diskinetics:

[via kol10]

confisuon:

inversion poem

In-between handstands, I started a new blog about semi-obscure folk music and wine. These topics may or may not be subject to change. Visit clairedonato.tumblr.com, AKA Five Minutes Can You Spare Me.

raygonne:

#occupywallstreet

Yesterday, I placed half an autumn leaf underneath the ‘X’ of twigs I left on Edna St. Vincent Millay’s grave. I placed the second half under an acorn on Norma Millay Ellis’s grave.  Then I made a wish.  Sometimes, you have to trust in luck.  

If I aspired to write for corporate magazines, I would begin this entry with the following hook: Artists do it in the kitchen. On Monday night, I teamed up with a few of my fellow residents for ‘Working Dessert,’ an evening of new work, wine, and homemade desserts. I made crêpes using a recipe sent to me by my mom. The other desserts in attendance were as follows:

(Note: In describing the desserts, I will try not to reduce my vocabulary to Rachael Ray-esque vocabulary words, e.g., ‘yummers,’ ‘outrageous,’ &c.)

FLAN by Cristián Flores García, in not only one, but two flavors: coffee and original. I would attempt to describe the flan here, but, alas, my memory is reduced to indescribable sensory impressions of eggs, milk, vanilla, and sugar. Suffice it to say, the residency chef tried a bit and asked Cristi for the recipe.

PEACH-SAKE SORBET and AVOCADO FROZEN YOGURT by Ching-In Chen. Ching-In actually invented these flavorful combinations, much in the same way that Hans Lippershey invited the telescope. Although the sake made me too buzzed to actually see Monday night’s stars, rest assured that Ching-In’s dessert deserves the highest Michelin Star rating: three stars, indicating ‘exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey.’

PLUM PIE by Carl Ferrero. Attention, literary agents and book editors who specialize in cookbooks: You must write to Carl Ferrero, your next bestselling cookbook author, immediately. I am not joking. Aside from painting uncanny and beautiful watercolors of unidentified flying objects, Carl is an exceptional pastry chef who has so generously baked, like, ∞ number of cookies and pies since we arrived in Austerlitz. An illustrated volume is in order. Don’t wait: make Carl Ferrero a book deal he can’t refuse! If you don’t, you may just miss the boat (or flying saucer)…

Finally, I would be amiss if I failed to mention Fiona Templeton’s ATHOLL BROSE, a Scottish dessert served on Sunday night containing rolled oats soaked in whiskey, heavy cream, raspberries, honey, and more Snob Creek. @#*&$!!!  Let the symbols speak for themselves.

Errata via Fiona: whiskey is not scotch! Especially in a Scottish dessert. Bear in mind, the whiskey was scotch.

The evening concluded with full stomachs and a screening of Breaking Boundaries: The Art of Alex Masket, scored by jazz musician Diane Moser. A+!

Bon appétit! 

I ran along a new long road yesterday, taking a small break from East Hill Road, the road I always take. I avoided the new road for days due a gnarly-looking hill that, against my body, at once felt daunting and good. The road curved up and wound around itself like a corkscrew worm, and when I reached a certain point (I hesitate to write the word ‘peak’), the view looked like this, only greener and more blue.

I did not see a car or person the entire time.  The flowers by the road were overgrown and pink. After some time of feeling ‘at peace,’ ‘composed,’ and ‘serene,’ my mind turned toward the thought of my dead body, bloody in the flowers.  At which point I turned around, ran back down the road, and thought to myself: I have been reading too many books.

It looked like this; now there is rain. The rain is an obstacle, or it is not. It complements Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, a cyclical reality whose language I coil around, twist around, wind around: ‘Now I will wrap my agony inside my pocket-handkerchief. It shall be screwed tight into a ball.’

I read The Waves with my head’s pair of globular organs. I read Solaris with my soft, nervous tissue, and its massive id ocean is incomparable to the rain. Easy Travel to Other Planets is stored inside my mind as a mood, a steady light that illuminates the image of a dolphin blanketed in blue.

Pictured here are gardens, hot-baked in the sun, tough and bright orange. As I look from the window, I see another garden where purple cabbage grows. I think to myself: It is hackneyed to say writing takes place from a window. Yet I acknowledge my impulse to say this in much the same way I acknowledge the artificiality of my lyricism, which does not reflect my speech.

Projected Twin Peaks against a wall in the main building on the night of the full moon. One day, my log will have something to say about this.  

A family of frogs now lives in the pool where Edna St. Vincent Millay’s pool parties took place. These pool parties were affairs requiring no clothing, unless one wanted a drink at the bar: then one would retreat into the changing stall and dress.  

The following is a list of things to do in Austerlitz, NY, besides read and write: Go running to the pool; go running to Vincent’s pile of gin (which also includes Clorox bottles and other miscellaneous trash); go running to the end of East Hill Road (both ways); talk to fellow residents; Skype with JJ, Brix, and your mother; practice yoga: twists, arm balances, and inversions; pick and press brightly colored flowers in a book; nap on the floor in-between chapters (both written and read); decorate walls with images from old books, quotations, and mail received; sample bug sprays; sunblock your tattoo, shoulders, and face; tour the estate; drive to Chatham (3x) and the post office (1x); watch Bluebeard (2009), Twin Peaks (1990-91), and videos on YouTube; help bake cookies (peanut butter, chocolate chip); look at the stars; look at the burial sites and endless, open fields, seeing for miles; survey the woods for deer; survey the sky for saucers: pretend you’re in a sci-fi book; browse shitty jobs on craigslist; drink coffee and wine — contort your consciousness — and dream of a world in which the place where you live is ½ the way it already is, and ½ this.

Some days I go for runs along the Poetry Trail, a trail in the woods lined with poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I listen to songs like ‘These Days,’ ‘Lover’s Spit,’ and ‘Orange Juice,’ and, as I run, I secretly wish to see deer. I go running when I need to think about my book, my ever-expanding book which is advancing both nowhere and somewhere. If questions comes up — and they do — movement usually provides an answer: I take notes as I run, then return to my little (big) room in the barn, write, and practice balancing upside-down. 

Animals I have seen include: frogs, butterflies, hummingbirds, a dead mouse, &c. Two days ago, a green garden snake crossed my path. According to the Internet, this is a symbol of healing.

Most days, however, I write until my back is sore and my mind is spun inside-out and I have imaginary carpal tunnel syndrome. Then I write more.