plant I received as a "feel better" incentive from my parents, who listened as I wailed into the phone after my first lover left me for the second time. Or at least, that's how I tell the story. The Truth of the matter is probably a bit different, but recall was never my strong point, that, plus a few shades of rosy nostalgia and now the photographs exude more blush than sepia. It sits on a wicker side table next to the television. I think that one day I will dispose of it, and I thought that day was long ago, but there it sits, next to the TV, fading into the backdrop of my quotidian life. Except for the times I remember to look, and there it remains, dead. Perhaps the holding on is about a subconscious belief that if I wait long enough it will come back to life.<br />
<br />
The jar, a relic of another lover, carried across country with the hope that life could persist despite the distance. A spreading of spores--selective migration--diaspora. Fed and furnished for the first several beats, the starter grew in size, expanding, in(corp)orated its surroundings, turned raw material into and onto its body. However, forgotten in the far corner of the fridge, what used to fester with potential lied dormant for a year, before two, expiring for lack of air, lack of care, lack of attention to the signs that time was working. A streak of black marks the side of the jar where a new life grows on from the inside, visible to me, but now inextricable from the death of the life that birthed it.<br />
<br />
The pot of pho will soon be tossed out. Ignited from the remains of a previous performance, the pot marinated bones of fresh flesh, a charred root of ginger, the singed outer layer of an onion, and a few stars of anise. The bodies that seeped into the surrounding waters. The comfort in a familiar scent. The warmth as I drank you in on this brisk Fall night. Garnished in fresh scallions and cilantro: there was life here. But leaves wilt, fat floats, and I am still hungry for more.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-77292525679683444442013-10-09T22:02:00.002-07:002013-10-09T22:02:31.311-07:00fall/lightyou looked at me like fall light<br />
always askance, never direct<br />
with a warm golden linger<br />
that relieved the harsh summers<br />
glare<br />
and so I always seemed to warm to you<br />
radiant<br />
golden by refraction, diffuse.<br />
you fed me through hibernation<br />
folded into me like the break<br />
rushing back to equilibrium<br />
in the wake of a gliding sailboat<br />
dynamicly cresting and enveloping<br />
the hiss of evening.<br />
<br />
in silence we buzz<br />
in stillness we crumble.<br />
<br />
And soon it will be winter in your heart<br />
and too in mine<br />
and it will seem serene<br />
blanked over in fresh flakes<br />
a canvas for angels<br />
that mask the ache of decomposition<br />
festering below on concrete<br />
before melting into sewers<br />
into ocean<br />
into spring.<br />
<br />
and still<br />
when I hold my breath long enough<br />
if i exhale I still smell you<br />
coming out of me<br />
and in the sweaty mingling of other bodies<br />
i taste you still<br />
it's been two full moons since<br />
we've connected<br />
but i've counted the time<br />
you've been gone in blood shed<br />
from body and onto sheets<br />
<br />
and still<br />
there are people on the train<br />
that if I squint my eyes hard enough<br />
and remember how to dream<br />
I see you<br />
in the myopic horizon<br />
where eyelashes flutter<br />
and perception is truth.<br />
<br />
And the fog rolls in<br />
with the dewing of the dawn<br />
and the rain begins its fall<br />
and a single leaf will tremble<br />
shaking silence with its shiver<br />
as it learns to let go--<br />
to fall/light<br />
And I swish coffee around my teeth<br />
turning them the color of the ground<br />
the gutter dribbles<br />
as I swallow<br />
and think not of you.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-12549753355632742932013-10-08T22:34:00.003-07:002013-10-08T22:35:56.332-07:00dead plant.there is a plant that sits on my coffee table.<br />
it is the plant that my mother sent me<br />
when you went away.<br />
she thought that i needed to take care of<br />
something else<br />
so that I could learn how to take care of<br />
myself again<br />
She did not realize that I had lost myself in<br />
taking care of you.<br />
surprisingly, it lived for two years<br />
through a few hurricanes<br />
though it stayed indoors,<br />
mostly, i think it was resilient<br />
because it was a hefty plant to begin with<br />
had a lot to give<br />
even after losing a lot--<br />
kinda like my very own giving pot<br />
but this summer when i left it<br />
the sun became too hot<br />
it was sucked dry<br />
and now all that's left are a few dried leaves<br />
splayed out in their final moments<br />
looking for sun<br />
but the pot still remains<br />
though life has long left it<br />
and though I have learned to care<br />
for myself again<br />
looking at that dead plant<br />
is somewhat comforting<br />
and I can't seem to shake that feeling<br />
or seem to want to.<br />
<br />Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-31768652661982180832013-07-16T20:28:00.001-07:002013-07-16T20:28:17.749-07:00i will love with urgency, and not with hasteNataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-25807450550457599212013-07-12T23:06:00.000-07:002013-07-12T23:06:05.206-07:00things i would tell you if we were speaking:<br />
<br />
1. i'm sorry.<br />
2. i miss our conversations<br />
3. you should read about Buber and I and Thou, it would make for good research for your book.<br />
4. your sister emailed me recently. did you know?<br />
5. i might be ready to speak to you again.<br />
6. actually, not, probably not.<br />
7. it's because on some level I know I still love you.<br />
8. maybe i always will?<br />
<br />Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-15930681403946130492013-07-12T22:58:00.000-07:002013-07-12T22:59:59.441-07:00if i lay here<br />
if i just lay here<br />
would you lie with me<br />
and just forget<br />
<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
last night i could hold you<br />
even though i knew i couldn't hold on long<br />
there was while when i held you<br />
and you fumbled reckless in my arms<br />
<br />
<br />Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-21635795970749475062012-07-16T22:49:00.002-07:002012-07-16T22:49:24.683-07:00surrenderare you out there?<br />
do you read this?<br />
if you did, would you tell me?<br />
would you contact me if I wanted you to?Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-87106698421362851572012-07-16T22:47:00.000-07:002012-07-16T22:47:26.037-07:00saudadethe melancholy where past meets future<br />
where last week<br />
we dreamed together long enough<br />
that i could almost feel you<br />
<br />
we were on a retreat somewhere<br />
hiding from everyone<br />
including ourselves<br />
and you reached out for my hand<br />
and i pulled away<br />
and i said<br />
<br />
"no, i'm a different person now<br />
a lot has changed in the past year<br />
i've grown, i've changed"<br />
<br />
and you said,<br />
<br />
"I know, I have too"<br />
<br />
and i replied,<br />
<br />
"good, let's keep it that way, there is still more growth that needs to occur"<br />
<br />
then i awoke.<br />
and you were still gone.<br />
and i wanted to go back to bed<br />
just to have you close to me again<br />
just for a little bit<br />
even if I didn't want to touch<br />
even if I couldn't go back<br />
i just wanted you close again<br />
just for a little bit.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-89217641900571321912012-07-08T11:21:00.001-07:002012-07-08T11:21:54.418-07:00<span style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b style="line-height: 15px; text-align: left;">No Road</b><span style="line-height: 15px; text-align: left;"></span></span><br />
<pre class="poembox" style="line-height: 15px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"> Since we agreed to let the road between us
Fall to disuse,
And bricked our gates up, planted trees to screen us,
And turned all time's eroding agents loose,
Silence, and space, and strangers - our neglect
Has not had much effect.
Leaves drift unswept, perhaps; grass creeps unmown;
No other change.
So clear it stands, so little overgrown,
Walking that way tonight would not seem strange,
And still would be followed. A little longer,
And time would be the stronger,
Drafting a world where no such road will run
From you to me;
To watch that world come up like a cold sun,
Rewarding others, is my liberty.
Not to prevent it is my will's fulfillment.
Willing it, my ailment.
</span></pre>
<center style="line-height: 15px;"><span style="color: white; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">-- <a class="underlined" href="http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.com/search/label/Poet%3A%20Philip%20Larkin" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(136, 136, 136); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; text-decoration: none;">Philip Larkin</a></span></center>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-27448851754449285842012-06-24T22:09:00.000-07:002012-06-24T22:09:06.531-07:00from the Fluxus handbook<b>Jed Curtis</b><br />
<i>Music for my son</i><br />
<br />
Do not prepare for<br />
the performance and<br />
and even try to forget that<br />
in a short time you will be<br />
performing. When the time <span style="background-color: white;">of the </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">performance comes, </span><span style="background-color: white;">simply do something</span><br />
appropriate.<br />
(no date)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Milan Kzinak</b><br />
<i>Marriage Ceremony</i><br />
<br />
Everyone walks deep into the woods until<br />
they come to a clearing. They sit in a<br />
circle with the couple in the center. They<br />
are silent. Then the lovers stand and kiss.<br />
They exchange gifts, which must not be<br />
bought.<br />
They drink red wine from a goblet. Then<br />
everyone drinks red wine. In the center of<br />
the circle, they plant a tree, and, in a<br />
different place, they light a fire.<br />
Everyone eats, drinks, talks and enjoys<br />
themselves together.<br />
Every third year the couple must visit this<br />
place on their anniversary. Only the most<br />
serious reasons must prevent them from<br />
doing so.<br />
(1967)<br />
<br />
<b>Peter Frank</b><br />
<i>Thank you piece</i><br />
<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
Thank you<br />
politeness is NO crime<br />
(date unknown)Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-25709774613657150492012-04-03T22:38:00.000-07:002012-04-03T22:38:16.925-07:00my teeth are straighter when<br />
i'm not sleeping with anyone (on a regular basis)<br />
because it means i can put my retainers in every night<br />
and not worry about them getting in the way<br />
<br />
my toothpaste lasts longer<br />
i can press snooze a hundred times<br />
and not feel so guilty about it.<br />
<br />
i can have my favorite pillow every night<br />
and never worry about making my bed properly<br />
because there is no one i have to share the sheets with.<br />
i can stroll back into my room at 5:45 am<br />
in the rain<br />
and laugh about it until I fall asleep.<br />
<br />
there is freedom in the act<br />
even if the first amendment can't be held<br />
no speech here<br />
no screams here<br />
no songs here<br />
just silence.<br />
<br />
but there are so many words i wish i could share with you<br />
so many words that i want to shout across the country<br />
so many explanations and questions<br />
so many jokes and odd occurrences<br />
so many frustrating events that would allow me to posit <i>us</i> against <i>them</i><br />
the outside world<br />
instead of <i>me</i> against <i>you</i>.<br />
i don't want to fight anymore<br />
i'm tired of fighting in the silence<br />
i'd rather wrestle until we were just so exhausted<br />
that we had no choice but to fall down<br />
in each others arms<br />
in utter fatigue and surrender<br />
i don't want to lose you.<br />
but i'm too stubborn to give in<br />
to scared to be vulnerable<br />
unwilling to just lean into this one<br />
i'm sorry.<br />
i guess that's the easysimpleshortandtothepoint of it<br />
i'm sorry.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-19221136112362825112012-02-28T22:15:00.000-08:002012-02-28T22:15:09.985-08:00i thoughtwe would end up together<br />
as if we were headed to a place with an end<br />
and that when we got there,<br />
we'd look around and find nobody but us.<br />
not in a "stranded at the end of the cul de sac and not sure if there's enough wiggle room to flip a bitch"<br />
but more in a "oh, hey, here we are"<br />
in a way that was somewhat surprising,<br />
when in reality part of us always <i>knew</i>.<br />
<br />
that doesn't make this in-between space any less hard to bear<br />
that doesn't make it easier to hear you're kinda, sorta, repeatedly, semi-seriously<br />
seeing someone else<br />
getting drinks with, sharing bites with, kissing, dating, sleeping with someone else.<br />
thank you for packing your overnight bag in front of me.<br />
your actions spoke clearer than your words.<br />
particularly the part where you stayed five feet away at all times<br />
so that i could barely feel you in the room.<br />
so that our phone conversations when 2,000 miles apart felt more sincere<br />
than sharing breathing space.<br />
little breathing happened that day.<br />
<br />
and no, it is not my intention to ignore you<br />
but i can't yet<br />
i can't pretend that its okay that i feel betrayed<br />
i can't pretend that its just the distance that separates us<br />
i can't pretend that i can still be your friend<br />
and forget about the rest.<br />
<br />
give me time and i'll remember what its like to hold back<br />
give me time and i'll remember how to lie to you<br />
give me time and i will be just a phone call away<br />
just the best friend who you can call when things go awry with her<br />
in time, maybe,<br />
but i can't yet<br />
so please, give me time to grieve this loss.<br />
<br />
let me let the dream of us go, before you tell me about your new ones.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-47478937128045186272012-02-13T06:52:00.001-08:002012-02-13T06:52:14.477-08:00it's been6 months. today.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-74256109108425996062012-02-02T12:40:00.000-08:002012-02-02T12:40:24.479-08:00the silence on the other end of the phone<br />
the stillness in the shadow of your presence<br />
the complete and utter inability<br />
to thinkwritereadspeaktalkarticulate;<br />
the moment your heart doesn't just skip a beat<br />
but probably face plants in its own internal dialogue<br />
<br />
<i>but does that mean...?</i><br />
<br />
<br />
kinda like how everything can be going great<br />
and the work is the work is the work is the work<br />
I want to be doing<br />
and routine is routine is routine is routine.<br />
until<br />
oh. so you're doing fine. that's good. me too.<br />
<i>finished your book yet?</i><br />
<i>seeing someone new?</i><br />
<i>miss me much?</i><br />
i don't miss you at all.<br />
<i>actually, though</i><br />
<i>i hardly think about you anymore</i><br />
<i>and at first it was because it was too much</i><br />
<i>and now perhaps it's just not enough</i><br />
<i>but really, </i><br />
i'm fine.<br />
<br />
<i>until signs of you appeared</i><br />
<i>and everything </i>stop.<i>ped.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-12906469647189862052012-01-22T22:20:00.000-08:002012-01-23T13:51:16.364-08:00on track.man dies on a track.<br />
man lived on a track<br />
can't figure out where he went off course<br />
of course<br />
because from afar man was always on track<br />
<br />
man on track<br />
man on track<br />
train is coming<br />
but the man is still on track.<br />
<br />
couldn't stop to see what passed him by<br />
couldn't stop to see what was right in front of him<br />
couldn't see through darkened windows<br />
to the light at the end-<br />
lights at the end of the tunnel<br />
approaching<br />
man on track<br />
man on track<br />
train is coming<br />
but I couldn't stop--<br />
<br />
-- --<br />
-- --<br />
-- --<br />
<br />
-- --<br />
<br />
the man on track<br />
the blood on track<br />
the melted snow, the rotting rats, the discarded possessions<br />
the piss the puke the pandemonium<br />
on track<br />
the running and the feet and the crowds and the haze<br />
on track<br />
the life of the lives of the living<br />
on track<br />
the trip trip tripping and the drip drip dripping<br />
and the drop drop drop<br />
on track<br />
of track on track<br />
keeping track of<br />
track on track on track on track.<br />
<br />
<br />
monday morning comes and the trains are running back-- -- while the stale subway gutters glean a darker sheen of red, and everyones' lives are right back-- --to normal.Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-51756752136067930422012-01-20T18:19:00.001-08:002012-01-23T13:53:08.634-08:00mortality.<div><br />
</div><div><i>does art betray the love it seeks to honor?</i></div><div>to wait until the last seconds to stop what has been happening since the start.</div><div><i>injunctions against gaze</i></div><div><i></i><br />
<blockquote><i>i did not want my desire to overwhelm hers</i></blockquote></div><div><i>is any memory of love not informed by mourning?</i></div><div><i>how love's hope--the sudden breath in the heart-- responds to death--the end of all breath</i></div><div><i>death is an event with both spatial and temporal location</i></div><div><i>after life before death</i></div><div><br />
</div><div>if only he hadn't looked back</div><div><i>to return without turning is akin to repeating something that has no original</i></div><div><i></i><br />
<blockquote style="display: inline !important;"><i>When heart is gone, how can it be that I am living?</i></blockquote></div><div><i></i><br />
<blockquote style="display: inline !important;"><i><br />
</i></blockquote></div><div><i>his quest seems to require her death</i></div><div><i></i><br />
<blockquote><i><br />
</i></blockquote></div><div>(nods to Peggy Phelan, as these are mostly her words, not mine.)</div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-30434963342401276072012-01-15T22:16:00.000-08:002012-01-15T22:20:21.746-08:00what happens when you reinhabit a body you used to own<div>but no longer remember</div><div>except for the soft squishy areas</div><div>where flesh and sinew</div><div>meet intimacy and nostalgia.</div><div>The words no longer aligning with the movement</div><div>so you make up for</div><div>lost time</div><div>lost fantasies</div><div>lost lovers.</div><div>I always thought we'd get married</div><div>or at least go through the actions</div><div>that marriage signifies:</div><div>an exchange of trust</div><div>a commitment to the longevity of the relationship</div><div>a reciprocated investment of time and energy</div><div>a walk through mid morning mist in the dusk of our lives</div><div>shared cook, cleans, and cuddles</div><div>wrestling in the sheets</div><div>a slow dance in silence</div><div>a fight over something remote.</div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-12544720254162170332012-01-10T21:55:00.000-08:002012-01-10T22:14:14.936-08:00if you forget meit is perhaps because i did not love you enough<div>or perhaps you did not love me enough</div><div>or perhaps you never loved me at all. </div><div><br /></div><div>if you forget the small of my back</div><div>where the pulps of your fingers pressed exhales</div><div>in the spaces between vertebrae in my spine</div><div>i will have forgotten the dimples in your ass</div><div>and the swerve of your child bearing hips</div><div>that end in bowed knees and duck flared feet.</div><div>your syncopated walk only the shadow of an image</div><div>echoing its dissimilarity in each ticking of this</div><div>second hand memory feasting on borrowed time.</div><div><br /></div><div>i,</div><div><br /></div><div>if you forget the moment that you broke me</div><div>that you broke into me</div><div>that love and pain became synonymous</div><div>and we took it anyway because somehow</div><div>masochism meant that at least we could still feel something</div><div>anything</div><div>that the pain killers and ssris</div><div>those sorry sons of an irresponsible system</div><div>hadn't numbed us yet</div><div>if you forget, </div><div>i've already forgotten what you feel like inside me</div><div>can barely locate the cells we exchanged</div><div>in the currency of friction.</div><div><br /></div><div>if i forget you,</div><div>where will i go home?</div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-30735350371849368612012-01-08T23:18:00.000-08:002012-01-20T21:37:12.059-08:00and thenit was over<div>your letters no longer haunting my shadow</div><div>your rhythm no longer dictating my steps</div><div>it doesn't hurt like it used to</div><div>because i don't remember what you felt like</div><div>inside me</div><div>anymore</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-77783369883369381412011-12-01T20:54:00.001-08:002012-01-20T21:36:25.659-08:00love is not enough.<div><br /></div><div>it does not solve any problems</div><div>just offers new questions</div><div>it is not sufficient</div><div>because if it was </div><div>my first love would not have left</div><div>without a trace</div><div>and my second love</div><div>would be here with me now.</div><div><br /></div><div>it is not an end</div><div>but a beginning</div><div>and i have yet to find the end of the road.</div><div><br /></div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-31158232984125644472011-10-25T14:15:00.000-07:002011-10-25T14:54:09.275-07:00time still passing.my heart still clenches when i seehearread your name.<div>even if it's someone else with your name</div><div>and the signs aren't even signifying you.</div><div>it feels like my heart puts on a wool turtleneck on a NY summers day</div><div>and heat can only escape out the top</div><div>as steam rises. </div><div>overflowing.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>i shake it off.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>because now you're not the first thing to come to mind</div><div>when i fill my Brita</div><div>or take the N train</div><div>or sleep</div><div><br /></div><div>i lost the wallet you hated</div><div>and my phone stopped working so your angry bird scores</div><div>aren't there to remind me</div><div>of your superiority.</div><div><br /></div><div>but i still don't venture farther east on the L train</div><div>and i still don't eat mac n cheese</div><div>and i still don't know what to say.</div><div>i just know that i can't say "you're breaking up" on the phone</div><div>whenever static interferes</div><div>without my voice mimicking the waves quiver.</div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-57712028646183770312011-10-23T21:36:00.000-07:002011-10-23T23:11:21.547-07:00a year ago<div>on a sunday evening<br /><div>i was sitting across the bed from you</div><div>in the guest room</div><div>of my parents house</div><div>finding ways to compactly transport my life</div><div>back East.</div><div><br /></div><div>it went something like this:</div><div>fold, stuff, sigh, kiss.</div><div>we managed to sneak lips</div><div>between tending to the empty cavities</div><div>left by my shoes.</div><div>people who get up and leave are good at</div><div>filling the contours with whatever will fit.</div><div>mostly the little things</div><div>like lingerie.</div><div><br /></div><div>there was too much baggage to just jump and fly.</div><div><br /></div><div>your hair was longer, mine was shorter.</div><div>there were no twists in strands</div><div>or kinks in tow.</div><div><br /></div><div>i made you put on a red v neck shirt i made</div><div>to declare our post (ambivalence)</div><div>when really, </div><div>i wanted to stay but needed to go.</div><div>and you let me.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-32055072704946652282011-10-21T20:57:00.000-07:002011-10-22T08:54:20.084-07:00cast awaynext week, i am holding auditions to fill the spot you left.<div>in search of:</div><div>a man who would propose the night before prom</div><div>and hit the road two days later.</div><div>a man who loves his freedom</div><div>to beat his rhythm on the road</div><div>and the ones he loves.</div><div>a beast in bed and a giant in gentile mannerisms</div><div>a solipsistic selfish ego </div><div>who would rather stroke himself to sleep</div><div>than sacrifice his dreams for love</div><div>of anything other than his country.</div><div><br /></div><div>this man was all you </div><div>and none of you, at once</div><div>he was all the catharsis and none of the conscious</div><div>he was all the action and none of the forethought</div><div>he was all the soldier and none of the fighter.</div><div><br /></div><div>but you were just as lost as he</div><div>and i just as lost in you</div><div>as she</div><div><br /></div><div>and you left</div><div>to find yourself</div><div>or greater</div><div>meaning</div><div>or something, anything else</div><div><br /></div><div>and for all of the moves i make on a daily basis</div><div>i couldn't choreograph the tide that would pull you towards the horizon</div><div>the haze where you would blur into the atmosphere</div><div>leaving only fog and perspective</div><div>no lines culminating at an origin</div><div>no beginnings</div><div>just the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>and</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>if i asked you, you would say you left <i>for</i> me</div><div>to save me</div><div>from myself when i was with you.</div><div>that it was for the best.</div><div><br /></div><div>but</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>somehow when you didn't look back</div><div>once you stepped on that train</div><div>that would take you away</div><div>i knew</div><div>i knew that that would be the last time i would see you</div><div>that i would interlace my fingers in the small of your back</div><div>that i would nuzzle my forehead into your sternum</div><div>that you would exhale in my ear</div><div>that you would run the backs of your knuckles along my cheekbone</div><div>that i would smell your cologne mixed in your sweat</div><div>that you would pierce me</div><div>with your eyes first and your body later</div><div>that your fingers would trace the outline of our trauma on my torso</div><div>that you would hold me through the night</div><div><br /></div><div>i knew</div><div><br /></div><div>because it was the same look you gave me that night in Barcelona</div><div>the day you put me on a bus to Charles de Gaulle</div><div>the night you drove your Civic away from the back of French House</div><div>the day in the psychologists office</div><div>the time you stood in your Santa undies in my loft</div><div>when i came home to toothpaste residue where your brush used to be</div><div><br /></div><div>i got used to you looking at me like you were never going to see me again.</div><div>but even that got old</div><div>and though i knew, there was nothing i could do.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2318278528754518468.post-81322844114564680152010-10-29T22:40:00.000-07:002010-10-29T23:00:58.611-07:00Cultural Property?Recently been watching plays with "deep cultural roots"...<div>But as performance studies and the Humanities have taught me, any broad statement like that will get you in trouble. So let me specify:</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw <i>In the Red and Brown Water</i>, part of the Brother/Sister plays trilogy by Tarell Alvin McCraney at the Marin Theater Company in Mill Valley, CA and tonight I saw Fela! The Musical on Broadway.</div><div><br /></div><div>Both plays ignited that subtle disturbance within me--</div><div>questioning the extent to which the plays exotified and essentialized</div><div>Black, African, African-American culture</div><div>for the white consumer audience. </div><div><br /></div><div>From the face paint and wooden masks on the set of Fela! to the gospel soundtrack of Water, I struggle with the fact that these identifiable aesthetic forms seem to have been co-opted for the capitalist market it serves-- one that so far, by observation, is primarily white, upper-middle class, and interested in learning about the "struggle" and "corruption" in Africa. Boo hiss.</div><div>At the same time, and I'll be honest, another part of me revels in the fact that these forms are being exhibited to this audience at all. That in some way, this problematic (read: colonized?) representation of this demographic is a step above not being represented at all. On top of this, tonight Fela! asked for a higher degree of participation from the audience, as the actor instructed this stiff crowd in how to shake their hips. I have yet to conclude whether the participatory element enhanced or detracted from the power relationship between audience and performers. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, none of this waxing philosophical is trumped by the fact that in a 200 person audience at MTC I was sitting next to the only two Black men in the front row--that is, until they were asked to leave because the white couple who bought those seats finally showed up. Sorry man, no room for you here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I want to be able to look beyond the racial makeup of an audience, and yet I can feel that there is something fundamentally wrong (read: eerily reminiscent of historical precedent) about plays that are so culturally specific being presented to a completely alien audience. I mean really, a bunch of white people gawking at the spectacle of people of color on stage performing their "culture"? No thank you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nataliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04781773381127097213noreply@blogger.com0