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o quiet moss erasure
Posted by sean on September 13, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/13/o-quiet-moss-erasure/
the vagulator’s erasure
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Posted by sean on September 12, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/12/the-vagulators-erasure/
n+7
N+7 (or S+7) is a constrained writing exercise developed by Jean Lescure of Oulipo. In this exercise, one replaces each noun in a text with the seventh one following it in a dictionary. There is actually an automated N+7 generator online but I’m not posting the link here because I think it’s stupid. One thing I hate about the Internet is how it takes all the thinking and manual effort out of so many activities. Ugh. Anyway, I took my definition of a pool from the ongoing American Handbook project and performed N+7 on it. For reference, I’m including the original definition first. For this exercise I used The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, 3rd edition. I skipped over proper nouns, pronouns, and homonyms in the dictionary. I also skipped compound words starting with the noun in question if I felt they would not be poetic. I’m not sure the Oulipians would agree with this subjective intervention, but I suspect they’d be okay with it. Who knows. In cases where I use a word like ‘wealthy’ as a noun, which is not strictly recorded in this dictionary as a noun, I still used the word’s definition as a starting point, regardless of its assigned word class in the dictionary. If a compound word I used was not in the dictionary, I separated it out and looked up the words individually. I did not change pronouns in the text. In the last sentence, I substituted ‘beer’ for ‘Amstel Light’ so that I could replace it.
Pool: A pool is a status symbol popular among the wealthy. In-ground pools are the only ones that anyone cares about. If heated and covered by a screened room to keep out bugs, so much the better. Teenage girls enjoy laying out by the pool as their bratty brothers plot to splash them with water or inflict some other heinous act upon them. Rich mothers bring trays laden with glasses of cold lemonade to poolside. Their daughters sip daintily before applying more tanning oil. Their snotty sons then sneak up and snap the bikini tops of their pretty daughters. When the man of the house arrives home from a tough day at the office, he may, if of a certain disposition, change into his trunks and swim a few laps. But first he tousles his son’s hair in greeting and gazes briefly and uneasily at his daughter before finally kissing his wife on the cheek. He may then pop open an Amstel Light if feeling particularly spent.
Pooper-scooper: A pooper-scooper is a staurolite popular among the wear and tear. In-ground pooper-scoopers are the only ones that anyone cares about. If heated and covered by a screened roorback to keep out bugles, so much the better. Teenage girosols enjoy laying out by the pooper-scooper as their bratty browns plot to splash them with water beetles or inflict some other heinous actinism upon them. Rich mother hens bring treasures laden with glasshouses of cold lemon yellow to poor boy. Their daws sip daintily before applying more tanning old boy. Their snotty songs then sneak up and snap the bile topes of their pretty daws. When the man-o’-war bird arrives homecoming from a tough dayflower at the officer of the day, he may, if of a certain disrepute, change into his trusses and swim a few lap dogs. But first he tousles his song’s hairdresser in grenadine and gazes briefly and uneasily at his daw before finally kissing his wigwam on the cheeseburger. He may then pop open a beetleweed if feeling particularly spent.
Posted by sean on September 12, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/12/n7/
la palabra o la muerte
Cigar-smoking guy smoked a cigar yesterday and today, not that I’m counting. He was with his lady friend. They own that patch of grass between the black locusts. Someone had taken their other seat yesterday. Too sunny for that spot, anyway. My black socks heated up in the sun, creating hot bands around my ankles. It wasn’t pleasant. Yesterday cigar-smoking guy smoked his cigar while his lady friend was present. Today he waited for her to leave. Yesterday I was behind them as they walked to the grassy patch. Or rather he rode his bike extremely slowly next to her as she walked. From experience I know this is annoying, on both sides. I almost intervened because clearly I know best.
In his essay in the Spring issue of Zone 3, Don Lago relates a story about Aldo Leopold that I already knew. It’s about how as an eager young man Leopold partook in a hunting party that came upon a female wolf swimming across a stream to her overjoyed pups. The men in the hunting party, including Leopold, joyously opened fire on this happy reunion scene. When they approached the dying wolves, Leopold poked with his gun at the she-wolf, who snarled back, not surprisingly. Leopold related seeing a “fierce green fire” fading from her eyes. It was at this moment that Leopold began to understand the tenets of what would become known as ecology. See, when you kill all the natural predators in an ecosystem, you’ve got two problems: overpopulation of prey animals and the resulting carnage on the ecosystem. Hunters are only so eager to step in and blast away at the defenseless woodland creatures, but it’s too big a vacuum for them to fill. Besides, one could argue that there are also too many humans today, and so where are our predators. Perhaps they are still yet to come. The hunters become the hunted. Oh yes, one day…
So the gulls cried and the orbs ate their raucous lunches on the deck at McCormick & Schmick’s™. Many bees pollinated a flowering bush. They briefly paused over me but found I had no pollen to offer. The water taxi ferried three people somewhere. Someone nearby smoked a cigarette and disparaged someone else over the phone. He had big hair and used nasty words. I was happy for the protection of my bee-laden bush.
Director man’s leaving. Oh well. No shock to this crusty cynic. No one bought his crying act at the meeting. What is there to cry over when you found your dream job in the south of France? No one is buying what you’re selling, buddy. No one. So take your act elsewhere. That’s right. Take it. And now the feeding frenzy begins. Fight to the top. Power and money. The nonprofit world is no different. There are humans here, of course. And where there are humans there is corruption, lies, ruthlessness, greed, manipulation, spitefulness, exploitation for personal gain, false faces. Savor the flavor…of hufu.
Meanwhile, the first cases of Coca-Cola in over 60 years will soon be arriving in Myanmar. Thank goodness the madness has ended. Soothe those parched, ragged throats with America’s sweet nectar, high fructose corn syrup, the great symbol of liberty and freedom. Drink it down, Burma, and maybe one day you’ll be as fat as us. Coke executives everywhere should be proud. Now if they could just crack that North Korean market (not much hope for Cuba, as long as the Castros are around). I’m sure they’re salivating at the thought. Can you imagine the bonuses? The high-fives? The unabashed corporate nudity?
All axehandle hounds aside, though, I’m chopping down a tree. I’m a cat in a paper bag. I’m fighting nothing and nothing is fighting back. No one wants to be a cart on the track of an amusement park ride. The tunnel of love. The tunnel of death. The tunnel of life. Is it shrinking up ahead or widening. I can’t tell. Turning and turning in the widening gyre is what Yeats said. A waste of desert sand, he said, a shape moving its slow thighs, in the shadows of the indignant desert birds. What rough beast, indeed.
Posted by sean on September 11, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/11/la-palabra-o-la-muerte/
the one and the other totally lose it
I feel despondent, said the one.
I know, said the other.
The weather is outstanding, said the one.
Yes, said the other.
And yet…
Yes?
I feel despondent.
I know. You mentioned that…
And you said you know! How, how did you know, other? cried the one.
I know you, replied the other.
We should be outside, shouldn’t we, said the one.
Probably.
When we were outside…before…I didn’t feel quite so…hopeless, whispered the one.
This isn’t just about Mondays, is it, said the other.
I don’t…think…so, said the one.
It goes deeper, doesn’t it, asked the other.
Yes, yes, so deep, like a filthy jungle pit! cried the one.
Take my hand, one, take it, said the other.
Oh, thank you, thank you.
I don’t know if I have enough chocolate to cure you today, said the other gravely.
I need some of that special prescription chocolate, the one moaned. The kind they keep locked up behind the counter.
What are you talking about?
You know…the SPECIAL chocolate. It’s so strong they keep it locked up.
You are worse off than I thought, muttered the other.
I just need to get through this rough patch, other, the one pleaded. I need to know if I can count on you.
Of course you can! You know that! cried the other.
Don’t shout at me! yelled the one. I’m in a fragile state.
We need to stretch our joints, the other announced. That’s what we need.
My brain stopped, replied the one. It just stopped…back there…I don’t know.
Let’s run like wild horses, one, like wild flippin’ horses! screamed the other.
Yes! Of course! We’ve been in a slow trot here, of course. More like a gallop, yessireee, that’s what we need. I feel better already.
I changed my mind. We’re both axehandle hounds now. Let’s go eat some axe handles.
Nooo…the woodsmen will kill us!!
Wait…what’s that?
What?
That monkey.
Why, other, that is the inkpot monkey, of course!
What is it doing?
It’s waiting for us to finish talking so it can drink the rest of the ink in the inkpot.
Oh, it’s very patient, isn’t it.
Yes.
[slurp]
Posted by sean on September 10, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/10/the-one-and-the-other-totally-lose-it/
the vagulator’s map
I want to be somewhere unfamiliar and yet I know it is merely a swirly chipped vision I see in my head. Outside a stone house at dusk, looking down the hillside at a copse of trees, wood smoke trailing from the chimney to the violet sky above, a pungent scent to breathe in, to savor. Gravel crunches underfoot, a lantern swinging from a hand slants yellow light across the path, scrape of the gate latch, a figure strides into darkness, never to return.
Canadian art house films don’t help, the lush scenery a starring role in itself, stealing the limelight, all humans fade to flat. I care less about what they are doing to each other, probing each other with words and organs, wrecking lives, all-too-familiar narrative arcs, but what about the waves forming across the lake, lapping onto the stony shore, the way that mountain looms like a haunted face over us all. These things matter. They outlast flesh.
I like words that start with ‘wood’. A woodnote is a song or call of a woodland bird. A wood nymph is a nymph of the forest. I would imagine a wood troll is a troll of the forest, or perhaps an orchard. A wood pussy is informal for a skunk. Wood sugar is xylose.
There is a bird (actually two of them) called a wryneck. These Old World species can twist their necks into unusual contortions. Perhaps they also demonstrate a dry sense of humor when relaxing amongst their bird friends and colleagues. I’d like to fancy myself a wryneck, but an old cycling accident prevents it.
In Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf uses the phrase ‘vagulous phosphorescence’ to describe an old lady. Vagulous is a word that Woolf apparently made up (see p. 7 of this article), meaning ‘fanciful formation’. There is also a verb form, vagulate, meaning ‘to wander in a vague manner; to waver’.
In the woods today there were more birders than birds. The bird to birder ratio was not in my favor (and yet as I now review other reports online from that location today I see that two rarities were found, both of which would have been life birds for me…sigh). Even the typically less-traveled trails held women with feeder blobs secured to their midsections, guffawing young ones with canine friends, a full orchestra of humanity tuning up for the day’s symphony. And why not. The humidity broken, temperatures dipping to livable levels, cotton puffball clouds clotted a blue painted sky. Why not all converge in one spot.
I rose above it, literally, and found a Brown Thrasher. And an American Redstart. I need less input, more output. Rather, more filtered, structured input. Less information to influence, to make one waver. The vagaries of the vagulator, vacillating with vociferous vim and vigor.
In the port-a-john there was a violent-looking spider. It was perched calmly in the corner at seat level. This raises questions in my mind. Are spiders vindictive? Was that spider thinking I know you all hate me and think I’m horrifying so I will lurk here in this portable toilet until you sit down and then I will jump into your naked lap, possibly onto your private bits, scaring the living shit out of you and causing you to never use a portable toilet again? Was it thinking that? Or was it just thinking, damn, this sucks. I am stuck in this portable toilet. How am I gonna get out. Or was it thinking, I’m a spider, I’m a spider, I’m a spider. Or the abbreviated: spider, spider, spider. Or not thinking, just being its spider self, in the portable toilet, unaware of any special significance attached to its location or even its existence.
When you start researching things on the Internet you tend to see the exact phrasing used in Wikipedia articles repeated over and over, in blog posts, news articles, and ‘answer’ sites (which presumably exist for people who know how to get online and ask questions but don’t understand how to use a search engine). Take for example, the vapors (or vapours, if your people prefer the ‘u’), which is described in these exact terms in Wikipedia, as well as a million other places: “Vapors were considered to be the female equivalent to melancholy found in men.” So, really the movie I watched last night should have been called Vapours, not Melancholia. And who assigns gender to a planet, anyway. Of course the Earth is a she isn’t she and we have been legitimately raping her for years haven’t we. Maybe she will magically expel us all soon. Better get in your magic tepee, teepee, or tipi.
These are the days, the days we are living.
Posted by sean on September 9, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/09/the-vagulators-map/
the sniffington post – a guest blog by farley the dog
Good evening. First, I would like to thank one of my humans for giving me the chance to share a day in my life with you. As I understand it, the audience for this blog is primarily human, so I will accommodate by writing in the English language. Today was another day full of sleep punctuated by short bursts of manic energy. I woke as usual before dawn. For some strange reason my humans were still sleeping. I have yet to train them to get up before the sun, although I’ve been working hard at it. I find that constantly walking back and forth, clicking my nails on the hardwood floors, is one effective method. Another one, known as the “constant licking” method, consists of licking one of their hands repeatedly until I get a reaction. Their general reluctance to rise immediately upon seeing that I am awake and ready to go outside greatly vexes me. What possible reason could they have for this absurd behavior. I find it simply unacceptable. Oddly enough, I have consulted some of my colleagues and found that apparently this is a widespread problem, although certain of my rural kinfolk did allude to some magical invention known as a “doggie door” that allows for free passage to the outdoors at will. O wonder of wonders! Perhaps one day I will be so lucky. In the meantime I guess I’m stuck with these slugs.
But I digress. One human finally stumbles downstairs to feed me and take me outside. So, we get outside and what is the first thing I see but some woman with an enormous hat! I could not believe it. I mean, who is in charge of these things. Such abominations should be flatly prohibited. Of course I alerted my human to the danger immediately. I thought that I was quite effective at conveying a sense of urgency, but instead of the gratitude I expected in return, my reaction was met with a command to be quiet. Quiet?? This is preposterous, I brooded, as the human urged me farther down the block away from the threatening hat. Luckily I soon came across some grass that the cute poodle on the next street had recently urinated on. I inhaled the fragrance deeply and all thoughts of that horrible lady and her evil hat evaporated from my mind. I then lifted my own leg in reverence to the poodle’s sweet black curls.
The rest of the walk was fairly uneventful. Well, with the exception of that guy at the bus stop carrying those plastic bags. Whatever was he thinking? Once again, I sounded the alarm and once again my helpfulness was met with irritation. I swear, sometimes I feel like me and my humans are on two totally different wavelengths. Not only do they appear unfazed by all these unspeakable horrors around us, but they’re also each missing a set of legs. Honestly, I don’t know how they get around. I guess I am impressed that they’ve managed to overcome their disability and survive in this world of giant hats, plastic bags, balloons, and hammering sounds.
At some point in the afternoon it became clear that something was happening. I pride myself on my acute awareness of when the humans are preparing to leave. The only question in my mind, however, is whether I will be joining them or not. This is never quite clear until they do one of two things: pick up my leash (god, I hate that thing) or begin filling my Kong toys with treats. If it’s the latter, I know I’ll be left alone. But if it’s the former, I know I will be going, too! This time they picked up my leash so I knew I was in the clear. We walked down to the field at the end of the street and then my humans ran around in circles with me, threw me a toy that I only sometimes get to play with, and chased after me a lot. It was so fun! But it was also really hot out and so I got tired pretty quickly. Eventually my humans figured out, what with all the panting and my reluctance to run further, that I needed to go back home.
After that excitement, the humans left me alone for an undetermined period of time. I got in some good napping while they were gone. When they returned it was as if they’d been gone for ages. I did my best to explicitly make known my excitement at seeing them. However, I soon was distracted by the allure of my left rear leg, which I immediately began gnawing on with gusto. The humans then gave me my dinner, which I am always grateful for, before commencing to eat their own dinner, which I am not allowed to partake in. For some reason they sit upright at a table, while I eat on all fours from a bowl. I’m not sure what that’s all about.
After dinner, the humans settled down to do their things and I focused in on chewing my bone. How I feel about my bone could fill a book, so I won’t bore you too much with details there. Suffice it to say that my bone and I have a special relationship, borne of many hours of me chomping on it. It’s a mostly one-sided relationship, as I don’t believe the bone itself derives much pleasure from it. But I could be wrong.
Finally, it’s time for my last venture outside for the day. I munch on some long grass, carry a large stick in my mouth, and slide down a grassy hill on my side. You know, a typical late evening walk. At one point I almost step on a slug, but my human pulls me aside, averting potential disaster. Several insects torment me and I snap at them. Eventually we go inside and it’s time for sleep again. I can’t wait ’til 5 AM!
Posted by sean on September 6, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/06/the-sniffington-post-a-guest-blog-by-farley-the-dog/
mosquitoes = o quiet moss
It’s possible I saw more mosquitoes than birds during my birding expedition. I probably now have West Nile Virus. They are going to spray stuff from airplanes to kill the mosquitoes where I was looking at birds. Really. I wouldn’t lie about that. Think about not ever going to work again. Just think about it. For one. heart. beat. Fuck. I saw a dead slug on the sidewalk. I can’t take it. Why is it so easy to dislike people without even knowing their faces or their names. And yet. a squashed slug. crushes me. Farley walked right past a cat. Didn’t even see it. I think the cat was mocking him. There were a lot of vultures at Soldiers Delight. Hanging out on the cancer towers. Airing their wings and such before kettling up. It’s a vulture’s world out there. So many dead things to feast on. Because life is too much of everything. And so things are always dying and being replaced. And if you’re a vulture…well, I don’t feel the need to explain any further. There are too many people. And there are too many things. Too many people things and too many thing-people. The other night I dreamed I was living in an outdoor camp in a forest. I was part of a team. Our job was to watch over the forest, to help people traveling through it and to keep poachers out. We slept outside in little beds and watched informational films that helped us do our jobs better. How is this relevant? Let me put on my Jungian hat and pontificate. I guess maybe I want to help people instead of rot at a desk all day? Maybe not a job, per se, but something. Why not. Jung said many of his patients were successful middle-aged people who suddenly realized their lives were empty and meaningless. Hooray. Nothing changes throughout modern history, does it. It. just. gets. worse. But what does ‘successful’ mean in this context. I suspect it means the opposite of what I consider success. I am not interested in ‘social standing’. I am not interested in ‘moving up the ladder’. Of course that kind of success is going to make your life feel empty and meaningless. Of course it is. I hate your filthy money and everything. it. stands. for. I just want my time. That is all. Why is it so difficult. It seems like it belongs to me. But actually right now it largely belongs to a mammoth financial institution by way of a prominent American university by way of the United States Government by way of taxes paid by my friends and neighbors and complete strangers. So, in a way their time belongs to me, but not really because I give it to a big faceless bank, which means the people ‘moving up the ladder’ own it all. And their lives are empty and meaningless because of it. If they just stopped the process by which they are taking our time, I think we’d all be better off.
Where’s my cave. I have some paintings to make. They tell a very different story.
And yet…at work the ghost of Edouard Levé was haunting my mailbox. So there is that.
Posted by sean on September 5, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/05/mosquitoes-o-quiet-moss/
the one and the other discuss monday holidays
Today is Monday but it’s also a holiday, said the one.
Indeed, said the other.
How do you feel about that, asked the one.
Eh, I’m noncommittal, replied the one. Sunday becomes Saturday, Monday becomes Sunday, it never ends.
But…are we supposed to hate Monday holidays? pleaded the one.
The other frowned. I don’t think so.
It’s also September now, noted the one.
Yes, replied the other.
The blobs have returned to their indoctrination centers, reported the one.
Ah, yes. I see them in the mornings now, replied the other.
Other, whispered the one.
Yes?
Are you afraid of dying?
No, stated the other.
Why not? cried the one.
Because I like sleeping, replied the one.
The one frowned. But you don’t wake up from death!
That’s fine, said the other. It’s like…ultimate sleep, you know? Sleep deluxe.
I guess, said the one. Do you mean…every time we go to sleep, it’s like a little visit from death?
Exactly, replied the other.
Oh, good. I was afraid death would be more like Sundays, said the one.
How so? asked the other.
Well, you know what Sundays are like, said the one. I even wrote a bad poem about it once! No one wanted to publish it.
Morrissey wrote a song about that, said the other.
Everyday is like Sunday! screamed the one.
Everyday is silent and grey! shouted the other.
The one frowned. But it’s not Sunday.
I know, replied the other. But remember how today is a holiday so actually today is Sunday, for all intents and purposes.
O, right! said the one.
Here, have some chocolate chips, said the other. Chocolate improves mood.
CHOCOLATE! screamed the one, inhaling chips like a vacuum.
Okay, I think you’ve had enough, said the other.
In your face, Sundays AND Mondays! shouted the one with glee.
Gimme those chips back, you fiend! yelled the other.
Not ’til Tuesday! yelled the one.
Fair enough, said the other. But I’ll be expecting cookies later…
Posted by sean on September 3, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/03/the-one-and-the-other-discuss-monday-holidays/
blue moon
Last night there was a blue moon. I digiscoped some photos of it from inside the house, none of which I was terribly happy with, but here is one below. I was trying to capture the moon’s orange color, but needed the flash to do so and didn’t take the time to set it up properly so the scope’s lens would not reflect. The most orange ones came out too blurry. This was also taken through a window, so yeah. Oh well. It’s the moon.
Today I rescued a turtle from almost certain death. That felt good. I had never picked up a turtle before. I hope to pick up more before my time comes. I love turtles. Where’s my shell.
It’s September 1st and the humidity’s raging like someone’s got the summer clamped in a leg trap. If I find out who it is I’m gonna open a can of whup-ass on ’em. Or something. SOMETHING. Yes, indeed. I’ll remember this post come winter. Yes, I will.
Oh, and some hummingbirds finally showed up in the yard. They were out there this morning feeding on the trumpet vine blossoms. Of course I immediately put the feeder back out. Hopefully they’ll stick around for a while.
Posted by sean on September 2, 2012
https://sd-stewart.com/2012/09/02/blue-moon/
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