San Andres

Lately I've been thinking about the San Andres mountain range in New Mexico. For a brief time those mountains were the most beautiful place I had ever been, before they were overshadowed by Maine and by Jerusalem. Lately I've been recollecting how beautiful life felt there. I've been wondering where beauty like that gets its power. I think that physical beauty must be a catalyst for beautiful events. And it is those events that give it strength, at least in memory. I don't know if it is the memory of the past, the desire for change, or the desire for beauty which draws me to San Andres now. But Somerville is lacking in all of the above. And San Andres is lovely.

love story

I was going to write a poem the other day and it was going to be about love letters. Because I have never written a love letter but I have been the recipient of several, and they have been diverse, and unique, and even the silly ones from high school were sort of lovely. But the more that I thought about it the more badly I felt writing about love letters, not in the abstract, but in the specifics. There are so many things that are open for analysis and conversation and posting online. I was thinking that some things ought to be kept private. Not because they are shameful or twisted or painful even but because intentions ought to count for something. And these letters were intended for no one but you and me.

so this is a declaration of not sharing. There is a word for that in literary theory but I have forgotten it.

autos mexicanos

In mechanics the illustration of the pieces of a machine is called an
exploded view. It's intended to provide insight into the inner workings
and to allow for repairs.

Everyone looks at things differently but to me this piece (damián ortega
at the ica) is at the intersection between the physical and the digital
world. Machinery where the pieces don't touch; motion without friction;
the space between. Plus it's pretty fantastic to walk around in.

His bricks installation is also great. A recommendation.

In winter

One thing I love, in winter, is when girls' pants pull up a little and you can see the end of their wool socks, the narrow hem of their long underwear, and a strip of skin that may have never been shaved. Makes my day.

Three Metaphors

Here are three metaphors I have been mulling over:

I. (on writing): in calculus a point is the representation for a line as a word is the represent for an idea. A line is a representation of a plane as a sentence is the representation of action. A plane is to a three-dimension object as a paragraph is to a world and it follows, of course, that if the integral of a plane is a sphere, the integral of a sphere is - a four dimensional object. Writing, then, is how we represent the fourth dimension, that is, the way in which we put the unthinkable into words.

II. continuing with calculus... In calculus you define space by its limits. As a student you rarely encounter finite sizes: a box is never 12 cubic inches; a cone is never 9 cubic centimeters. As a student of calculus you say: the limit of the surface area of the sphere as the radius approaches 3 is. Each shape is infinite within the line drawn by its limit. Writing is perhaps the act of defining limits. Writing sketches an outline. Inside, it contains infinity.

III. And what is the space it contains? So I was thinking about chemistry and I was thinking about, what is it, the quantum mechanics of pinpointing electrons. In highschool chemistry you draw symbols that represent an atom: a nucleus (so) and electrons are dots on little circles like rings around jupiter. but the truth is no one knows where those dots are at every given time. They move around. And, Saul tells me, the mechanical tool that they use to pinpoint the exact location of any given electron in any given atom causes that electron to move. So what you can do is you can draw these three-dimensional shapes which represent where the electron might be (the limit) and then you go in with your tool seeking the precise location of the (truth) and what you find is where the truth/electron used to be, before your words got in the way.

Inflection

This is the New Year's Post.

At work we talk about inflection points like: that point on a cartesian plane where the linear trajectory of your life turns without warning in an altogether different direction. Like maybe its slope turns downward. Maybe it becomes suddenly exponential. Maybe it leaps three-to-five points straight up in the air and then settles into a curve.

I'll just draw out the metaphor a bit. What I like about inflection points is that unlike in physics, where every action has an equal and opposite reaction (thank you ms. monette), the graph only shows movement. It doesn't depict the force of change, the wall that I pressed up against and bounced slowly downward (or this, the sudden lift of gravity and subsequent flight). I like inflection points because they appear random against the laws of mathematics and predictable outcomes. Now I go up, and now, down.

This is, anyway, a new year post. Unlike many people I really like new years. That's why I celebrate two: Rosh Hashanah in September and again, January 1st. Twice as many opportunities for self reflection and for clean slates. Twice as many chances to draw the graph, label the points, and try to imagine what forces of nature were involved in making my life do that, then, and this, now. I have been so many places this year! how phenomenal. And I am so wonderfully curious about where I will go next. I wonder, unknown readers: what places (mental, academic, emotional, geographic) do you think I will go in 2010? I have some visions but I will keep them to myself.

Because really, new years are about continuity. There is no clean slate, and there is no predicting the future. That's why today, even though New Years is tomorrow, I am going to do something that I have never done before. Small steps in an unknown direction. Here is, in progress, a sonnet:

Why I have not written many poems lately

Oh joy! I have begun so many poems
this week . They charge ahead like blood-dimmed waves
that crash over the lines of St. Paul's graves
where ranks of soldiers quilled are overcome.

Hold firm the battlements! fighters stand strong
on this archival peat, feet-gripping bed
where Seamus kneels, finding Old Croghan dead
and in his hand a spade.

.......................................I’ve never dug
with spades. I write with pens that bleed their ink
in waves onto the peat. I obscure deep
below the bodies in the turf, the seep
of mud in holes and Seamus, still digging.

I’m floating in the wreckage of my poems
On stagnant water dammed by epic tomes.

So Sad