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Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Extra! Extra! LA Woman Wallowing In The Mire

Whenever I read interviews with my favorite authors, or even ones I don't like so much, I notice a pattern. They all wake up mad early, embracing the day head first with a cup of joe, ready to type away. Always! I'm shaking my head because I know that this June, I.. well, I slacked, but in coming to terms with my June gloom, I have resolved to get my act together. It's like Jim Morrison said, No time to wallow in the mire. I don't normally follow stoners' advice, not even respectable ones (respectfully... RIP Mr Morrison *sign of the cross* - I am very superstitious) but that's because I'm usually too stubborn to take most people's advice. I blame my father for this gene, but before I start giving you my family tree, I just want to say that I reached the mire wallowing tipping point today. It's been one day too many where I sleep in an embarrassingly long time, waking up in a panic to 15 work e-mails and their opposition, the SMS messages and Twitter notifications, tempting my thumbs with a longing to be answered first, with their brief response- time commitment and jovial subject matter. In honor of this evening's abandoned, yet serene Park Slope stroll (abandoned because of all of the businesses were closed in observance of Independence Day), I'd like to submit the following poem. It'll serve as my own prayer as I enter the last days of laziness and usher in an era of the discipline I know I owe to myself and deserve.

Walking Around by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

1 comment:

  1. If the tears are dirty...that mean they were washed w/o soap? Whoa. Deep shit mayne.

    ReplyDelete

About Me

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I'm an LA transplant now living in Brooklyn. I develop film projects by day, write at night, and have a dangerous predilection for vintage Robinson Golluber scarves- this blog serves as a tiny window to everything else I do when I'm not satisfying those first three passions. I'm trying to blog more and tweet less @annabelleqv. What about you?

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