Niagara 23, originally uploaded by emilyrems.
Been too busy on deadline to blog, but thought I’d take this brief moment to announce that the internet has deemed me “smart.” Not just smart, mind you, but “12.4% smarter than average.” I’d hoped to fare a bit better, but whatevs - timed exams always drag me down. Find out how much smarter you are than me here.
Smith/9th BKLYN, originally uploaded by emilyrems.
Whenever I pass this area just past the Smith/9th St. stop in Brooklyn on my way to my drum lesson with Caryn, I crack up because it reminds me of the Billy Collins poem below. Years ago, my BFF Johanna put a recording of Billy reading it on a mix tape she made for me, back when I was still embroiled in the excruciating world of poetry workshops. The part of this poem where he talks about “the slow industrial canal below” always struck me as especially funny, and I think about it every time I walk past this spot and laugh to myself like a psycho.
Workshop
by Billy Collins
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.
But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that’s just what it wants to do.
What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging—
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s.
Maybe it’s just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what’s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I’m lost. I need help.
The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we’re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that’s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?
There’s something about death going on here.
In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none.
But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he’s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night after night collecting all these things
while the people in the house were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that’s just the way I read it.
Billy Collins, “Workshop” from The Art of Drowning. Copyright © 1995 by Billy Collins
Murray Hill, originally uploaded by emilyrems.Whew! Just woke up from a fucked up nightmare and the sweat is still drying all over my arms and legs and face. A few minutes ago, I was dreaming that I had been sent on a press junket to a remote tropical island with a bunch of unbearably too-cool-for-school journalists to take in the local color. It was our first night there, and I was standing around by myself uncomfortably by a big BBQ pit in a lush clearing where we were scheduled to dine when I saw drag king superstar Murray Hill (above) walking towards us. I was so relieved to see Murray because I adore him and I was hating everyone else on the trip so far, so I rushed over to him. He was looking hilarious and dapper in an elaborate tan safari get up, and I had just had a chance to say hello, when a tall guy came over to us and told Murray he had something to show him, so Murray and the guy left together. After that I sat around and waited for a long time not talking to anyone. Eventually smoke started rising out of the BBQ pit and drums started playing from somewhere and clay bowls started being passed around filled with rice topped with some kind of roasted meat. I tried a little of it and didn’t like it, and then waited until I saw the tall guy again. When I spotted him, I walked over to where he was happily eating and asked him where Murray was. He gave me a funny look, took a bite, exchanged glances with some hipsters nearby and said something like “Well, I believe he’s very close by…” and then took another bite and started laughing. That’s when I knew that I was surrounded by cannibals, that I had actually just taken a bite of Murray, and that since I clearly didn’t fit in with this crowd, I would probably be next. I ran to a nearby cabin to get my stuff, stole a car, and somehow drove from the cabins all the way to my parents’ house in Virginia to hide from the cannibals. As I was unloading my stuff from the car, I realized I had with me a big paper shopping bag that I didn’t have before. I opened it up, and inside was Murray’s head, severed at the neck with a look of shock on his face. I was surprised and scared and started screaming. My mom was very calm and told me to be quiet. She asked me if I had killed Murray and I said no - that I was being framed, and if the cannibals caught up with me they would probably eat me too. I told her I thought that I should call the police, or at least call some of Murray’s friends in NY and tell them what had happened anonymously but my mom said I was being stupid. She said to hide out and not call attention to myself. I went upstairs to lie down and my bedroom was full of cats. A bunch of black ones and one white one. I cried for a while and then came downstairs determined to get help from the authorities when I ran into my mom, standing in our front doorway, dressed as Murray Hill. She looked ridiculous so I laughed, but then asked what she was doing. She said she was going to pretend she was Murray so people wouldn’t know he was missing. I told her I had to get out of there and went to find the car I had been driving, but the vehicle was in the garage being taken apart by mechanics who were buying the parts. I looked in the back seat and saw all kinds of burlesque promo materials and realized that I had stolen Murrays car, the car was now being sold for parts, and I still had his head in a shopping bag. All signs of guilt pointed to me. At this point I woke up briefly, totally upset and disoriented, then immediately fell asleep again and began dreaming I was riding the subway in NYC. Everything was fine until I stepped away from my purse and shopping bag to see what stop we were at, stepped outside onto the platform, and then heard the doors slam behind me. I saw my purse and shopping bag start to disappear into the subway tunnel, and I saw through the window a woman who had been sitting next to me start to look through my stuff. I realized that the shopping bag I had left on the train might have Murray Hill’s head in it - so I started to freak out and run after the train. As the cars slowly disappeared into the tunnel, I saw the conductor’s car go by with the number 735 on it, and I saw I had been riding the C train. Just before the last car disappeared into the tunnel, someone pulled the emergency break and the whole train lurched to a halt and the lights went out. I assumed it was because someone had found the head. I started shaking all over. I didn’t know wheather I should stay or run, considering they had the head, my purse with my wallet and all my ID, and eye witnesses who had seen me carrying it. That’s when I woke up in a sweat, whispering the words “735C” over and over to myself.
JW to the Max, originally uploaded by emilyrems.I just talked on the phone for half an hour with my #1 pop culture hero of all time. He was so awes and easy to talk to and wonderfully kind I sorta feel like I might cry. Honestly we got along so well, I’m afraid I may start fantasizing that we are actually friends in real life. Forgive the gushing, but I had to hold it together until I hung up the phone two seconds ago, so now I’m all like “blaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!”
My Best Friend’s Wife, originally uploaded by emilyrems.
I found this sign hanging on a post in Union square. Hopefully the fact that it was just chillin’ there with nobody around means that the non-aspirational performer in question made enough to go to the funeral. I was gonna take the sign and send it to FOUND magazine, but I was too superstish that the misfortune would rub off on me..
And I need all the good luck I can get. I’m interviewing my hero tomorrow, and chances are extremely high I might geek out.