the airport in my brain

I have this entire nocturnal life happening at the airport in my brain. Sometimes I am going to Sydney, sometimes I am returning to New York. Sometimes I see passengers from earlier flights; one of them's expecting a baby now and she looks like girl from my sorority way back when. She lives in L.A. Last night, leaving Sydney, there were delays and I got lost on the airport bus. It's only the details that give it any sort of charm. Like The Clash soundtrack (o/~ I get good advice from the advertising world; treat me nice, says a party girl o/~)

It's all very tiring, and obvious (a) want to get back to Sydney, b) I always note in the dreams my stays there are getting longer, c) I have an association with Sydney (several disparate ones actually) related to personal/intentional community -- hence sorority chick appearance; even her pregnancy is icky-obvious on at least three levels), d) spiritually, I'm sort of always in the airport you know, with the pace I live at, e) general marketing/self-marketing world-view, etc.).

In completely other news, the really hideous ghetto supermarket near me has both Milo and Maggi stuff. This utterly warps my brain, but just seeing it made me smile.

Getting on the subway the other morning I was musing on how I've spent my whole life feeling as if I were living in exile -- generally from other human beings or simple, broad concepts like beauty, and how, it turns out no, it's just Sydney?!? And sure, that's got to be a choice on some level, not just this feeling in my gut and my attachment to narrative and pretty words, but even the annoyance of wanting to go to this place all the time, fills a wound. It's wonderful, to feel uncomfortably separated from a place, as opposed to some idealized state of being (beauty, humanity, etc.) I'd (erroneously) convinced myself I could never hope to achieve.

Sometimes, I note in the dream that this time, I forgot to go on the ferries. And I always wonder why that is. It's the one bit of symbolism in it all I've not solved.

rahalia_cat sent me this picture last night, and asked me what I was doing in the 50s.
http://pics.livejournal.com/rm/pic/00097da8

A colleague asked me last night if I'd wanted to direct for a long time. "Noooooo," I said, laughing, "it just kept flirting with me, so I finally got over myself and decided to flirt back. I've asked a whole bunch of people to kick me in the head about it though. It may just be one of those things I'm going through. I go through a lot of things."

Dear United Airlines,
WHERE ARE MY FREQUENT FLIER MILES?
Ta!
-me

*snort*

http://www.ironhymen.com/

(does it need commentary? No, no I don't think so at all)

(no subject)

I am trying, and failing, to find an affordable used copy of Lucie Brock-Broido's first book of poetry (A Hunger). The best price I can find is over $70. This is _insane_ -- no one reads poetry! Hello?

Aie. She has a new one out though, and that makes me happy. As I've probably spent more hours with The Master Letters than any other book I own, which is saying a great deal.

LJ, btw, seems suddenly to think I live on the West Coast. While an irritant, this charms me.

Having fixed that 100 Gods piece (which basically has the effect, in a really convoluted and somewhat odd way from of switching me to the observed instead of observing), I am both a) desperately trying to write another b) trying to think where to submit it to, being so fucking far out of the poetry loop I don't know what to do with myself.

In partial response to my query earlier in the week, yes, Lucie Brock-Broido is so my poetry role-model. I didn't realize she taught in the city. Ah, to be a Columbia student (ladyjaida I think she only teaches grad stuff, not sure -- but she's the poet I kept quoting to you in alternate narrative context, if that's a way of putting it. If you ever get a chance to study with her, you must tell me all about it).

Having resigned myself to not going to the HP club night, Kat stepped up and now we're going together. I'm excited and bittersweet about so many things.

Anyway, back to Brock-Broido, one of her poems, found on the Internet:
http://www.webdelsol.com/AGNI/ag2-lb.htm

The last lines:
The moment between Have & Shall Not Want, we who have salt
Always know, that we who have--the best of us--did not come back.

She just completely fucking wows me.

And and and... the new Steve Erickson is out.

more Brock-Broido online

http://slate.msn.com/id/2085630/

http://slate.msn.com/id/2086875/

http://slate.msn.com/id/2087825/

(no subject)

Yo double-parked jackass outside my building blasting hip-hop so loud it's making my second floor windows vibrate,

I've got expired eggs in the fridge, and I'm not afraid to throw them at you. And I've got fantaaaastic aim.

We clear?