Archive for Toiletries

Listen, someone said.

Dear Etta James:

Thank you, I heard the sent song today.

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1973

She came

into the world at the same time

the Endangered Species Act passed.

This accounts for everything.

_______________________________________

She wasn’t wearing any shoes. That is all

she would remember

from the whole ordeal. No one

else was there to retell any other

details. Her failing

memory was the nearest

reiliable source for a vaild

outcome:

She was trying and trying to stuff a bell inside a drawer.

____________________________________________________

Was it someone else or me

who crated her up

in heavy wood,

blocked, squared, cubed—

shipped or spent, either way sealed—

protected by default?

 

 

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hello to self

[For my nephew, with whom I share so many quirks.]

When I send myself an attachment via email, I write myself a note in that giant white space. I cannot just send it completely blank, hugely blank. But apparently I might be in the minority on that one. The few people I’ve admitted it to seem kindly amused.

The nature of my work often requires that I send documents to and fro my “home office” to my “real office” so that I can edit said documents nonstop. It cracks me up or at the very least makes me smile when I open the email to find me writing to me: finish this today ? have a good day ! remember your reason for doing this ! it’s a full moon !

Although I have to tell the truth that it might be related to what I call latent behaviors. While the spectrum of compulsive disorders in the universe is indeed grand and real and from which by the grace of god i do not suffer, I have a theory that all humans and quite possibly all animals have an innate wiring for compulsiveness (impulsiveness?) or mental malaise in general. Must be part of Darwinism. Thus given my familial history, it’s not surprising that I did not escape entirely untouched with strong tendencies toward oddities. (Add to that my belief in the spirit realm and the cosmos, and well, there’s a whole mix of glorious things in my thoughts, but I digress.)

For instance:

I have to write myself a note when e-mailing myself.

For as long as I can remember, choosing silverware (and by extension plates, glasses, mugs) has given me great pause. Growing up I had two particular forks I would have to use; luckily they didn’t match my mother’s actual set so no one wanted to use them anyhow. As an adult, I do not own a complete set of matching housewares and that is just fine by me, because I get to choose anew each day the one that suits that moment. I love beautiful dishes.

I need to tap my alarm clock, which is currently my cell phone, three times before going to bed.

If I put a hat on my bed (that’s a whole ‘nother blog about Italian omens) I have to hit my head with it four times then throw cursed hat to the floor. My son likes to taunt me by dangling hats over my bed.

I count/add numbers incessantly. So does my dad. License plates. Clocks. Rocks. Holes in the ceiling while waiting for doctors. It calms me.

I have been known to move my car or take a different route to find a “better” spot or a “safer” route. By better and safer I mean something inexplicable.

I believe if you cut your hair off you’re releasing/surrendering experiences that the hair might have “seen” and that this is healthy. I’ve always wanted to shave my head, just once.

On my way out of the house or office or anywhere, sometimes I have to touch things. Like water coolers or walls.

Animals in their natural environment are very intuitive, better to see two crows together than one alone, e.g.

I consider it completely normal to live in a world in which everything means something. But to remain balanced, some days I do try to remind myself that the naming of some things as important and others as not could be just a human construct.

At any rate, I bet people everywhere could create such a list of self-quirks, mine of which here is a mere sampling.

What’s yours?

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Pine

the whole house smells of tree !

 

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The Dream

July. I used to travel all the time, everywhere, long glorious distances. And recently having taken a short trip, the same inspirations upon my return: make the dream reality. My ticket out of the cube, out of the monotony of SOPs and dissection of paperwork and being under the microscope of management and at the mercy of shite and playing a game I swore I would never play.

Instead, help people, the universe, make a difference. And this is completely both plausible and possible. I want my son to grow up knowing he can do anything, to follow his soul’s intuition. I might tell him that working in a cube is society’s equivalent to peer pressure, look everyone’s doing it, look at the benefits, look at the security, look at the stability, look at your soul being sucked into the vortex of an A/C vent because you can’t open the windows from inside the hi-rise to scream: This is not the way to live. The padded walls of the cube would absorb your shriek anyway.

I will not drink the Kool-Aid but keep my gaze on the treeline I can see from the tiny corner of a window I share with a man who feels as I do and whom I’ve come to adore. I have a dream, and this is the conduit to that place where my son can live a life true to his gypsy soul.

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Something

I keep all my stories only in my head. And then I say to me, Me, you must write that all down tomorrow. Then Me doesn’t and there you have it. Ridiculous, really.

So here I am, writing nothing of consequence. Of all the topics to choose, I choose Nothing. And not the existentialist nothing, but really nothing.

I just needed to see words.

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Alice B. Fogel

Because I still cannot access my remote computer after weeks of IT work, because my face is still recovering from an OD of dentist-induced Novocaine yesterday that left me swollen and paralyzed and out of the office, because I’ve once again been told that You’re the best thing since sliced bread, but I actually want a bagel (and there’s no toaster in my new life), because Venus is retrograde till 18 November, because at my day job it’s not Ok to have 15 years of editing experience and edit from the gut of knowledge but rather one should talk oneself out of any instinct and instead rely on hard-copy handouts of chosen rule, because tonight is the new moon created for new beginnings, because I hereby banish all these patterns of shite and give you my favorite poem in the universe.

I came upon it in 1993, this perfectly sized, perfectly papered printer’s galley that was discarded with a bunch of other proofs in a cardboard box in the English Department. The chapbook is titled Elemental, by Alice B. Fogel, Zoland Books. Every time I read it it’s like reading it for the first time, the same chills, the same Yes.

“The Self, Falling”

That one could be so small, slipping

through its own self, as silt shifts

down through its rock bed….

What happens when we wish

is something unforeseen

and other. That we are drawn

to windows and other openings,

that the threshold is as fragile

as desire. This falling

is a bedtime fable, of finding

bottom, false promise of final

softness there. The rest,

silence. But what is worse

than going on is the ending,

that once there the darkness

silvers the glass to mirror

and the eyes too are open,

horribly. What is that shape

that forms its compulsive shadows

through which it is impossible not, again,

to fall? And still the wishful self

has its own ideas.

That one could be so small

and yet unable to rise, that laws

here are still binding, the legacy

of an ancient alchemy. All that rises

is the voice at the end

of its question, for nothing

weighs more than the falling.

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