1. Ana sends the above video by Bat for Lashes, “What’s a Girl To Do?”, which I find fun. I especially enjoyed the low budget feel and the choreography. I still own a small boy’s trick bike (sans pegs, for those in the know), and fancy remembering my younger self trying to perform such feats as seen in the video.
2. This Friday, August 3rd, is my birthday.
3. The following Monday, August 6th, I get put under, for the first time ever, for a minor surgical procedure.
4. Matt, one of my loveliest friends ever, sends the poems below in the context of his forthcoming manuscript, “The Comeback’s Exoskeleton“.
** Wish me a happy birthday or wish me a happy anesthetic experience, either one will float my boat! xox, Amy
Story of Learning
After I learned the language, I learned it well. Then went down to the lake. I said, “Hey, Pond, you got rabbit-congress, how about witch go seventeen something something?” Pond said, “Man, the language is not like that. You better learn.” So I learned. I learned and learned. Then said to Old Man Killer Whale, “Nice for this mine, your thermos mine, your brown interval mine, your Viggo Mortenson.” Killer Wheel said, “Not far enough yet, son. But if you study, your own reward will be that you studied.” Shivering and shaking, I studied and learned. I learned hand and by hand and hand stealing and victim-focused learning. Then I met Wall Of Dogs. Wall said, “You look like another dog for me.” I said, “Yes, cylinder and me talking—like night fighting—and yes or same project makes blame, the astrolabe, wicca, not chancy chancy, all these marriages end in more desire.” Wall Of Dogs spoke, and said, “Only that last bit showed some learning.” So I made the Walking Wall my right side master, learned something else on my left and in my front I wished for a gymnastics container. I said, “I’ve learned. This old language is mine, and easy now. I have it for naming and knowing and learning.” Then Hey Pond, Old Killer Whale Man, and Dog Wall said, “Ho! Ho!, Pond Consonant Boy, look at you, handclapping for bottles and vowels and cans!”
i pound you head
snatch you eyes
you bad bad man
i take you wife
eat you vegetable
throw you down hole
kick you house
stone you head
you down alone in hole
you bad bad man
i burn you town
drop bomb you school
you bad bad man
you look like funny ugly man
me got money
you got dark hole
[Matt wrote the next one for our very lovely professor of drama, Carey Harrison, who is also Rex Harrison’s son. Matt must’ve written it while he was on his nine month Fulbright mecca through Sri Lanka & surrounding countries, or just after, because the details resonate with his tales of being bewitched by the monks who communed with the local monkey population, among other animals.]
I Dreamt Of You, My Bearded Professor
for Carey Harrison
In Dharamsala, India, where Avalokiteśvara sells T-shirts and incense,
I walked up a little mountainside every day for a week,
Sat for a while with my meditation pals,
Picked stones out of rice,
And watched monks and monkeys shout at each other.
Two times that week I dreamt of you.
I can’t remember the first dream at all.
But in the second, we clasped hands and danced together in a huge ballroom.
Spinning around and around,
Women in beaded dresses and men in tuxedos became a wallpapery blur.
We had yellow Buddha robes on.
You morphed into Brando,
I into Pacino.
Godfathers One and Two,
Of no soul.