Sunday, February 27, 2011

Pfft! Not For Everyone Magazet.

The DADA YOW community emerges again amid a climate of irrelevance and irreverence in these times of scattered wars and poorly planned patent-hood..

Who can stand still at the gates of doom?
Who will take the reins of spent monarchies?
Who else is going to cook for the badger kings?
Who then will grow the cabbage and row the boat?
Who shall chew the ink berries to print the last page?
Absurdists to the rescue, provides an element of strange sanity and sustainability...
Major or minor, there's plenty delirium in the medium of current independent magazines*

DALI : unearthed in the pages of ---PFFT! ^^^Featuring the fringe few who survive trends and counter trends within a loosely crocheted community..raking the tender undersides of literati...

As cubism was to representational art, verbal dadaism bucks formalism in the sonnet>
Keep your pentameter belted on, and meditate upon nothingness; the art of being suspended**.

Polyanna buried and Pandora unchained, somewhere within, roam free verse and untethered phrase to haunt the halls of this magazet from

Stir and sift, dilute this potent nonsense of everyday life.
Fini, the opulence, the financial flatulence..
The trees are belching black ink on colorful paper-matter,
not to be understood, but rather perused and used.
Hey? PFFT! magazet
OMPHALOS DADA YOW community...
dot org.

nadinada. for Justynn Tyme and Robert Montilla et al...

Saturday, February 26, 2011

How to Cook Cereal..or Not..

How to Fix Cereal.

Dear would be cook and dish-washer.

From the cyberland express, i rush to your assistance to arouse your interest in self-sufficiency. Having humorously invited me to your humble digs in the mighty state of Texas to cook for you, i am left to assume that you are in desperate need of household help. The very best help however, remains at the end of your right arm, again assuming that you are fully equipped for clean living and solvency.

By the minimal observable data provided in your short comment, i once more assume that: A) you are a lost bachelor in state of helplessness, B) a man with a late rising mate, C) a late rising man, raised by a no-cook mother.

Should any of the above assumptions prove off the mark, please chalk this off to the vast geography and opacity of the network. Now we may proceed on a path to self gratification; lessons i should have learned in kindergarten. More fun to try as adults.

Put right foot on floor, if floor is still there, please apply pressure, if leg still there, put left foot close to the right and stand up. Now dash to the outhouse or nearest watering facility.
once voided of previous liquids, pour clean water, clean is the operative word here, into a clean receptacle, drink, it's only water.

With emergencies out of the way, you may relax and chance a peek at the mirror, enjoy the natural animal reflection. Observe the details facing you, any hair growth, change of skin tone, overnight surprises in texture of skin...Good. however you must resist the urge to poke and tease blemishes. Just as in a fruit, any blemish is a sign of life, life is good. Perfection, not so good.

With your daily activity quota nearly fulfilled, you may now attend to hygiene details, no, no, i shall not intrude into your mouth and other personal cavities, of course not. Far be it from a seasoned life coach such as myself to invade the interstitial privacies of a total stranger. This is an impersonal column by a recipe writer from the soft earth in the middle of nowhere.
Seasoned yes, coaching one self yes, thereby ending any presumed teaching principles.

You're not finished yet; so the next step takes you to the room you may call kitchen, cubby-hole or corner closet. Reach for a clean bowl, pan or other clean concave object, hunt for your favorite brand of cold cereal. It may be behind assorted moldy breads, buggy Rice-a-loony boxes or mothy pre-packaged dry goods your family gave you a few years ago. First things first...Do not stir or even open the suspicious bread items or dead pastries, gently grab and run softly to nearest sealable plastic bag, close hermetically to avoid cross contamination of other cereal products. Mold spores affect undernourished and love starved individuals the most.

As soon as you spot the cereal, straighten all items around the shelf, if you have regular cupboards. Now that this phase of your quotidium is over, look at the clock, good, are you late?. Late for what?. Then go to the fridge, go ahead, sniff the milk, gingerly at first, if lumpless and pure white, it still may be digestible-- pour, sniff twice as you have seen the wine tasters do on PBS -- pass under nose discreetly -- make a smug little grimace --add a bit of sugar if you haven't outgrown that rotten molar at the back of your cavities -- do you have a few nuts laying around in the pantry? -- ok, check the chair cushions -- how about dried fruits for anti-oxidants, you know that humans need their phytochemicals to survive this stressful world they have fostered. Ready?

Forget the comfy chair, the zen practice of eating-for-the-sake-of-eating alone would be disturbed by the bodily convenience, comfort is a spoiler of character. Instead may i suggest the plainest kitchen seat you have -- now hold your spine straight -- stretch neck as if a string held you suspended from the very spot on the ceiling above you -- plunge spoon with great anticipation into the liquid ahead -- disregard the strange floating objects in the milk -- as long as they are not brown and ovate -- they may not be from rodent source -- and should they be of insect origin, just consider them proof of the lack of excess chemical pesticide in your valuable food source. High fiber content is what you are concentrating on.

But? I digress, remain ever grateful as the spoon arcs to your open mouth, the gods of agriculture and nourishment are smiling upon the familiar gesture of feeding the creature. Do you feel it? That's it you have accomplished the true art of satisfying self-sufficiency.

Argh! well, i told you to smell-check that milk, didn't i? spit that down quickly, in the bowl, the stray dog outback may be starving again, recycle-recycle, end of lesson in self feeding, so much for the zen of it all. you've been doing great, just peruse recipes for the clues. Have a nice day now!

Monday, February 21, 2011

House wife/Barfly

Lady of the desert, blank stare over the valley, in Rhyolite, this what happens when you stand too long in the sun.

The previous post has been removed to archives unknown for further dissection and reviving, the fictive elements clashing with the live memories muddled the literary scene.

This is what happens when the dishes are neglected on a hot day, solpugid in the dark.

Animal rights for all creatures, heron turning up his beak at the sight of another donkey mess on the pavement.. This is what happens when the arroyo dries up.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Of Indifference and Savages

see the second sons
heirs of nothing
dreamers of all
brothers of escape
abuse and abandon
intoxicated by adventure
hungry for liberty
they came onto the path of travail
full of self
one propelled by repulsion
in a forsaken mother city
filled with disgust and competition
he came to divest himself of pretense
to rid his gut of religion

the other with wife and child
rode horse and wave
for work well paid
solid gold and ignorance

the dreamer marches on
with savage determination
to cement the virgin prairies
with insult and flowing blood

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Writer's Cramps

Writer's Cramps.

Snow yet on the ground and frostbitten cheeks, conditions seem propitious for writing the novel, my novel, this voice which feeds ideas beneath earthly concerns. Reviews credit the work, but the personal appreciation of the ways of a wordsmith delve deeper into the art itself. So allow me to slide from this lofty perch to a lower branch where i may feel a bit more comfortable.

Writers are often isolated beings, i was an only child, an undesired one, a girl child in a land of paternal lineage rights. Two options soon became apparent to the precocious ballast bundle of pale flesh. One: mimic the environment to fit in. Two: shut up and be cute. In France, the average length of forgivable cuteness was about four years, soon expectations do rise above one's head.

Adaptation became necessity, from relative to relative, from the butcher at the corner to Mother Superior, i slid into useful roles with plenty of time to observe both urban and rural surroundings. Lessons beyond the Latin instruction prepared me for hardship. By the time i emerged from formal schooling, i already had a full book of poetry in my secret satchel.

By age ten, my Mother had declared that she could no longer understand my French language, my normal range of discourse had surpassed even my instructors, i was wedged between the role of teacher's pet and student bane. Appreciated, yet unwanted. Work was the only reliable outlet.

Not being allowed to have friends, i entertained my brain with languages to escape my parent's world, or philosophy, to impress my much older classmates. Upon graduating very early, i discovered that my mother had made plans to –sell me-- to a noble family as a governess. This was to remain a total secret for legal and personal reasons. Father was told that i had found a better alternative to lazy college education.

I first asked to publish my book of lyrical prose and poetry. There is a picture of my mother indelibly imprinted upon my mind. She stands above me as i rake the ashes of the manuscript, making sure that not one word, not one particle is detectable in the flowerbed where she had ceremoniously handed me the one match to put an end to-- “this nonsense...what would your father say if i told him what you have been wasting your time on all these years?”.

In one gesture i had lost a whole being, my sole refuge carved out of loneliness. I was ashes in the dirt, landscaped into oblivion once more; literary hara-kiri. Tearless and stoic, i temporarily lost my voice rather than rebuke.

Not yet fifteen, i worked with diligence and on my only partial day off per week, i rode the train to the nearest university and audited one class, soon i was writing several term papers for failing students, for books only. Then i became the cafe terrasse 'objet de curiosite'. People rode and walked long to hear what they called my witty repartee. Entertainment for expresso, i missed my calling. I had discovered an audience who understood, yet could not quite follow the vertiginous twists of my Thursday madness.

Prized servant which I was, appreciated for my polyglot skills, for me, life was the hallway to sunshine, a grand foyer of expectations which would lead to artistic evolution. Hands tied, mind alive, i knew of greatness beyond reality. Grand mother's flocks had taught me contained freedom, city dogs had shown me how to disappear. I ran away from indentured service and married a foreigner. I knew more English than most native speakers after a few months.

Once again isolated, this time, in the American desert, i began to write in English. By then i had almost forgotten my mother tongue and every other language which i had once learned or spoken. Adventure and travail had consumed my energies to channel them into emotional exile. The pen hovered over the blank space as if magnetized yet inert, reticent. No word lining up in a coherent french phrase, although I wrote a perfunctory letter to my parents every Thursday. Creativity dried up as a useless appendage.

A column here, a poem elsewhere, i felt my way through whichever literary outlets i could access from rudimentary means. Whether in France or stateside, i found people to be attracted to that edge over which i see the other side. I no longer dwelt in the abyss, i peered intentionally into it to transmit the incongruous visions to most willing recipients.

Long gone the knowledge, ballast over the ocean that separates me from myself. Long discarded the burden of importance and place. This nomad scribe has achieved amused detachment. Remains a duty to readers, including myself, a vague morality which dictates outrage and fuels rants.

In the culling of fact and performance, there is form and texture, this may be what the reader gleans and enjoys as a reflection of his own memory. Technology has afforded us a separate dimension, whereby the author receives purer response to his art, than if face and voice were interfering with the words. I may again be that child of expression with mordant pen and lazy wit.

Words, the etched logos on the tablet of this, our time, solid, absorbed into the psyche with no other trouble than the present and its moods. Humble? Bah! Not yet, i have only been out there, on that web for a short while, so i plan to enjoy this a little longer before i decide to work at a really professional, literary oeuvre. It's back there, fomenting, fermenting, can you hear it?

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Another Questionnaire!

No, i don't play games, don't fill forms and attend wedding showers...this one came by way of a defunct site why not post my answers? serious work refuses to come out of the

# 1: So, why the user-name? 
It's the one i use at the grocery store, the bank and the public restrooms in Europe. It works...and i remember it.
#2. Give us one word to describe you.

#3.Chose one Desert Island Disc:

My life in the Bush of Ghosts, Brian Eno and  David Byrne. okay, i was in a hurry when the world came to an end!

#4. Chose one Desert Island Book:

Edible and Medicinal Plants, by Wildman Steve Brill; it's for the pictures, i already know too many words in English and the mind, ( she)will not stop.

#5.Chose one Desert Island Film:

Something to make me laugh and not miss society at all; Little miss Sunshine? not Eraserhead.

# 6. What floats your boat?
Sensory suspension; to hold the senses just above intellectual reality for a second longer than necessary.

#7. Tell us something no one knows about you:

I could live in a cave where no one would recognize me, and disappear.

#8. What's your idea of a dream date?

Crusty baguette, goat cheese and fig jam, a cotton blanket and thou. BYOW(bring your own words)

#9. Do you believe in love at first sight?
First by the eye, then by the nose, they shall know each other, slowly yes.

#10. Which characteristic could you not live without in your life partner: sexiness, intelligence, or financial stability?

By process of stability must not be a must, or i would have opted for a better career--sexiness is, of course, implied in a mate's choice, or the living arrangements would not have happened a priori...lastly and foremost, some form of intelligence permeates the whole of a relationship, so i elect it to be the stable, sexy necessity in my life partner. Got it!

11. Where did you grow up?

Born in Normandy, raised in Southwest France, given up at birth, and bounced between live and dead relatives, back to original parents...feel sorry for me yet?...wait till you read my writings..i miss the stones, the woods, the moss and Angouleme, my ancient hill town.

12. Where do you live now and why?

Oh now you ask the hard questions--In the belly of the Beast, the Midwest, near the Aorta of America. Why? Real estate was cheap, and now i know why.

#13. When you were young, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A nurse in Africa--a translator for hospitals and a writer--all at once. I grew up, forget the geography, it moved.

#14. When you were a child, who was your hero?
My grand-mother's sheep-dog, and Docteur Leakey in the science books.

#15.How would your friends describe you?

In my presence, brilliant woman!--in my absence, she must be uh, ? but she's so wonderful! ( no, i' m not)

#17. Have you ever met a celeb? What did you say?

Read my poetry for the family of President Mitterand, was escorted back to the secret service  car before i realized whom i was actually talking to, so don't recall the words, something deliciously haughty about the ARTs i' m sure..

#18. What's your all-time favorite football ground?

Rue Victor Hugo, third block, soccer style, pre-puberty, just before they realized i was a girl with obvious hallmark physionomy and kicked me off the team.

#19. What's your favourite outdoor activity?

Not football. Swimming in lakes, counting ants and finding funny leaves in the grass, spotting animals and vegetals in their natural habitat.

#20. What capital cities have you visited? Which was your favorite?

Paris, Geneva, Berlin, Copenhagen, Washington, Vienna, Oslo, Helsinki, Madrid, Rabat, Stockholm, Dublin Salt Lake City (Jello capital of the world!) etc..but the old Paris still tugs at me.

#21. What is your favorite city?
San Francisco, you can walk and walk.. and experience a world a day. I was told i would have enjoyed the old New Orleans, or Montreal.
#22. Who has been the biggest influence in your life?
A  novitiate nun, 3rd grade teacher who knew that i wrote under my desk. A miner in Death Valley who knew that i wrote in the sand, and each gave me books to feed insatiable me.

#23. What do people notice most about you when they first meet you?

That i must be some sort of artist, some may not know what, but all forgive me for being different. Many perceive me as their chameleon sister, as i speak in their voice and loan them mine in exchange.

#24. When was the last time you lost your temper and why?

Fleas, there is only one thing which can unhinge physical rage, fleas. I flipped the covers and vacuumed the couch, killed the carpets and drowned the linens. It took a month to fumigate the critters out of existence. Relatives must now check their dogs at the door, i do like pets, hate their assorted  fur-dwellers.

#25. When's the last time you cried and why?

Hey? I just picked the clean laundry from the line, don't want to air out the dirty ones. I cry for two trigger  reasons, personal emotion and fictional emotion; so give me a poignant movie and a hanky <and don't look.

#26. Are you the star of the show or more behind the scenes?

Aie, both...more comfortable behind the curtain, but, like to lecture when i can hide behind the words, as in spoken word and music performances or teaching.

#27. Do you screen your calls or answer after the first ring?

Seldom get calls, will answer but, not happy with telemarketers, must remind them that i am busy, in my own cave, and have nothing for them,period. No, no cell phone or appendage on me.

#28. What do you do when you're bored silly?

If coffee and worry gain momentum on me, i escape into the garden, the forest or the wood pile. If too cold, the book pile and music collection. My painting and textile supplies are waiting for me to become bored before they disintegrate.

#29. Which of your five senses would you LEAST want to lose?

Asking this of a sensual purist? i should have sensed it coming, i smelled it.. my sight? ouch, i am attached to all, so closely, so personally. shhh!

#30. When you're lost, do you ask for directions?

Of course, as soon as i first try, may i brag just a bit? i have always had a keen dog sense about me--visual, directional and intuitive.

#31 Have you ever participated in a protest?

Joined an international writer's group on an anti-nuclear rally at a site above New-York once, did not scale the fence, chicken me, feared for my family and immigrant status...did an Amnesty International benefit gig in France, does that count?

#32. Who would play you in the movie of your life?

Well, Natasha Mc Elhone, of course! alright my eyes are brown and my legs only reach the ground, but other than that, i mean she has the class and the guts, the finesse and courage  to play my life in an upcoming book about the desert years ( there is a spunky Irish girl, but can't remember her name...)

#33. If you are a cat, which life are you working on now
How did you know? okay, seventh life stage to be sure, i have donated some of mine to good and not so good causes, but i have shunned bad habits and sloth, so i should live well and long still.

#34. If you could invite a famous person to dinner, who would it be?

Naom Chomski, he looks like he doesn't eat much...actually, we would not have time to eat for the world would soak up the conversation. If he weren't available i would take Arundhati Roy, she needs help to carry this whole planet on an empty stomach.

#35. If you could bring someone back from the dead, who would it be?

Lao Tse, he would soon prove the futility of the ten thousand things man gets tethered to. Rumi would fill the senses, but we are not ready for him yet. hang on, Voltaire is calling on the telepathophone.

#36. If you had your own music festival, what five bands or musicians would play?

PJ Harvey, Ani DiFranco, Hector Zazou, Etron Fou, Can.

#38. If you could live anywhere, where would you live?

Surrounded by books and music in a remote village above the Mediterranean, where rain and sun suffice.

#39. If you could go back in time, which era would you choose? What would you most like to do?

To write an epic at the last of the middle ages when country women were appreciated for their gifts and men were assured of their identity in the social context, then came renaissance competition and the church vied for lost powers, don't worry, we're almost there...

Oof, may i squeeze out of the straight jacket now? it's hard to dance.