they were boys, with their cars, summer jobs

dear friends,

I'm not capable of much at the moment. with your kind permission, I would like to quote myself. this is from an e-mail I sent earlier today to contributor tina:

"ps my head has now become the burrow for beatrix potter rabbits that are decorating their new abode with etchings of woodland scenes. they are banging tiny hammers into the delicate awnings of my skull."

said bunnies are currently at work on the solarium.

1. because I have the soul of a big manx & I's suspicious of anything that's aggressively sold to me as yummy, I have found it difficult to get into sufjan stevens. I know he's a very big deal, an educated poetic sort, gonna write albums for every single state, soulful deep thinker poses in publicity photos, sold out shows, breathless blog references (I saw sufjan buying broccoli rabe!!!) & yet all I can do is studiously avoid him.

recently however, in deference to my profound morbidity, I gave john wayne gacy, jr from illinois a listen. lyrically, I found it a bit forced despite the occasional lovely bit like "he put a cloth on their lips, quiet hands, quiet kiss". I got this mental image of an especially clever fifth grader who decided to do his "famous person" presentation in song form & in costume as the titular killer clown & his teacher secretly thinks he's a little creep for picking this nasty character instead of teddy roosevelt*.

but it winds up working. 'cause, words aside, when stevens lists all the dead boys' things & his voice swoops up into an "oh my god" that unspools in a way that's gorgeous but hurts, hurts 'cause it sounds like words failing & failing desperately. & that I can understand.

I still haven't caved in though. I'll eventually take a gander at seven swans (groan. blame los conejitos.) & greetings from michigan... but not for a while. I'll wait for the dust to settle.

2. I've practically turned into a whale & sang in my post/praise for this artist. so naturally I will not be content until you all go out & hear her play. luckily for you, sunday's your chance since diane cluck is playing at the bowery poetry club as part of a bill called north south music presents. starts at 7, $6 plus one drink minimum. I hope I see you there.

3. because I am dumb. really quite slow. I didn't know what the hell this was about at first. but despite my lack of edumacation, I think this is an intriguing opportunity for tristan tzara enthusiasts & creatively inclined folks alike to make new stuff out of the things that are now collecting dust or look at finished pieces from another perspective. collaboration is fun! so are demolitions! go here. read. send something in, see what comes of it.

love, d

* I know whereof I speak, back in the day, I chose mata hari as my "famous person". my costume was ridiculous & my teacher did not hide her contempt very well. apparently sexy spies are not cool in elementary school. & I think that last sentence should be in a song or at least embroidered on a pillow.

song to seek: john wayne gacy, jr/sufjan stevens