Geniuses and Subalterns over at my other blog, The Days
Woolf and holy wells in Ireland, Stevens and Black soldiers
in the American South, and other excerpts from diaries and notebooks . . .
Monday, November 13, 2017
I think I just finished writing [a new draft of] DARK WHITE, a book I've been working on for a long time (and the third in a trilogy that began with The Public Gardens: Poems and History). I made a play list for the project. You can find the music here.
The subtitle for this book could be Grá agus Bás, the title of an amazing piece of music I heard at National Sawdust in Brooklyn last week. While I was in New York, the Times published Dan Barry's piece about the lost children of Tuam. That story first broke in 2014 as I was preparing for a trip to Ireland to install a show of my collages (also called "Dark White") at the Dock Arts Centre in Carrick-on-Shannon. On that trip I went to Kerry to continue my research about "illegitimacy" and lost Irish women, including my grandmother and her mother.
Perhaps the best title for my book would be: DARK WHITE: Mná, Grá agus Bás.
Adam notices that Eve is holding something close as they leave the garden. He asks her what she carries so carefully. She replies that it is a little of the apple core that she's keeping for their children.
From the autobiography of William Butler Yeats
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Do those towers even exist?
We must look at it that way, along those lines
so the thought can erect itself, like plywood battlements.
- JOHN ASHBERY (from “A Poem of Unrest”)
Summer, 2012, a Friday night, on my way to see Ashbery
at Poet’s House . . .
As we hurried toward the subway, walking past the hospital where
she was born, Isabel offered to come to the reading with me, and I said,
“No, no, you go,” and I watched her walk down the stairs to the L to
Williamsburg, where she was conceived.
At rush hour I walk toward the Towers, or where the Towers were
when I was pregnant seventeen years ago at this time of year in this
chartreuse light and heat. When I was married, when I lived in New
Go. Go. Go.
Walt Whitman’s words from “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” scroll
digitally across the front of an office building. I stop to read and look.
Not one of the thousands rushing to New Jersey Transit seems to
notice the enormous words:
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated,
everyone disintegrated yet part of the scheme
(Would he write a different poem now—about America—)
I stop at Pret a Manger near City Hall to get a sandwich. I’m the only
one in the place. I forgot to bring a book. I don’t even have a pen.
There’s nothing to do but look.
I sit still long enough to notice two detectives on the corner. They’re
well-groomed and camouflaged in suits, still and watchful in the
midst of the river of commuters. Hot.
I feel like I’m on safari. Everyone except me is racing for a train
or a cab or the ferry to New Jersey. Thousands of people are passing
and the detectives are watching all of them. No one notices the ones
who see, except for me.
It’s a straight shot to City Hall from here. I can see the limousine
pulling out under trees as green as salad, cop cars and police all around.
The Mayor will not be killed tonight as he heads out to the Hamptons
for the weekend. A phalanx. A word you’d never use unless it’s the
I watch the white plainclothes cop next to the black SUV parked
illegally. He looks like me: stocky, thick eyebrows, dark. Kind of
like the enemy.
“Where are you from?” the old man asked me on the subway platform
to Jackson Heights the other day. “Do you speak Arabic?” The next
day a lady asked me if I speak Farsi. “No,” I said, “it’s just the Clairol
talking.” I'm still dark, but fading with age.
The white detective has heavy ear lobes. Nice pants. A wedding ring.
A boxer’s nose.
I’m in awe of his concentration. He sees everything but me.
Unwatched, I eat like a pig.
I’ve been watching the white plainclothes cop for about fifteen minutes.
Ashbery starts soon and there will be a crowd. My hands smell like
mayonnaise. I fix my lipstick and walk out onto the sidewalk, hit by a
blast of heat and swampy salt air. Two thousand people have passed this
cop without seeing him. I make a point of smiling at him as I pass.
He doesn’t smile back, but I see him flinch at being seen.
At the corner, there’s a halal food cart next to trashcans and scaffolding.
The proprietor is prostrated on the filthy sidewalk behind his cart, angled
toward Mecca (toward Queens). A broker in a suit almost steps on him.
A nearly naked anorexic jogger kicks him by accident while waiting for
the light to turn. Nothing moves him. Maybe he is also a detective?
I walk toward the water, toward a man with extension cords wrapped
around his waist, looking for someplace to be plugged in.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Monday, July 24, 2017
Sunday, July 2, 2017
My friend and collaborator Eve Beglarian won a Herb Alpert award this spring and I interviewed her on the occasion. I love Eve and her music, and it was great to celebrate in Santa Monica in May