| 2009 in review |
[Dec. 31st, 2009|08:51 pm] |
Movies
Botched
Coraline (3d)
The Corpse
The Dark Knight
Dead and Breakfast
Entre les Murs
The Grudge
Mal de Amores
Matchstick Men
Severance
Star Trek
War, Inc.
The Yogis of Tibet
TV series
Dexter, Season 1
Grey's Anatomy
In Treatment, Season 2
Transgenerations |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 7th, 2009|03:03 pm] |
Awake before the sun
streams in you slide
out of bed, out into
a universe of breath
and light. Song rises,
pulse steadies, heart
opens. After the journey
you always come home. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 25th, 2009|07:55 am] |
the image that comes to mind is the heavy
door i just shut tight. oak, i think, with rusted
hinges. the weight, the care. a stone frame
with gaps. and the one with hidden panels,
wood from different trees: ash, lemon. i wish
sometimes i could draw. there's got to be
small bronze doors opening, a crazy mess like
Dali's drawers in Escherland. |
|
|
| freewrite 1-4-09 final edit 3-24-09 |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|02:52 pm] |
So you lost your balance, in that tart dress, linking
hip to thigh, and the pain is a ragged thing, pulped
and groaning. Your thoughts scatter in the coming
wind, slicing the void of a pristine sky. A perfect
day in December. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|02:33 pm] |
that tight jawed woman
trys in earnest to block
out every word i bet she
crocheted that flat cap
and thins her own brows
that Catalan bloke
with the short
shrug sure knows how
to stink up a tram
that peep-hole-eyed
man better get ready
to tuck in quick |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 23rd, 2009|06:34 am] |
#10
Meditation
I lose my words
deep in sex sun
brightens hands
pressing we take
turns teaching.
#9
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightens hands
pressing we take
turns teaching.
#8
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightens hands
we take turns teaching.
#7
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightens hands
pressing we take turns
teaching.
#6
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightens hands
pressing we take
turns teaching.
#5
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightening hands
pressing we take turns.
#4
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightening hands
pressing we take
turns teaching.
#3
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightening hands
behind thighs we take
turns teaching.
#2
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
sun brightening hands
behind my thighs we
take turns.
#1
I lose my words deep
in sex or meditation
filled with warmth
the sun brightening
your hands behind
my thighs we take
turns teaching. |
|
|
| 2008 in review |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|01:35 pm] |
Museums/Exhibits
Alte Pinakothek - Munich
Bellagio Art Gallery - Las Vegas
Bode Museum - Berlin
Brooklyn Botanical Garden
Dahlem Museums - Berlin
Deutsche Guggenheim - Berlin
Gemäldegalerie - Berlin
Guggenheim - Cai Guo-Qiang exhibit
Hamburg Botanic Garden
Hamburger Bahnhof Museum für Gegenwart - Berlin
Kunsthalle - Hamburg
Mandalay Bay Aquarium - Las Vegas
The Metropolitan Museum of Art - Abstract Expressionism and Other Modern Works: The Muriel Kallis Steinberg Newman Collection - NYC
MOMA - Museum of Modern Art - NYC - Salvador Dali Exhibit
MOMA - Museum of Modern Art - NYC - Joan Miro Exhibit
Museum Ludwig - Koln
New York Botanical Garden
Pinakothek der Moderne - Munich
Rheingau Wine Museum - Rüdesheim, Germany
Smithsonian American Art Museum - Washington DC
Torture Museum - Rüdesheim, Germany
Whitney - Kara Walker exhibit - NYC
Books (prose)
The Illustrated Man - Ray Bradbury
Audio Books
Tooth and Claw (Part 1) - T. Coraghessan Boyle
Dancing in the Streets - Barbara Ehrenreich
Eat, Pray, Love - Elizabeth Gilbert
The Mistress' Daughter - A.M. Homes
Holy Cow! An Indian Adventure - Sarah Macdonald
Einstein (Part 1) - Walter Isaacson
Poetry
Tell Me - Kim Addonizio
Secret Love Poems - Arlene Ang
What is this thing called love? - Kim Addonizio
Human Crying Daisies - Ray Gonzalez
Turning to Fiction - Donna Masini
There is an Anger that Moves - Kei Miller
Zero Degrees at First Light - Christine Potter
Casual Notation of Earth-Shattering Events - Claire Sharpe
Movies
Choke
Color Me Kubrick
Crazy Love
Juno
The King of California
My Mother Likes Women
Particles of Truth
Picnic at Hanging Rock
Sex and the City
Sordid Lives
Vantage Point
TV series
Carnivale (Seasons 1& 2)
Cracker (Season 1)
Dead Like Me (Seasons 1 & 2)
Grey's Anatomy
Heroes (Season 1)
In Treatment (Season 1)
True Blood (Season 1)
Weeds (Seasons 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Concerts
Beth Orton - Prospect Park. Brooklyn
Eric Claptan - Konings Platz, Munich |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 30th, 2008|10:08 pm] |
|
When I was a kid my parents would take trips together, but travel separately, so we would not be orphaned if the plane fell. My mom kept a file of all the vital family documents - birth certificates, marriage license, life insurance, house deed, phone numbers, who-would-do-what - and make sure we knew where it was. Times have changed, and before her surgery she sent an email with the vital info, this time including funeral plans. My father's eyes twinkled the way they do when he's telling a good joke - "She even planned my funeral, without consulting me! And she put it first!" and my brother ribbed - "I think you can add a line in there if you want". Her own plans were sparse - TO BRING IN A RABBI WOULD BE HYPOCRITICAL AT THIS POINT- like that, in caps. Instead she preferred a prayer service from our old headmistress, if possible. Something small. Just do what makes you comfortable, she wrote. Jewish style with a plain casket and mourners throwing dirt in the grave. Mom who may have given up some of her religion, that flowing form, for his rigid structure. Mom who loves Christmas trees and tinsel, who sang the Messiah in choir. I asked her once why her brother seems so much more orthodox. He attends weekly services, they grew up in the same household. She said she doesn't feel comfortable in a synagogue anymore, that she wouldn't be fully accepted. Somehow, in the years past adolescence, I've nurtured a place where we can talk about religion. She doesn't feel like she has anyone who will accept her views, without correcting her with the Christian perspective. I can go anywhere, really. It's ok not to be Christian anywhere except in my father's home. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 7th, 2008|08:40 am] |
#3
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my fingertips. My eyes burst open, blink
through bright tears. You spoke of the way back.
You tried to show me spaces between trees, surf
curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset. A ruby
throated hummingbird pulses in my ribcage.
#4
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You tried to show me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset.
A ruby throated hummingbird pulses in my ribcage.
#5
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You tried to show me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset.
A hummingbird pulses in my ribcage, I touch two
fingers to my throat.
#6
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You showed me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground
of sunset. A hummingbird pulses in my ribcage,
I touch two fingers to my throat. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2008|02:56 pm] |
Double mirrors
You sit in the furthest chair
pressed to the edge, your lips
a fearsome pout, legs and arms
crossed tight to hold yourself in.
You're staring him down - that man
who's with you everywhere who laughs
loudest whose jokes burst you to fits
who sneers when you speak
your dreams who none of us have
ever seen. I heard what you
said and what you couldn't.
I'll miss you too. |
|
|
| Topography |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|09:18 pm] |
Topography
Seventeen maps end-to-end,
buried, slanted, upside down.
How many steps to Annecy?
Which way does the water
flow? Where is the rock you
pressed your back against?
I never knew how to ask
the right questions. I let
the moments pass, fingers
tousling my hair. I'm looking
for relief, the peaks I've climbed
the ones you knew. I want
to lean near the river's mouth
and take you in -
my chest a bulging birdcage,
my heart expanding. All I have
is this: your measured stillness,
the landscape of your breath.
Seventeen maps end-to-end, buried,
slanted, upside-down. How many
steps to Annecy? Which way
does the water flow? Where
is the sheltered rock you pressed
your back against? I never knew
to ask the right questions.
I let the moments pass,
your fingers tousling my hair. I'm looking
for relief, the peaks I've touched,
the ones you knew. I want to lean
near the river's mouth and take you in -
my chest a bulging birdcage, my heart expanding.
All I have is this: your measured stillness,
the landscape of your breath. |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|04:13 pm] |
hot calligraphy -
pink tip flickers, delights in
scented warmth, textures. |
|
|
| jaded senryu |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|12:29 am] |
betrayal isn't
a glossy print spectacle -
it's love chewed, then spit. |
|
|
| summer senryu |
[Jul. 13th, 2008|10:50 pm] |
day-glo slate sidewalk
water bursts- fantastic!
girls shimmy through |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jul. 13th, 2008|08:15 pm] |
We've grown close, apple
tree roots interlaced, reaching
for the same water. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 5th, 2008|11:17 pm] |
we stood there in the bloodless night, turned towards
the last crevice of light, each filled with a sickness distinct
and withdrawn with a need to break the earth apart, turn
and lift, shoulder to knee, drawing the last black water
from the last black well each drawn to the rhythm the way
it reverberates silently or raucously in our own leaden bodies
our own steel cast minds this sinuous thread this old pull
back to a senseless time of lives lost unmarked except
by voices cracked and hushed saying those many things
we don't speak about in this family |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|07:40 pm] |
bachata
step and twirl one two
three one sisters joined
at the shoulder and hip
women who can go months
without speaking mothers
and fathers clandestine
lovers the old and
the very young dancing
the night whole. |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|02:40 pm] |
2AM, sipping
your salty heat. who says
love is always sweet? |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|02:39 pm] |
slow down honey, let
my deep ocean waters soothe
your volcanic tongue. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 18th, 2008|10:33 pm] |
I have to watch how I laugh around here,
with whom, how often, how loud. I can't
even smile to myself without wondering
what they're ticking off on those mental
legal pads. I ask what's fun to do in the
city and you're on about colonoscopies,
food poisoning and your mother's deep
bone pain. Eyeballs do slow cartwheels
imagining what goes on behind your own
olive eyes. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 4th, 2007|06:07 pm] |
I'm sitting with my discomfort
on my lap, trying to keep it still.
I don't know how other people
box it up, and leave it out back
with the recycleables.
I keep it cupped to my core.
Its eyes are pressed shut, like a newborn
finch. It isn't prickly or slimy,
it keeps my legs warm.
I think I'll feed her bread
in tepid milk, perch her on my finger
till she totters off, arching
small wings into the sky. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 1st, 2006|11:20 pm] |
Take me back
to the shores of Atitlán
where the slumbering
volcano's mouth may swallow
us whole: tossed and rolled
in a thousand waves.
There I found you, at the bottom
of the long stone stairs,
running and stumbling
in the lake's soft pull.
The sand was speckled
with glittering shell and stone.
Now you lay somewhere unknown. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|02:41 pm] |
Home is not a backdrop of volcanic mountains,
nor the scent of anise rising. It's not the itchy
sand that sticks all over, collie's yelp, sun-stained
belly. It's not the undulating crowd we wrestle
through (one who leans to whisper something crass
then slides unseen into the multitude). Not the chill
of evening by the lake, wrapped in a drab shawl,
Pícaro or palos on the sand. The church floor
is a tapestry of petals, religious and local rites
blending. A woman mouths a litany, dragging
worn knees across the cold stone floor. |
|
|
| tanka |
[Oct. 14th, 2005|10:10 am] |
Twisted witch willow
trees line Damme's lonesome streets.
Dusk approaches fast.
No number of quaint houses
justifies the long trek back. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2005|09:12 pm] |
Street woman
Quick, jerky step
accentuates gaunt features.
She curses unseen
adversaries then flashes
herself a private smile. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 7th, 2005|02:31 pm] |
4-22-05
Mommy, you're my best friend, she declares without looking up
nappy hair pulled back, mad hands scribbling
slanted lines and eyes
till she pronounces it done. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
katherine_carla's journal