Music and Parties

There are parts of our story that still make me cry.
I did not realize that there was still an
Our story,
Until I got the message last night—
The one you never sent—
The one about
Vampire cosmology.
Wedding receptions.
Rehashed apologies.
I remember when you and I were yelling at each other
In the living room of my parents' house...
It was an inopportune moment—at the very beginning
Of the slide toward all sorts of death
And irrevocability,
And we knew each other well enough to deal
The crushingest blows.
I remember wondering where you had gone—
Who this new strange angry person was,
This person with the bloodied face
And the weak hands.

You tried so hard.
I know it—I know you did try.
With your sweet bloody face
And your weak hands.
And now I still cry
For us,
Despite myself
And all the plans I make
To end our story.

Once, when I was driving back to you,
I felt a moment of doubt…
Should I just keep driving to the coast?
If I keep driving,
I thought,
I may just
Get around the inevitable endings promised by
Love,
Faith,
Marriage...
But I was weak.
I missed your face—
You had made spaghetti,
Opened wine and bought roses.
So I kept driving,
To where you were
Because that was the only place I knew how to be,
And I kissed your face
Because yours was the only face I recognized.

Threats and Liquid Smoke

Let me tell you a little something about liquid smoke. I do not like it; it is weird to me. Generally, I am a fan of artifice--in many of its delicious varieties and forms. I love masks and costumes, word-play and badinage, clever lies and earnest endearments--I live for that shit.

But a body must have its categories--and I admit that I do have some. Mostly they have to do with zombies, rhetorics of history/expertise, and varying degrees of friendship (performative and constructive) which I will be more than happy to tell you about (possibly honestly, possibly artificially) at some later date. Right now, though, I want to tell you a little something about my categories of flavor.

I have spent the last few days in Manhattan, meeting up with dear friends. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon at MOMA with this hot Israeli and a young Gordon Gekko. That was an intriguing combination of people in and of itself, but the main goal of this story is to set up the smoke-flavor-screen: On Friday nights, MOMA lets people in for free. And I mean aLOT of people. I am not the biggest fan of crowds, but I must say that it warmed my heart to see so many different faces leaning in to study the paint scrapes of our Abstract expressionists and the tintinnabulations of our Surrealist buddies. It was overwhelming, and I must go back when there are not so many folks leaning. Anyway, back to "Artifice: Good/Bad/Indifferent?"

On the sixth floor is a special exhibit by this crazy Belgian named James Ensor. Dude. You need to go see it. He starts out with some poxy images of ponds and rainbows, but then he gets into some really awesome stuff. Weird satires and super-unsettling masques, sharp political critiques and shady-looking skeletons leaning up against credenzas. It was luscious. And just my kind of artifice. Over the top, obvious, and critical--without being bossy or sneaky. He uses the artifical to call attention to the false--not the other way around--which leads me to LIQUID SMOKE and THURSDAY NIGHT AT DALLAS BBQ* IN TIMES SQUARE.

Talk about crowds. Sheesh. My Long Island friend and I went into the city Thursday night to drink martinis and catch up. We met at the Apartment in Grand Central--verrrrry swanky. Lawyers abounded. Then, after some conversation with a fellow Episcopalian (who went to Sewannee and Duke! Will wonders never cease?), we were hungry, so we made our way to Dallas BBQ--the 42nd St. location. And there was liquid smoke. All in the sauce. The chicken was alright (I got the dark meat because that is inevitably juicier). And the Texas-sized pina colada was, indeed, ridiculously large--so, thumbs up, there. But The Sauce! And The Gigantic Neon Sign That Kept Flashing! And The Crowds of Tourists Who Are Most Likely From the South So They Should Know Better!

I figured out that my main problems with the Dallas BBQ at Times Square center mostly on liquid smoke, and I will tell you why:

A) It's apparently pretty bad for you because it is MADE FROM SMOKE.
B) I am a good Southerner. I have never been crazy for barbecue, but I recognize good barbecue when I taste it. Because I am an East Coast girl, I prefer sauces (sorry, dear Texas), but I won't kick a good dry rub out of bed for lack of juice. :) Liquid smoke contains a false-ness, a pretense, of smoking procedures that just fits nowhere in my categories of the good. It does not taste like barbecue, it tastes like sauce disguised.
C) Neon makes food taste weird. It is the visual equivalent of liquid smoke. And it. is. everywhere. at that place.
D) If barbecue does not taste de-damn-licious after one martini and two glasses of wine, then I don't know what to tell you. That can't be a good sign.

*An addendum--I am not a hater. I have had good barbecue in New York at a place called Rub BBQ. Good title, good brisket, not-so-good-fried-green-tomatoes... but you gotta love em for trying. And I so do.

70 Degree Day

These are for you, Stringer.

Words for Monsters

The monsters that were here last night
Linger.
That’s not the only word for it—
I can think of so many other words for what it is that monsters do.
They hulk,
Breathless and Taloned
Between the panes of the window
And the screen to the porch.
They crouch,
Insidious whisperers,
In all the corners of our conversations.
They bleed,
Calling to mind the Ghosts of HeartBreaks Past
And the Shadows of Those To Come…

The monsters that were here last night
Are surprised.
I can tell.
They believe you.
When you say their names aloud,
When you gaze into their hiding spaces
Boldly.
Perhaps they are no match for you,
Because you know all the languages they speak.
Hero.
Villain.
You switch from interrogator to interlocutor
Instantly.
JustLikeThat.
You tell me that you are here for me—
That these monsters are no match for you.
And when I laugh,
And tell you that I am used to them,
And I don’t need your help
And I am unimpressed with your heroics,
You remind me
That everyone needs rescuing once in a while.

The monsters that were here last night
Are weakened
But they are not erased.
Villain.
Hero.
The monsters that were here last night
Are students of the Abyss,
They study the cracks in our façade.
They taste our strengths like acids
And test our fears like lemon drops.
They are waiting for you to slip.

Percolating

I may have to write something about zombies. I talk about them all the time. And Steve is, I think, just the slightest bit sick of hearing it (as are, I imagine, any of the people with whom I come into contact on any sort of regular basis). There are lots of folks talking about zombies right now. There's that new book about Elizabeth Bennett battling them. There's the neoconservatives' worst nightmare. There are discussions about higher education funding (disenfranchised bitches that they are) for zombies. And there are several zombie movies rumored to be in the works (which I can't remember right now because it's late and I am percolating but they were in Entertainment Weekly, if you'd like to check for yourself. Yes. I read Entertainment Weekly. You would too if you had this big a crush on Lisa Schwarzbaum).

Anyway. Something neat-o may or may not be going on here. All these bloodless copies, just sort of wandering around... lusting for replication, craving originary flesh, destructive in their longing. It's kinda intriguing, in a percolating sort of way. I hesitate to start seriously thinking about this project for a few reasons:
1) I am supposed to be writing something else with dear Jason. It is my foray into poli-comm--a consideration of Clintonian globalization and rhetorical tectonics, and he will murder me if I get any more distracted.
2) It would mean that I would be studying something that I love, and that makes me nervous. Sometimes, when I make what I love into work, it starts to suck. And what would I do without my "Dawn of the Dead" writer's block fallback?
3) Zombies are the term a la mode. And fads go fast.
4) There would be more talking about zombies, and I might lose friends.

On the other hand, there are also some reasons that this might be a good idea:
1) Dude. They're everywhere.
2) I mean, they might even be right BEHIND YOU.
3) Sorry. Settle down.
4) The bloodless copy, mythologized and pop culturized, rapidly replicating through book, movie, and website? Producing and living off of fear-of-fear/comedy-of-fear/fear-as-comedy/comedy-as-fear... It's almost like a virus, mutating and mutable and addictive... Um. I seem to recall some one or other talking about links between the fascination, the product, and the viral.

Quote of the Day

"Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it's the people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals" (Terry Pratchett Mort 5).

If you feel your goat being gotten