Archive for June, 2012

Episode Two: Which isn’t a fish but lives in the sea, so than it must be the fish of the day

June 11, 2012
Yo

Haven’t heard from you in a LOOOOONG time

I be dying here
school is KILLING me

Nietzsche is EATTING my soul
I hate work

I am apathetic
It’s less than fun

But I’ll survive–I made it through CR

Hope turkey day with boy was fun
Maybe I’ll see you post December 18th

Time flies and I’m going no where
I am delirious with fever, high on exhaustion, and (per usual) unable to spell

I feel and think so much I might explode
but still I manage to stand (if not on my feet than my hands, if not on my reason than on my reserves).

C’est la vie.
Something IS rotten in the state of (dis) Den-mark: we need philosophers who are POETS

I’m still scouring for the apple tree: so looked for but not heard.

Silver does lie hidden in the core of dreams—and easily cracked like eggs, but slippery and hard to hold like the yolk.
Someday, be it my dying day or not, I’d like to say Vissi d’ arte…

yet in this unreal city
living for art is like searching for Parsifal’s famed punch-glass.

The leitmotifs echo in the foreground—but the dissonance overpowers.

I cannot wait for Christmas vacation.

 

 

Khan-a,

Oh Khany. Yes it has been some time. Thanksgiving and Cornish game hens were lovely, though boy could not be present as his schedule and bank account would not allow it. It was a nice trip nonetheless.

The Southwest is a collection of extravagant views over decorated by strip malls. The air is dry and the dogs rule the cities from their dusty backyards. They don’t seem like pets at all, but I suppose in the desert things are different, water scarcer, wolves a bit wilder.

Right now, I’m trying to get through the rest of my classes, finishing projects up and figuring out the future. This semester has been very good for me. I think I shed a bit of worry, that pinch of elitism.

I am ok though. Ok I am. I’m getting a little antsy pansy about Bobby returning home and the finish of the semester, but these things will come in time. I can’t believe how fast everything moves—not is moving: moves.  It spins by I can only capture it in the present tense—no present progressive or immediate past present. As long as I can remember this feeling, hopefully my decisions will be more on track; remembering always that there is but one life…the mermaids get three hundred years, K! All we get is an immortal soul…OR DO WE. If you go before me, write me a postcard, let me know. The reverse will of course be true.

 

There is much ahead and much behind, I guess the trouble is focusing on the area in between. Tell me about things and I’ll see you.

Farewell,

Miss Merry Marca

 

 
   
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emails sans Emoticons: An Epistolary Novel for the Electronic Age

June 5, 2012

Emails Sans Emoticons: An Epistolary Novel for the Electronic Age

Episode 1: Everyday a Little Death in this Sterile Promontory

Yo Marca:

Yo, you be there, in Mad to the Son, or you be piled below some
avalanche of snow (yo)?

Yo, you be there, bunkered down in your American Apparel leggings—or you be
prancing stocking-free a la the infamous tutu incident circa the
jorz era?

Yo, you be there, your little hipster self, being too hip to be hip? (Because the Nightingale called you out on that one: you are the quiet hip archetype for sure).

Yo, you be there, sticking your tongues out at grandpa’s who honk at
‘chu (pronounced like ‘you’ with the ever charming, colloquial “ch” in place of what should actually be there)?

Yo, you be there blowing your fuse ding dong bring in the spell sing me a song?

Yo, yo…

YOU BE THERE?

the one who is HERE

Khan,
It seems to me that I am not alive nor dead but rather living that hard middle ground that wrestles with that mingling mélange of dare I say it conflicting emotion.
It seems the cold is rather cold when it is cold. But with so many clothes, I fare ok.
I live in Wisconsin, with students and teachers and people and streets. I live in a dorm in a room with a girl who once lived in Minnesota, an area not too far from here. Here, they say? There you say? Hearsay, I say.

Always lots of people, always lots of talking; though I don’t talk like I do with people who know how I talk.

Circuitous, confusing, non-progressive thinking? Check, Check, Check.  Going one step, two step, red step, loop step? Loop step, yes. Lots of those.
I am well and not well as the rest. I feel good sometimes and breathe enough: my stride keeping with my lungs’ width. Other times, I breathe hard and recognize that I am in a place not used to my footprint.
Adjustments will be made and I will keep stepping and one day my lungs won’t feel the lag. Good? Bad? Goodiebag?
I bought Tupperware and sausage today and I think I’ll feast ’til morning.  (Pray tell me things taste better in Tupperware!?!)
Hope here is well and life is less than linear. I’ll tell you things if you tell me things and you’ll tell me things if I’ll tell you things.

A wise man once told me to look straight.
A strange boy once told me to watch out for the cougars.
Now, I look straight at the cats and fear the world.
Marca.

 

Marca:

As this reply is long overdue, it shall consist of two parts.

The Peacock

I know all too well that “middle ground that mingles with emotion”.
That death in life, life in death, that limbo.  Perhaps I
misinterpret, but what is literature and history but perpetual
misunderstandings.  I sometimes think most of life is this middle
ground–and we live for those moments—the ones where we wallow in the abyss to next scale
euphoric apexes—the moments when we feel most.  Oh, to feel—to
languish in the acknowledgement that one EXISTS.
I’m glad to hear that American Apparel coupled with some serious layering
skill have helped you brave the Wisconsin winters.  I’m sure your
gallivanting about Bucks County and the wiles of that wasteland known as North (in November!) in nothing more than a fairy tutu prepared you well.

I hear what you say when you say hearsay.  And as to talking in
code—well don’t we all?  How do I even know how you talk to me is how
you really talk?  Is there a real Mandy language–isn’t it all
relative, contextual? If identity is constructed by moral, ethnic,
geographic etc. frameworks—well what is identity than but a somewhat
ever-morphing facade of the moment?  Did I really say such a thing?*

I just hope you speak your mind and nothing less and tomorrow speak it
again–even if it’s utterly contradictory to what you muttered today.
Ralphie E. would be proud.

Loop steps–as in a return to the beginning?  Have you discovered the
place for the first time?  How I envy you if such is the case.  I
sometimes doubt there is a beginning.  But alas, I know there is—if only because there must; must be because, otherwise, end game would’ve set in long ago and all my passing go was for naught.

Like all macguffins and golden rings–you only catch a glimpse of it once it’s
beyond your Ethiopian fingers…

A stranger in a strange-er land you may be, but how it needs you.  I
suppose you it?  Your journeying where most art-loving, whimsical,
past-tutu-wearing-dollies would not trek.  I commend you.  Your stride
will adjust–will it not my gypsy sister?  Because, truly, where is
home for flanneurs?  Three piece suits might be kitsch but let’s face it: once a tutu always a tutu and the Midwest never experienced the 80’s.  They knew Regan and big hair but Ms. Lauper never held much sway.

The Romany homeland is all metaphor these days.  They tell me Bohemia is dead and I say ‘Bohemia—quoa?’.
As for advice, I think it is a vice.  A drug society insists we need.
Indoctrination makes us believe we can’t survive without it.  The
masses exhort us to seek it.

I much prefer dialogues with those who
talk in metaphors; conversations with those who consort with muses;
laughs with those who loose themselves in others.

I know not where you are, but I hope wherever it is you can see the
apple tree; hear the hidden voices energizing the ancient waterfall.  If not,
perhaps it’s not known, because not looked for—but (definitely) heard, half-heard
in the deafening stillness.

Peacock

The Koala

My nerves are bad. Bad tonight.  Can I talk in prose now?  What was I
talking before–certainly not in verse.

Ohh my Lemu–I miss you.  I know we’ve wandered miles and miles
and talked less and less but I do miss you.  Miss our Lily’s dinners,
our philosophical, emo musings, miss lamenting with you, miss driving
about in my car whilst dreaming (read: scheming) with you…I miss our youth.  (Am I allowed to such, such preposterous things at 20 years old?)

I don’t care.
I’ve lost that girl Mandy and I can never get her back.  And nor can
you get Holly back.  Those girls have settled and stayed in the past.

I hope this doesn’t seem selfish but I just need to articulate
“confess” so much to someone that isn’t my dear journal.  Katie and I
talk much and it is good.  But I need to throw things at my Lemu–how
I do love throwing things her way.

I know you are inundated with your own hooplala, so I won’t add to the
entropy.  But may I talk in riddles?

It’s just the usual: doubts dazed with fears minced with regrets and pinches of wonder.
But a new flavors brewing; intoxicating me into further withdrawal from a world I’ve long felt somewhat alien to.

I’m almost complacent with my awkwardness.  I think it scares others–it’s the same old
paradox of awkward-confidence–just more isolating than ever, more ostentatious than the periwinkle tutu (miss)matched with the orange Ralph Lauren hoodie.

I want to connect—and I dare say I think I’ve tried—but it’s all the same you know, just different.

I think I’ve found something I really want:

No

not a career,

nor a major,

not even a darling, Kelly green dress (she ever evades me!).

A person.  Someone whose spirit intrigues me more
than any imaginary boy of my own creation.

But the awkwardness persists.  Signals (are they that?) confusing.

At moments, I’ve even put myself on the brink

of saying more than I normally would—

but I say not quite enough and yet at the same time all too, too much.

And I fear my chance is mostly over—our proximity shall be less now
with the drawing of the curtain, the dimming of the lights.

Alas, I fear he’s too much like me.  Obsessed with his “art”,

His visions,

with falling into/observing others,

with waiting for the ultimate girl who lives in his head.

I also fear that I am no such creature.

We had a fascinating conversation Saturday…

Despite his cowering behind the bottle’s ambiguous brew.

He claimed (than) he wasn’t altered from imbibing;

That he was his usual, sharp ridiculous self—just more outrageous.

But much escaped the tongue’s (typically) tight, fastidious guard and I fear his public announcements of
extreme drunkenness (the following day) may’ve been one hell of a cop out to save (oh so adorable)
face (because he didn’t know how I’d react).  He is that insecure.

At least I’d like to believe he schemed and slanted it so—because I know not how to believe that what was said was silly and what was felt was folly.

I press him like an orange, thirsty for juice sweet and savory.

I’m charged with a new surge of abandon

Not usually known because it’s not mere physical infatuation.  Do I make the sheepish confession, that he may be the first fellas whom I’m attracted to in ways beyond the superficial (or does one “feel” this way each time they’re coming down with love…?).

But like Eliot: my nerves are bad.  There’s more to
say, but would I really be saying much?  (Clearly, I’ve only yet said shit).

I thank you for your ears who have endured sagas of Johnny B and traverses with Mattin Center King.

Oh well…while I battle this I have the war with isolation to console me (that’s one conflict whose age outshines the sun’s).

Funny how I’ve grown into this so well—yet still have miles to go.

But one more thing on the boy who steals my serene solace: I’ve heard him
articulate these same, same things (in a manner more overblown and antiquated than my own!).  His viral relics, left over from Keats and Shelley knock on my heart and bowl it over; stir me to a simmer that wises to smother his adorable self.
Ohh my ohhh—this has grown far too long.  I shall stop (here)—that is, I mean, (down ) there.
Some extraneous things:

I wear your bee earrings often and love them more each day.  They confuse people.

I laughed out loud today at dinner when I was lamenting about all the reading I have.  I though of Dr. ( from our pre-big-school days) and of her quaint little syllabus.  I than recalled her once regaling the class with a list of readings she wanted to assign but feared might be “too much” and that “no one
would do”.  HAHAHAHAH not that ANYONE in that class would dare to neglect a reading on the importance of the banana in the Bantu migrations or the merits of cottage industry and women.  That woman (that I love) and her class (which I adored).

Recall that crazy dance party we went to this summer getting our 90’s on to “Say that you love me”—it is playing now.  It is de-lovely.
Finally, (and most important-of-ly) I hope you are well.  How is Jim-Jim?  How is school?  How’s the Tupperware housed sausage? Miss Minnesota?

Alas, I know these emo ramblings have probably told you little and
amused even less.  But I caution thee, save them: perhaps someday
you’ll be able to brag about having the original manuscript for my
bestselling e-epistolary novel—or not so best-selling…

All my best to one of the best.  Kumquats are not pluots and pluots
not guavas.  But you are a coconut-cake-eatting-lemuian-marca—and
they are a rare breed indeed: so protect yourself!  So button up your
overcoat and save the tutu for spring!

Here’s to timeless moments of which history is composed–

Koala

* Editor’s Self Note:  Yes, apparently you did “say” such drivel and it’s astonishing you haven’t died of shame or been struck down by the Gods of reason, sense and semblance of practicality for posturing forth so.  My the pretension college does breed; in a generation unaware of its meaninglessness yet obsessed with its preservation.

Some Days Later

Fairest Marca:

So much is happening while nothing occurs.  It’s like a Henry James
novel or Woolf short-story.  I suppose that makes it special (?).

I have many snippets to tell you.  Where shall I start?  Have I already started?

I applaud your well penned line “I have never feared the self”–far
too many do.  But I can’t help but fear my comfort with the self.  I
look back on my life and see my isolation—and while I’m used to this,
somewhat proud of this and complacent with this—I fear what I could
be missing in connection.  I’m grappling with what my religious
beliefs would say about isolation and disconnect.  I’ve been
drowning—happily—in lots of modernist works of late.  It’s the
first genre, period that I truly feel connected to.  Alas, that is
another story.  But what’s interesting is that modernity seems to
prize individualism—but what good is individualism if it only yields
isolation and no one to share the self with?

I want to give of myself—not merely cultivate it for my own selfish enjoyment.  To a
certain extent, I am happy living my life at Walden pond; refining my
self; sucking the marrow—what marrow I do relish—out of life.  But what
beauty is there in a world where we are all flanheurs cut off from
reality…But than again, perhaps it’s like that banjo strumming
bandit outside Luisa’s window sang “without a hurt, the heart grows
hollow”.

Maybe, spiritually, I can perpetually grow through this ache
and disconnect—to draw closer not to the things and people of this world
but to a “higher” (ewww forgive my use of such a generic term)
metaphysical power.

Nevertheless, Friday night I “celebrated the self”.  It was an
official event! VIPS (as in ME) only.

After gorging myself on my favorite meal at my
favorite cafe with my favorite fellow flanherista, I took in a lovely
night at the theater—by myself.  And lucky was I that I went
alone—for they had but one ticket left!  SCORE!

God has always—too much I dare say—blessed my solo exploits.  The show was a
one-man-show: an 80 minute tour-de-force monologue by a young
artist/actor/poet/you know the type called “Help Wanted: Finding Meaningful
Employment in the 21st Century”.  Oh Marca, my Marca, shouldst he ever
venture your way DON’T indulge, go to nourish your soul.

He truly mastered keeping it light whilst waltzing around heavier, darker material.  His anecdotes
chronicled his various jobs, exploits and sparse professional acting
jobs post-graduating from Michigan with a BFA in Theater.  I need to
see it again to savor the ending—because it totally snuck up on me as
I was fidgeting (some ants were starting to crawl..).  Nevertheless, it was rather LA like—or not
even LA like but reminiscent of some of her favorite quips—I shall
refrain from giving it all away, but he began the end talking about
returning to his watering job in D.C after spending some time in NY
where he had met one of his heros Spalding Gray.

I’m leaving lots out but he talked quite playfully and sweetly about pretending that
every customer that came in was a poet; that with tremendous suspension of disbelief, he was able to engage with them like players in a play, like the rife, rich material for a po-po modern sonnet.

Josh was the fella’s name and he went on to softly confess how such truthfully imaginary encounters “broke his heart” and that’s why he continued to (happily) waiter.  With this, he simply lifted his hands inviting a deafening silence that lasted for a gray moment before everyone realized” c’etait finis.

I’m not even partially pretending to do it justice, just making it sound mawkish and trite, but I was rather
touched.  Not only in this regard, but just listening to him tell his autobiographical tale, sad to say, somewhat strengthened these wanton hopes and dreams of mine and on both a practical/professional
and emotional/mental level. He lit my fire and gave me pep for my step—but where I step I know not where.

I’m not quite (yet) saying I can come to the same conclusions he has–God how I LONG
too–but it was inspiring nonetheless.  I mean, now, he seems to be
doing pretty well artistically–no more waitering.  Still, to be able
to live your art without getting to practice it in a traditional way;
to find the beauty in the unbeautiful—and to not only relish, but to CELEBRATE it—oh to be so
fortunate and brave!

I’ve done it again–I’ve been writing inane poetry and delivering it
to people I shouldn’t…but I mean, after all the hype last year, and
than his NOT getting it–I had to ensure that at least one of my poems
made it into intended hands.  You know, I am God’s official ambassador to spread awkwardness and tension in this quaint world.

In my own defense and self-justification, I am fascinated by how people
respond to random, spontaneous acts. I also have a penchant—and I
dare say pen!—for ridiculously inane verse.  So I did it.  Somewhat akin to one of my father’s ditty’s (in form that is)  it was a conglomeration of my favorite lines from
all my heroes (Voltaire, Eliot, Jamesey Joyce, the Bard, Sondheim,
Strauss you name it…) with some Khanisms thrown in.  After all, the
game is to say something new with old words.

What’s so great is that I feel very released in having written and deposited it. I know they (read him, okay read again he and his roommates) think I’m crazy, probably that I’m in love with them too–which isn’t really the case but what the hell; if he thinks that, than  he’s wrong—but hopefully he’s somehow flattered—on just the basic level—that he inspired another human being to take such a grandiose leap.  God knows I would love that.

The catharsis has been heavenly.  He seems like he’d be one of the few left alive today who might be up for a game of cricket and conversation—but perhaps I mis-judge.  Either way, I’m elated to be in a position of not caring—of still being able to hold my head high and stare him in the eyes.  I
mean yes, pangs of shame do jab at me here and there, but on the
whole, I feel damn good!  As we’ve discussed before, there’s
nothing more enlivening or cleansing than pushing oneself out
of her comfort zone.

I have an intense and unhealthy fear of
rejection and so I often resist revealing my true romantic feelings.  I can speak my mind, stand up to authority and blabber on to strangers and friends alike, but when it comes to boys and girls sitting in trees, I struggle to just get out with it.

And while only the act, not the actual poem, suggested anything about my
feelings (and even that’s a stretch…) it put me–for once–in the
position of vulnerability.  It exposed me.  Usually, boys hint or jest
or signal to me—and I scimper away—too afraid or uninterested to tug back if you
will.  This time, reply or not, eternal awkwardness or not, I feel so
relinquished having put myself–ever so slightly as it is–out there.
Plus, the poem was insanely absurd and writing it was BEYOND tres
amusing.  I surfed on inspired waves of poetic delight. I WANT (and WILL) to sing out– sing I shall!

Musical and vocal things seem to be coming together; it’s been a
rollercoaster ride, but in a small way, I’m arriving back at the
beginning.  It’s partially why I love this journey so much—because,
in the abyss one can’t feel the growth.  The obstacles feel like set
backs, each day like a waste–and than suddenly, sometimes not even
noticing the catalyst: things come together.  The pieces align,
intelligibility emerges and euphoria vanquishes depression.  In short,
my voice has changed so much–for the good.  It’s bigger, stronger
etc.  And, what’s so fabulous is, this is after a winter of sickness
and vocal therapy.  Things are not perfect and tempests do taunt, but I am a child of the moon, and silver DOES lie hidden in the core of dreams—whatever and wherever those dreams may be.
I hope your hands find their way to some meaningful occupation be it knitting, cooking, building or crafting.   Even if, at first, it seems meaningless (like designing costumes for plays or
something…) take to your inner lateen sail, utilize those monsoon
winds and seek out the poetry in the mundane.

 

Yours,

 

Kahn

Kahn:
I’m trying to figure out how not to feel useless…but it is hard.

I look to my hands everyday, and ask them what they can do; but they
seem unsure and small and I doubt. There is so much that I want to do,
and I’m not quite sure how to exist in a world that applauds
profession and paper advancement; when I can only sit and think and
sit some days. I find that on days when my room mate returns to find
me sitting, quiet, without work, I want to reply that I am in fact
doing something or cover myself so that she does not have to know that
people spent time in their heads. She has a life without such
necessity and sometimes I envy her for it, though I don’t want to die
her death. This seems dramatic, but is not meant to be.

 

For Now,

 

Marca

 

Marca:

I too look at some of my peers and, while maybe you don’t feel the
same way, envy their ability to live more superficially, shallowly,
more in the moment.  I envy their intense craving for love, intimacy
and connection that they indulge in the meaningless, artificial and
sometimes anonymous just to attain their desires.  Now, when I say
envy–I mean muse; and when I say muse, I mean ponder about “feeling”
less.  I think I’ve said much of this before to you, although I get
confused to whom I’ve confided what, which is said being that other
than you I confide these things in pretty much only 1 other.  But I
can’t live in regret or musings.  It’s wasted time.  I’m so sick of
waste.  History is now.  You do not want to die your roommate’s death
and I know I cannot live these “girls'” lives…not only because I
refuse: I just don’t know how.

Don’t worry about sitting and thinking while the world marches on
making, producing, consuming and devouring.  When the forests are
depleted, the water polluted and the sky soot, what will man do when
they have no forests to roam, water to drink or sky to breathe
in–when they find they cannot eat money?  Well, Amiga, at least you
and I will have our fantasies.

Next up, I want to learn to need less. If a suburban, Jewish boy can fall into

the poetry of restaurant life–I pray, I can at least learn to hear the music in this
existential, post-modernist wasteland that physically entraps my transcendental soul.

I may be dramatic but if the world’s a stage, I am going to cease whatever part they throw me and play it BIG.

I wish you well—but not so well your heart grows hollow.

Kahn-a-la

 

 

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