Pooh

My wife was reading the last few pages of Pooh to our kids the other night and it made her cry. So I took over, and yes, yes it nearly made me cry.

Flat out, Pooh is one of the great tragedies. Which got us and our good pal "So-Called Bill" ruminating over how much sadder even the saddest story would be with Pooh in the lead.

Of Mice and Pooh. "Do I get to take care of the bunnies? I want to take care of the bunnies." I mean come on. What's sadder than that?

Flowers for Poohgernon. In which Pooh becomes really really smart. And then gets reduced back to being just a bear of little brain. I'm crying right now. You know? It's amazing. I'm typing this, and I'm actually sobbing.

The English Pooh. In which Pooh is left in a cave. To die.

Or worst of all: Old Pooh. In which Pooh gets rabies and, and Christopher Robin, he has to go get a shotgun and -- and he -- I'm sorry. I need a moment.

OK... Deep breath. So Old Pooh. In which Pooh gets rabies and he starts to foam around the mouth and Charlotte, she's just dead. And it doesn't matter if three baby spiders stay because Charlotte's still dead and Wilbur, he's all alone. And then Wilbur gets a gun and shoots Pooh.

Kennedy

He tries so hard
to look bright around the eyes
bright Kennedy eyes
kind crinkles soft
wisdom star fire big pupils with
flecks of genius

knowing, nodding

but it always
comes out
crazy.

Blog'versary

A tad over twelve months ago, I blogged my first post. It's been a fun year, writing these poems, reading that book, collaborating on that cauliflower, making that monkey noise, and whatnot. Thanks to everyone who's been dropping by. And special mad props to xian who makes this all possible and who suggested I getta blog in the very first place back in March 2003.

On a related note, I've been really enjoying the blogs of comrades such as RaptorMage, Kim Said, and the notorious Mrs. T. I know blog blog blog, we're all pretty burned on that word. But the thing about blogs is, they're an amazing gift to folks who like to write -- just a really powerful way to get yerself off the stone. Or perhaps on that stone. Or just by the corner of said stone. In a writerly way.

All to say, let me highly recommended the blogging life to any of youse writers what want to be writing a little bit more, and you know who you are....

In other news, as the Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch nears its wrap, here's a heads-up that we'll be starting DM2 with a somewhat smaller though still challenging book right around the end of May. More details soon. Hope to see ya there,
-Cecil

The Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch, Week 16

Well this is it -- the last stop before the final push! Just 7 days till we receive Ultimate Wisdom! Woo!

I enjoyed the last week's reading, packed with taffy bits, although I'll confess to getting pretty lost during the FF sequence. I'll hafta go back and give that another read.

One recent passage I thought I'd pull out for the thread, on page 691 (p/v): "You didn't like the haiku. It wasn't ethereal enough? Not Japanese at all? In fact it sounded like something right outa Hollywood? Well, captain -- yes you, Marine Captain Esberg from Pasadena -- you have just had, the Mystery Insight! (gasps and a burst of premonitory applause) and so you -- are our Paranoid . . . For The Day!)" which I thought was a really nice explicit statement re what we've talked about a fair bit here on the thread -- the often cartoony/genre-heavy/cinematic style of the proceedings. It doesn't necessarily say why he's doing it, but at least it does say that we're all named Captain Esberg from Pasadena. And again: Woo!

Next week: What can I say? See you on the other side. Perhaps it'll be like the end of Narnia, and we'll all be partying with the dead. Reepicheep! Peter Sachsa! Here I come!

Wire Act

We saw this squirrel the other night. And she�s carrying one of her kids in her mouth over a thin black power line -- tree to tree, in search of better digs.

In her mouth! POWER line! Or...maybe it was a telephone line. But either way, it was crazy.

So she drops the first kid off on a big branch in this new, flush tree, takes a quick breath, and then heads back out to get kid number two.

This time across, she seems wiped out, stumbling dramatically -- we gasped! This is thirty feet over the concrete sidewalk. And kid number two is huge. At least half its mother's size.

Well the mom just barely makes it over, but make it over she does. We all cheered! And then back she goes. Step, step, then lying down on the wire, lying down. Embracing that wire, then step, step, oh god I'm so beat stumble. Lie down. Again. Then step. Spent.

We wondered why she didn't just walk on the sidewalk, nudging them along with her nose? A thin wire? Thirty feet in the air? Why make it so hard on herself? And then we realized Oh yeah. For a squirrel it's like: "we die on the ground."

waiting in line (a true story)

waiting
in line
for a defective roller coaster.

a waste of time.

but more than that --
just a bad idea.

Knock Knock

Here's a joke my four-year-old told us at dinner tonight. I enjoyed it and thought you might too:

Knock knock.
    Who's there?
You know what's broccoli made of?
    You know what's broccoli made of who?
Peas.

Scramble

When I was in second grade my family moved to Holland. We lived in a town called Wassenaar and went to school in The Hague (Den Haag) – a big city about 20 minutes drive away.

Every morning, a bus would swing through our neighborhood and pick me and my brothers up on the corner, just around the block from where we lived.

There was a small, circular park across the road with a pair of benches and plenty of thick bushes -- the kind you could crawl through or just sit inside for a while, at least as a kid. And this whole scene relaxed in the shade of an old Dutch church with a deep-voiced clock tower that kept the town moving on collective time.

The bus bounced along with kids of all ages and grades inside, jumbled loosely together. I remember riding with both my older brothers -- even the oldest, six years my senior. And we'd tear out of town onto smooth Dutch highways lined with rows of flowers and no billboards, out to "Scramble."

Scramble was a big open parking lot plopped somewhere in a deserted stretch of sandy dunes. I went there every school day for five years. And I couldn't take you there today for ten million dollars. You know how that goes -- I was 7. Someone else was at the wheel.

Classic, creaky, yellow buses would rattle into the lot, gathering together a tribe of English speaking kids from all around the greater Den Haag metro area, aged 5 to 18. And I'm not sure if there was a whistle? Or maybe my oldest brother, our school bus captain, would shout out "Go go go!" and we ran? Or was it just that the bus doors would snap open and we'd react on instinct?

Whatever the trigger, scramble’s what we'd do, racing out from our neighborhood buses into the parking lot mob, zipping around like subatomic particles sporting thin-metal Partridge Family lunch boxes, looking for the right fit, the bus that would take us on to elementary, middle, or high school.

Just a little bit of frenzy every morning and then off to second grade I'd go. Then third. Then fourth... All in that heavy-stoned old building with the grim courtyard and the unnaturally high walls. I’d always figured that old school building had been used as Nazi headquarters back during The War. But looking back really, that seems improbable.

As a parent now, I like to picture some grownups inventing Scramble back in the late '60s or early '70s while slashing loud and furious charts and key words onto a hard, cracked pre-War blackboard. "Yeah, well, you know, we'll send all the buses (chalk! chalk!) with all our kids out to some spot in the dunes right around...here (slash!). And they can, I guess, they can run around and sort of...sort themselves out like this (chalk chalk!). And we'll call it: "Scramble!" (underline!) Cuz they'll all be...racing around. Whaddya think?"

And you know, I have to say, as high-speed child-sorting systems go, this one worked pretty well.

The Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch, Week 15

At So-Called Bill's excellent suggestion, last week turned into one final rest, reflect, and reread week before the grand finale. Now here we are, tanned and ready, primed for the big wrap and just -- jinkies! -- two more weeks to go. I really like the word "jinkies."

Next week: Page 706 (p/v), once more with feeling....

x-post: and the monkey and the poetry and the discoball of it all

"Poet Makes a Housecall" is back over on ye olde Monkey Vortex Radio Theater. This Monkey Vortex Monday (remember those?), it's Holding On, a beautiful piece of disco poetry, written and produced by Tony Jonick. Enjoy! -CV.

x-post: The Hillside

I recently got to add some keys to a lovely country trance number by Yaniv Soha (formerly of "Yaniv Soha and the Bear"). The resulting tune -- The Hillside -- is now live and available for free and easy downloading in the popular MP3 format over on Yaniv Soha.com.

Ow

Ow.
Ow dammit ow.
Dammit.
Ow.

Don't walk
and write.

Woosh

That's the goal. To open it
one more crack.

Bathe in the woosh.
Fire it back.

Not to be Superman.

But to stick our heads
into the place
where the idea of Superman came from

and then wriggle out
trout

in teeth.

The Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch, Week 14

So here we are at Week 14, and now it's all right there, all right there within reach. Me myself, I'm about 8 pages off target, which is the closest I've been in a long while. The most recent stretch has been one of my favorites. In particular, the story of Byron the Bulb, which came across as pretty much a perfect thing. And it's just two more weeks now. Just two more weeks, and the inside back cover will finally be revealed....

Next week: UPDATE -- we'd originally targeted page 706 (p/v), but I like So-Called Bill's suggestion from the comments of belaying those orders and taking one more week to soak up a little extra Pynchon goodness. So let's call this week a time loop and let folks catch up and retrace their steps.

Project "Fun-Time Challenge Project" Presents: Cauliflower Maximus

The Challenge goes on! Two new mixes just in from the uber-talented and oft overheated mind of reclusive madman MC DD von H. Both build on the original piano number plus eb's stellar vocals.

First up is Radio Cauliflower, a radio friendly mix with guitar, beats, bass, beach sounds, and more. Then comes something really extraordinary -- a 3 minute feast of a remix called Cauliflower Maximus. And I'll just say: Holy cow. Well worth your time.

For a quick recap, here's the whole sequence:

• Cauliflower Melon (the original piano piece)
• Cauliflowermelonslide (Bob's remix with slide guitar)
• Melancholy Flower (eb's version adds vocals)
• Tower of Cauliflower Power (Yaniv slices in with mad beats and bass)
• Straight Up: Cauliflower (Jake adds sax to eb's vocals)
• Radio Cauliflower (MC DD von H's cauliflower jam)
• Cauliflower Maximus (MC DD von H's opus!)

If you're thinking of joining the mad loop, start with any one of these versions, do whatcha gotta do, then email whatcha got to: vortex@mediajunkie.com. Thanks for listening. And thanks to everyone who's participated so far. I dig each version, and the sequence from start to finish is quite a neat nod to the personal nature of creativity. -CV

MC DD von H's Remix - Radio Cauliflower
time: 1:15; specs: 1.1MB
Press Play to play.

MC DD von H's Extended Remix - Cauliflower Maximus
time: 3:13; specs: 2.9MB
Press Play to play.

Hate

I wear your hatred
like a badge

like one of those
toy sheriff badges
made out of spray-painted
fake-metal
plastic.

Look at me: I'm a cowboy!

The Gravity's Rainbow Deathmarch, Week 13

Welcome to Week 13, Part 4, and the start of the last big push. I'm still a little bit behind my own self, chasing after the march, coverless copy flapping in my left hand. But I read 50 pages in the last two days and now my head, it's swirling with Deathmarch.

Early on I read someone somewhere saying that one of the special things about this book and Pynchon in general is the way he wows you on virtually every page. Over and over and over again. And I continue to find that to be true and baffling.

For example: "'Say, there.' It appears to be a very large white Finger, addressing him. Its Fingernail is beautifully manicured: as it rotates for him, it slowly reveals a Fingerprint that might as well be an aerial view of the City Dactylic, that city of the future where every soul is known, and there is noplace to hide. Right now, joints moving with soft, hydraulic sounds, the Finger is calling Tchitcherine's attention to--"

It's those big, juicy ropes of taffy that keep pulling me through. That taffy and all of youse leading the way. So here we go, just three (3!) weeks left. By my insta-math, it's looking like 10-12 people will make it all the way through to the other side. Perhaps right before we finish, we'll take two hours and walk around the island making totems to all the fallen, like they do on Survivor. "This circle represents a donut for Jeff. He always wanted a donut."

Next week: It's a hike up to the peak of "Mount Page 663 (p/v)". Let's meet at the cafeteria. I'm told "there are things to hold on to. . . ."

Saturday

What's going on?
"What do you mean?"

All these cops. Why are all these cops all over the place?
"What?"

They've been circling the coffee shop for the last hour.
"Hunh. Really?"

Haven't you noticed? On motorcyles? Walking past with trained dogs? They seem tense. Don't you think? Even the dogs seem tense.
"I don't know."

You do. I can see it -- please -- please tell me. What's going on?
"OK, look. All I know is, the Pope is dead."

He chewed his lower lip. She watched him chew.

"I saw it on TV. Alright?" He took his coffee and scooped up his change. "The Pope is dead. The Pope is dead and there are cops everywhere." He turned toward the door. "You do the math."

Clean

Little bird people
with their hollow bones
heads uplifted

trying out afterhours fancy soap.
Bath salts.
Sugar scrubs.

Sometimes
it's not all about you

applying topical sweetness.

Sometimes
it's all about

traffic hums
warm door

happy birds.

Eyes

His eyes stopped on her
like a butterfly
landing on your arm.