resolved! on this, the final day of september of the year 2006: that i, amy rebecca, hereby recommence the publication of this useless and largely uninteresting blog, for the purpose of archiving poetry, sharing somewhat inane thoughts with god knows who, and, perhaps most importantly, reminding myself who i am--or should i say who i was. because as it happens, i may in fact look back on this exact page in ten years, at age 31, with the days of my youth solidly and irreplacably behind me--and basically lost, to a certain extent--although not forgotten.

in light of the recent trend in food blogging (eamon http://www.eamon.info and toby http://nomusing.blogspot.com), my recent decision to re-inaugurate this useless piece of junk, and the awfully boring paper on pharmacogenetics i have due tomorrow morning (procrastination!!!!), i have decided to start writing down what i eat.

unfortunately i have only had one meal today and it was brunch. well, here it is:

brunch (from adams dining hall):

one self-made waffle with syrup
one english tea time tea with milk and sugar
one glass of ice water

god that was boring.

let's call this a revealing expose into the life and diet of a harvard student. who knows what it will reveal! i sure don't! probably nothing! god i wish i wasn't in school!! i think iit's time to take a walk around the library.

nobody ever told me life would be this hard

forgot to mention that parts & labor was amazing as well! it was so funny b.c. during their set, (rather than dancing,) the whole crowd of hipsters was collectively taking out expensive silvery camera equipment and shooting photos/video of the performance. i think now that p&l is on pitchfork, everyone wants to be able to say "i saw them in a parking lot way back when!"
anyway, fuck yeah. parts and labor. who knew turning little knobs on a control board could be so punk rock??
i really think it takes a lot to be a good performer if your "instrument" happens to be an ungainly assortment of wires, pedals, and electronia. to an audience that is used to traditional musical instruments (a.k.a. everyone in the world right now), it is far more exciting to watch someone make music on a guitar than on a laptop/gear table/pitch modulator. but oh man. parts and labor is INCREDIBLY talented in the area some call "attitude" and others call "soul." i think it's safe to say they rocked the proverbial hizzouse. and i am now thoroughly convinced that more punk bands should be doing their singing through walkie talkies.

feel the need to document the fact that last night's show was LEGENDARY.
in the space of 12 hours, i saw...parts and labor, afrirampo, usaisamonster, growing, japanther, free blood, eloe omoe, matt & kim, and lightning bolt, (as well as about 5 other groups i didn't enjoy nearly as much.)
the highlights:
1. AFRIRAMPO. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. japanese spazz core lady duo with incredible stage presence, bjork/punk rock courage, cute matching outfits, outrageous tribal beats, and killer guitars--plus squealy squally vocals that sound like angry babies/mini white tigers from mars/kaia wilson's best scream in "fagetarian and dyke" by team dresch. they're sisters! and they're only 21 and 22! if i'm not doing that by this time next year, somebody, please, shoot me and put me out of my misery.
2. of course, lightning bolt--although the extent to which i "saw" lightning bolt depends on the relative weight you put on the phrase "glimpsed top of drummer's head from behind large and unruly crowd" as a possible synonym for sight.
3. usaisamonster. balding guys who keep their dreds and prog rock/free jazz guitar styles give me hope that there really is life past 30. plus their last song was this total metal freakout, complete with high-pitched noise seqments qua shred solos qua AWESOME.
4. japanther--being in the pit. nough said.
5. telling sam from eloe omoe that she's my hero.
6. discovering that dan friel from parts & labor was my supervisor when i interned at the onion like 4 years ago. he even remembered me (??)
7. running into ezra koenig who i haven't seen since i was like 8, as well as some kids from previous matt & kim shows, internet buddy pete droste, 3 teachers and one student from the national guitar workshop, and an assortment of random harvard dudes.

now i'm sore all over from dancing so much. i've got 3 new cd's, and a whole lot of happiness.

oh yeah, also the guitarist from afrirampo signed my hélène cixous "book of promethea!" unfortunately it's all in japanese, so i gotta scan it and send it to hunter to translate. to conclude, life has been shitty for a long time...but perhaps things are finally looking up!

brrrreakthrough?? who knows? who cares?!! i write for the moment right now, when it's secret and good, and i'm too elated to see the work from any kind of critical gaze. hey, if you have to know whether it's good or not, don't write! finally, i've got some optimism after a real shitty day...
ok ok, so posting poems online is not so secret. and i bet tomorrow i'm gonna hate this as well. but whatever. how bout it, anonymous readers? a 3 am love poem, ripping off a bit o' the ole yehuda amichai...



The Innumeracy of One

I hold your breath
Like a fistful of unripe blueberries.
Each one has a different taste.

In the way that all the lovers
Who have left you are the same person,
You are innumerate.

Your eyes shine like two seashores
With a night inside them.

Your hair is the safe harbor
Where many wild ships rest.

A clock hangs forlorn on your bedroom wall
Like a piece of the moon—
You are always changing.

Your eyes have pupils of sea-blue inside them
And the whites of your eyes are also shores.

You live in a city at the end of familiar cities.
When you see them, all the trees tip and fall
Like a child’s toy trees.

Your invisible hand has innumerate fingers
Like branches on a cherry tree covered in flowers.

It is gentle and clumsy. Whenever you touch me,
You knock part of the world down.

You are as silent as the evening inside morning.
But in spring, you are as talkative as the morning.

You have a laugh like a cello
A rich, deep brown laugh.

There is a long, red rose on my tongue
When I whisper you my secrets.

My hands want to strip the moments from around me,
To open myself like a gift from the past.

My eyes are the shape of my own tears.
My hands are the shape of my own hands.

so, um, everything i've been writing lately is total crap, including half of the stuff on this page. i'm ready to quit already. i need reassurance. i need a conference. i need a hug. awww look at me, i'm a pathetic product of poetry workshops with none of my own ideas.

yeah i don't know who i should be reading. most recently, i've been looking at anna akhmatova, who just seems to be making me depressed. no, that's a lie. akhmatova is beautiful, and innovative, and crazy--and is making me depressed. also calvino's poems about cities. i tried sappho awhile back too. i dunno. i hate that i always try to immitate the writers i'm reading instead of developing my own style. i guess everyone does that when they're starting out--that's how you learn. but when i do it, it always sounds contrived. i remember when i brought in these sonnets i wrote on paradise lost that i thought were really cool and unique, and jorie is like "um, this is ok as an exercize, but it's not your voice." as i'm learning, "your voice" is the most difficult thing in the world to find! it can be there one second, and gone the next, and sometimes it doesn't show up in a poem at all, and then you're like, goddammit, where'd she go? also, i know i'm not milton, but i have a tendency towards the grandiose. hehe. and i'm always, like, wanting to push myself to higher registers of tone and diction...and like...wanting to say really deep things about life and art and the universe and everything--important things that "matter." i want to have this really huge, powerful voice with a really vast scope, and in some poems i've been successful with that maybe. but most of the time, i just end up veering off into vague, abstractions that don't mean anything, when my real strength, so people tell me, is the concrete and the highly specific.


sooo while i can't say i miss school, i sure do miss poetry class. jeez, how does anyone write anything decent when they're not talking intensely about what makes a good poem? i guess you work at it for years and years--but it's hard working in isolation. i mean, you're stuck inside your own head, and most of the time you can't get detatched from your thoughts enough to see what's wrong with your work for ages, at which point, you look at the poem and realize "oh good god, this is awful. none of it is even worth salvaging," and then you begin the whole process over again. grrrrrrrrrrrrr. maybe you just have to keep talking with other people about what makes a good poem for your whole life. if this is the case, it would really help to have some friends who are into that kind of thing...i should try to find some kinda mentor/partner for the summer.