love – long distance

pam's brotherMy brother started running in my mother’s womb. This is the first lie. There will be more as the story progresses, I will only own up to this one. My brother never stopped running, he was born too early, a month, a week and 3 days before the doctor’s original prophesied dates – he came tumbling out and disturbed my grandfathers’ prayer.

This would be my brother, the rest of his life. He started crawling at nine and a half months and by 13 months was being chased down the street. My parents had to hire young nannies – the one who had nursed and cared for my two sisters and I, was old and suffered from arthritis – she could never catch up with him. My brother climbed, he curled his feet on curtains and grabbed and groped his way to the top of the rail, then slinked back down again, belly first, taunting gravity. My mother screamed and cried a lot between ages 9 months and 12 – she wore a crazed nervous expression and drank sugared water every other hour.

At age two, my brother packed a plastic bag – a white one with a red ‘OK’ on it and bid us farewell. We’d just sat down for dinner, he would have closed the door behind him and maybe even pulled open the gate but he was too short to reach either handle. I watched him climb up concrete wall, scratch his knee and elbow as he fought his way up. My mother screamed at him from inside the house, my father poured himself a stiff one – my sisters and i laughed ourselves hoarse. We loved our brother, his little antics brought us much mirth.

At age 12 after many attempts to ‘run away from home’ my brother woke up screaming from a nightmare and asked ‘If I went to Lesotho, would that be such a bad thing?’

We’d never seen Lesotho, we started crying that we’d miss him – our father called a friend and my mother checked the calendar. The following year, my brother left the family for good – he moved to a place we’d only ever seen in dramas – my father was relieved, my mother made new friends and every holiday my brother had some other family to visit for the two weeks or the month.

I think he’s in Havana now, met a girl when he was in Martinique, fell in love and followed her there. He claims he makes a living climbing things – I don’t know what to believe – I’ve only ever known my brother’s back and the bottom of his foot – I’ve never met the man he is.

wendell berry – to know the dark

To Know the Dark – Wendell Berry

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

the moscow coup attempt – sprout and the bean

Cover of Joanna Newsom’s song “Sprout and the Bean”, with vocals by Vera Ostrova — sans the shrillness of the original and with a beautiful video — off a 2010 compilation album called Versions of Joanna.

“And as I said, I slept as though dead, dreaming seamless dreams of lead.
When you go away, I am big-boned and fey in the dust of the day, in the dirt of the day.”

garfunkel and oates – 29/31 (2012)

Garfunkel and Oates are an American comedy/musical duo from Los Angeles, California, consisting of actress-songwriters Kate Micucci and Riki Lindhome. The band name is derived from “two famous rock-and-roll second bananas”, Art Garfunkel and John Oates. In this song, Kate and Riki play the same woman, two years apart, at 29 and 31 respectively.

ruth etting – i’m nobody’s baby (1927)

Rising to fame in the twenties and early thirties, Ruth Etting was renowned for her great beauty, her gorgeous voice and her tragic life. She starred on Broadway, made movies in Hollywood, married a mobster, had numerous hit-records, and was known as America’s Sweetheart of Song.

Born in David City, Nebraska on November 23, 1897, Ruth left home at seventeen for Chicago and art school. She got a job designing costumes at a night club called the Marigold Gardens and when the tenor got sick, she was pulled into the show since she was the only one who could sing low enough. That led to dancing in the chorus line and eventually featured solos.

By 1918 she was the featured vocalist at the club and the Gimp entered her life. A Chicago gangster, Moe Snyder married Ruth in 1922 and managed her career for the next two decades. Her numerous radio appearances during these years led to her becoming known as Chicago’s Sweetheart.

In 1926 she was discovered by a record company executive and immediately signed to an exclusive recording deal with Columbia Records, which led to nationwide exposure. Her early recordings were very straightforward in delivery. She later commented that “I sounded like a little girl on those records!” and insisted that her voice was actually much deeper than these recordings would lead one to believe.

In 1927 Ruth hit New York and she was an instant success. Irving Berlin suggested her for the Ziegfeld Follies and she was hired after Ziegfeld checked her ankles, not her voice. She appeared in the Follies of 1927. In 1929 she starred with Eddie Cantor in Whoopee! and in 1930 she made 135 appearances in Simple Simon with Ed Wynn. In 1931 she appeared in the very last Follies, shortly before Ziegfeld’s death.

Her blond hair and blue eyes and stunning voice all led to her being dubbed the Sweetheart of Columbia Records, America’s Radio Sweetheart, and finally America’s Sweetheart of Song. She began to experiment with tempo and phrasing during this period in her career. Her trademark was to change the tempo – alternating between normal tempo, half-time and double-time to create and maintain interest.

Ruth had over sixty hit recordings. Among her best in the Jazz Age are “Button Up Your Overcoat” and “Mean to Me” and, in the depression, “Ten Cents A Dance”. Her versions of “Shine on Harvest Moon”, “Let Me Call You Sweetheart”, “You Made Me Love You” and “Love Me or Leave Me” became her signature songs.

Next she headed to Hollywood and made a string of movie shorts and three full-length features. Her big break came in Roman Scandals with Eddie Cantor and Lucille Ball in a bit part. Then came Gift of Gab and Hips Hips Hooray.

It was in Hollywood that her loveless marriage finally fell apart. In 1937 Ruth fell for her accompanist and, in a rage, the Gimp shot him. The musician survived, Snyder went to jail and Ruth ended up divorcing him and marrying her true love, Meryl Alderman. But the scandal was too much for her career to survive. She made a few attempts at a comeback, but her days as America’s Sweetheart were over.

(Information from, a site maintained by the granddaughter of one of Ruth Etting’s cousins.)

what i rail against, impotently, and wish i could embrace

The following excerpt from John  Berger’s Booker Prize-winning 1972 novel, G, contains devastating insight into the social/cultural meaning of being a woman in the world, and how utterly inescapable and deeply formative it is of one’s sense of self. Reading this made me nod and shake my head so hard I felt like I had whiplash afterwards.

Although this passage ostensibly deals with late nineteenth-century constructions of love and gendered identity, such tropes persist as fundamental to our conceptions now, albeit less formally and thus less obviously. So much of the pain and loneliness in my life has stemmed from an unconscious/inarticulate sense of exactly what Berger describes here and my horror and refusal of it all, played out in the choices I have made since childhood.

* * * * *

“Une Idée” – Henri Gerbault, 1907

The Situation of Women

… [T]he social presence of a woman was different in kind to that of a man. A man’s presence was dependent upon the promise of power which he embodied. If the promise was large and credible, his presence was striking. if it was small or incredible, he was found to have little presence. there were men, even many men, who were devoid of presence altogether. The promised power may have been moral, physical, temperamental, economic, social, sexual – but its object was always exterior to the man. A man’s presence suggested what he was capable of doing to you or for you.

By contrast, a woman’s presence expressed her own attitude to herself, and defined what could and could not be done to her. No woman lacked presence altogether. Her presence was manifest in her gestures, voice, opinions, expressions, clothes, chosen surroundings, taste – indeed there was nothing she could do which did not contribute to her presence.

To be born woman was to be born within an allotted and confined space, into the keeping of man. A woman’s presence developed as the precipitate of her ingenuity in living under such tutelage within such a limited cell. She furnished her cell, as it were, with her presence; not primarily in order to make it more agreeable to herself, but in the hope of persuading others to enter it.

A woman’s presence was the result of herself being split in two, and of her energy being inturned. A woman was always accompanied – except when quite alone – by her own image of herself. Whilst she was walking across a room or whilst she was weeping at the death of her father, she could not avoid envisaging herself walking or weeping. From earliest childhood she had been taught and persuaded to survey herself continually. And so she came to consider the surveyor and surveyed within her as two constituent yet always distinct elements of her identity as a woman.

A woman had to survey everything she was and everything she did because how she appeared to others, and ultimately how she appeared to men, was of crucial importance for her self-realisation. Her own sense of being in herself was supplanted by a sense of being appreciated as herself by another. Only when she was the content of another’s experience did her own life and experience seem meaningful to her. In order to live she had to install herself in another’s life.

gerbault 462px-Hensunken_i_stum_beundring

Drawing by Henri Gerbault (1863 – 1930)

Men surveyed women before treating them. Consequently how a woman appeared to a man might determine  how she would be treated. To acquire some control over this process, women had to contain it, and so they interiorised it. That part of a woman’s self which was the surveyor treated the part which was the surveyed, so as to demonstrate to others how her whole self should be treated. And this exemplary treatment of herself by herself constituted her presence. Every one of her actions, whatever its direct purpose, was also simultaneously an indication of how she should be treated.

If a woman threw a glass on the floor, this was an example of how she treated her own emotion of anger and so of how she would wish it to be treated by others. If a man had done the same, his action would only have been an expression of his anger. If a woman made good bread, this was an example of how she treated the cook in herself and accordingly of how she as a cook-woman should be treated by others. Only a man could make good bread for its own sake.

This subjunctive world of the woman, this realm of her presence, guaranteed that no action undertaken in it could ever possess full integrity; in each action there was an ambiguity which corresponded to an ambiguity in the self, divided between surveyor and surveyed. The so-called duplicity of woman was the result of the monolithic dominance of man.

A woman’s presence offered an example to others of how she would like to be treated – of how she would wish others to follow her in the way, or along the way, she treated herself. She could never cease offering this example, for it was the function of her presence. When, however, social convention or the logic of events demanded that she behave in a manner which contradicted the example she wished to give, she was said to be coquettish. Social convention insists that she should appear to reject something just said to her by a man. She turns away in apparent anger, but at the same time fingers her necklace and repeatedly lets it drop as tenderly as her own glance upon her breast.

When she is alone in her room and sure of being alone, a woman may look at herself in a mirror and put out her tongue. This makes her laugh and, on other occasions, cry.

It was with a woman’s presence that men fell in love. That part of a man which was submissive was mesmerised by the attention which she bestowed upon herself, and he dreamt of her bestowing the same attention upon himself. He imagined his own body, within her realm, being substituted for hers. This was a theme which occurred constantly in romantic poems about unrequited love. That part of a man which was masterful dreamt of possessing, not her body — this he called lust — but the variable mystery of her presence.

The presence of a woman in love could be very eloquent. the way she glanced or ran or spoke or turned to greet her lover might contain the quintessential quality of poetry. this would be obvious not only to the man she loved, but to any disinterested spectator. Why? Because the surveyor and the surveyed within herself were momentarily unified, and this unusual unity produced in her an absolute single-mindedness. The surveyor no longer surveyed. Her attitude to herself became as abandoned as she hoped her lover’s attitude to her would be. Her example was at last one of abandoning example. Only at such moments might a woman feel whole.

The state of being in love was usually short-lived — except in unhappy cases of unrequited love. Far shorter lived than the nineteenth-century romantic emphasis on the condition would lead us to believe. Sexual passion may have varied little throughout recorded history. But the account one renders to oneself about being in love is always informed and modified by the specific culture and social relations of the time.

„Würden Sie mir böse sein, wenn ich einen Kuss auf diese schöne Schulter drückte?“ „Das werden Sie ja nachher schon sehen“ (Henri Gerbault, 1901)

„Würden Sie mir böse sein, wenn ich einen Kuss auf diese schöne Schulter drückte?“ „Das werden Sie ja nachher schon sehen“ (Henri Gerbault, 1901)

For the nineteenth-century European middle classes the state of being in love was characterised by a sense of excessive uncertainty in an otherwise certain world. It was a state exempt from the promise of Progress. Its characteristic uncertainty was the result of considering the beloved as though he or she were free. Nothing that was an expression of the beloved’s wishes could be taken for granted. No single decision of the beloved could guarantee the next. Each gesture had to be read for its fresh meaning. Every arrangement became questionable until it had taken place. Doubt produced its own form of erotic stimulation: the lover became the object of the beloved’s choice of full liberty. Or so it seemed to the couple in love. In reality, the bestowing of such liberty upon the other, the assumption that the other was so free, was part of the general process of idealising and making the beloved seem unique.

Each lover believed that he or she was the willing object of the other’s unlimited freedom and, simultaneously, that his or her own freedom, so circumscribed until now, was at last and finally assured within the terms of the other’s adoration. Thus each became convinced that to marry was to free oneself. Yet as soon as a woman became convinced of this (which might be long before her formal engagement) she was no longer single-minded, no longer whole. She had to survey herself now as the future betrothed, the future wife, the future mother of X’s children.

For a woman the state of being in love was a hallucinatory interregnum between two owners, her bridegroom taking the place of her father or later, perhaps, a lover taking the place of her husband.

The surveyor-in-herself quickly became identified with the new owner. She would begin to watch herself as if she were him. What would Maurice say, she would ask, if his wife (that is me) did this? Look at me, she would address the mirror, see what Maurice’s wife is like. The surveyor-in-herself became the new owner’s agent. (A relationship which might well include as much deceit or chicanery as can be found between any proprietor and agent.)

The surveyed-within-herself became the creature of proprietor and agent, of whom both must be proud, She, the surveyed, became their social puppet and their sexual object. The surveyor made the puppet talk at dinner like a good wife. And when it seemsed to her fit, she layed the surveyed down on a bed for her proprietor to enjoy. One might suppose that when a woman conceived and gave birth, surveyor and surveyed were temporarily reunited. Perhaps sometimes this happened. But childbirth was so surrounded with superstition and horror that most women submitted to it, screaming, confused, or unconscious, as to a punishment for their intrinsic duplicity. When they emerged from their ordeal and held the child in their arms they found they were the agents of the loving mother of their husband’s child.

michelle mcgrane – the recalcitrant muse

Michelle McGrane, 2012. Photo by Arja Salafranca

The Recalcitrant Muse

Sunlight blisters through moth-eaten curtains.
In her mildewed apartment high above the city,
the Muse stumbles out of bed, stubs her toe
in the kitchen as she fumbles for a cigarette,
reheats last night’s coffee and loneliness,
gulps it down dark, bitter, thick with grounds
that refuse to dissolve her tongue’s furred lining.

She is late for the morning’s first appointment
with a middle-aged divorcée at 52 East Avenue.
It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, this muse business.
She’s tired of being aloof, untouchable.
Give me strong hands, warm flesh, a hairy chest,
a plunging prick, fucking on the formica table.
She could use a drink. A few hours’ sleep.
Immortality doesn’t pay the bills.

from The Suitable Girl (Pindrop Press/Modjaji Books).

anaïs nin on unbearable lightness

“I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness… As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world; and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.”

~ Anaïs Nin

jeffrey lewis with helen schreiner – bugs and flowers (live)

Jeffrey Lewis and Helen Schreiner perform a beautiful version of “Bugs and Flowers”.

Out in the forest
Out past the stone wall
Built by old farmers
Or older guys
I saw a railway
With tracks all rusted
Wild flowers blooming
Up through the ties

I set out walking
Just cross-tie walking
Out on the cross-ties
Where I could step

Sometimes I missed one
Sometimes there was none
Sometimes the flowers
Had eaten it
The sun was burning
The flies were churning
The trees were turning
Inside the sky
The tracks were rotten
Some trash forgotten
Sometimes a bottle with ash inside

I’ve been a walker
A sidewalk talker
Out on the sidewalks
Where I could step
Someday my body
Will look real shoddy
Wherever flowers have eaten it
Voracious flowers
Voracious hours
Voracious people
Voracious slime
Words like voracious
Just sound like nonsense
After you say them about five times

These flowers blooming
They are not human
These flies and insects
Are really weird
Their backs are shiny
Their souls are tiny
And by the zillions
They’ve disappeared
So if there’s life after
It’s packed with insects
It’s filled with flowers
No room for us
When they kick the bucket
They just say chuck it
They come and go like
Infinite dust

The human race’s
Beautiful faces
Changing places
Reform and bust
When we kick the bucket
Let’s just say chuck it
We’ll come and go like
Infinite dust

re: god and human freedom

a conversation between cherry bomb and aryan kaganof

On Nov 20, 2007 10:14 PM, Rosemary Lombard wrote:

came across this while reading around transcendence/immanence
a fascinating philosophical article
on god and human freedom
comes at christian scripture, existentialism, marxism
from an ENTIRELY different angle to the traditional church
very unorthodox
yet still from a christ-focused perspective
thought you’d also find it interesting
esp how it might relate to your youniverse

“ama et fac quod vis”
(love, and do what you will)
– st augustine

[although the he-personification of god
and use of ‘man’ to mean generic ‘human’ irks me a bit,
i see the publication’s date was 1970, so it’s alright ;]

Nov 21, 2007
poem for rose, paradoxically
Filed under: kagapoems, poetry, paradoxism — ABRAXAS @ 10:24 am

i stumbled upon
myself stumbling upon
the difference between transcendence and immanence

my stumbling was the means by which i knew
there was an i to stumble
upon that which was there to be stumbled upon

immanence implied that i was everything that i stumbled upon
and everything i stumbled upon was me
transcendence granted me existence outside of what i stumbled upon
and that my being might exist outside of knowing

what was unknowable was how to unstumble
and thus in my unstumbling upon
myself unstumbling
i became unme

now immanence implied that everything unme
could be unstumbled upon and that everything that could be unstumbled upon is in unme
whereas transcendence seemed to be saying that unme is also outside of unstumbling
and therefore could not be unstumbled upon

here i found a contradiction
because if it is only possible to stumble upon something outside of me
then surely it is impossible to unstumble upon something inside of unme
unless of course my stumbling upon
myself stumbling upon
was in fact inside of me

meaning that there is no difference between transcendence and immanence
hence god’s indifference
to the problem

On Nov 21, 2007 11:59 PM, Rosemary Lombard wrote:

this is our business

does the ground worry
if a seed is growing or withering away?
or how often a wayfarer stumbles?

the substrate whereby
we are
is god
within with without

our embrace of existence lies in union
love is the yes to life
love is the blossom of anti-entropy

carly's loving hands

Carly’s loving hands (2008). Photo by Rosemary Lombard