my ignorance

the fourth of july found my catholic grandmother making faces most of the family had never seen before. "wouldn't it be wonderful to be an actress?" she said to me through the lens of my father's camera. "i've always wanted to be on stage. i think i'd be very good at it. don't you think i'd be good at it?"

"you should definitely do something with that," i said.

off stage right, one of my aunts shook her head. "just when you thought you knew somebody."




and since we're on the subject of strong familial ties -- female suicide bombers whose vests are detonated by remote. hooray the nytimes.

"and dave erwin," he says, with a voice like a gong struck in an empty subway tunnel, "is really into pre-crowned ribs. laminated pre-crowned ribs."

"whoa," murmurs my mentor. his hand rises to meet his chin; this means he is suddenly more intrigued than usual.

there is a lovely pause.

we're talking about the pieces of wood that are glued to the underside of a piano's soundboard. the job of the rib is to maintain the curve of the soundboard so that the tone can be projected properly, even though the wood itself will probably dry and flatten out over time. the old method (ms paint diagram 1) is to glue straight ribs onto a straight soundboard and force both into a caule to fit the desired curve; the new method (ms paint diagram 2) involves gluing pre-curved ribs onto a straight soundboard.


its actually supremely cool because the extra dynamic tension in #2 between the rib and the soundboard-that-doesn't-want-to-be-curved actually provides a much bigger, dynamic sound. in a certain sense, it is like a strung bow.

this is the meeting of the redwood chapter of the piano technicians guild, and its unchangingly a riot because all of the present characters are inescapable dweebs. including me. the president, god bless 'im, is wearing a shirt to which no crude paint diagram by a mortal could ever do justice. (nevertheless, we try.)

he runs the meeting with pomp and puns, like some strange and increasingly hilarious herbivore dinosaur. on the docket: the presentation of classes that some of the members took at the National Convention, break for coffee and donuts (and yoga stretches, for one member), technical roundtable, aspiring apprentice report, and what the hell do we do for bill swackhammer who just upped and retired. this last point has been a key issue for at least the last two months.

"anything? any ideas? i'm desperate, here," the president says. "emily, you're creative; tell me to crochet a pillowcase and i'll do it."

"give him a small porcelain frog," i suggest facetiously.

"a small porcelain frog." my mentor laughs. "you could ask his wife."

"ask his wife!" the president exclaims, lively as his shirt. "ask his wife! that's perfect!"

i am the youngest in the room by at least thirty years, and the only female. after a year and a half of informal study under the university's staff tech, i'm finally comfortable arguing with these men. i love this stuff, and for a while, i wanted to make a career out of it. these days, however, it has taken a back seat while i'm distracted by trying to be a pianist. i suspect it'll be something i'll come back to a little later in life, when many people usually start working with it. this doesnt mean, however, that i'm not seriously considering buying that piece-o-shit hamilton upright to fix up and resell. oho, temptations.

the midwest is under water, including this year's corn harvest.
china is happy!
buddhists are fighting.
and california is on fire.

(on the other hand, doing sit-ups really does help with the feeling of being menstrually-bloated.)



edit.

it is absolutely unbelievable to me that people can do this:



this photograph was taken from an article on the front page of the new york times.


"“The youth,” as foot soldiers of Zimbabwe’s ruling party are often called, broke the legs of a baby when they were looking for his father, an opposition organizer. Zimbabwe’s neighbors have urged it to postpone this week’s runoff.''


i grew up in a white, upper-middle class suburban home -- simultaneously overeducated and oblivious. awful shit like this happens all the time. that doesnt make it any more sensible, or acceptable. are we responsible for reacting viscerally to every garish incident, or do we establish a happy medium between visceral experience and total ambivalence? the former would be completely exhausting; the latter would be an insult.

there are places to take emotional refuge, like "karmic retribution," or "i'll donate money to doctors without borders." meditating on peace. even if karma is bull, in which case i'd love to go beat the holy bejeebus out of some people, violence still only promotes more violence. when you punch a wall you damage your hand. and, of course, like the upper-middle class white suburban girl that i am, i want to throw my fists to the floor in a tantrum and resort to screaming, "stop it, stop it, stop it!"

something as mundane as doing the dishes in an emotionally charged setting can be construed as aggressive, violent. what does it mean to be active? moreover, what does it mean to be patient?

tire swing --
my hanging boots with the earth still on them.
yellow rope buzzing dryly






in the kitchen,
our stupid love clattering about.
green-apple soap suds

double posting henceforth at theorangepony.blogspot.com. z0mhg hailey i've linked to you!
if anyone can write html and help me make it as pretty as my lj, let me know

the professor hailed it as a "total fucking cattle call, emily" -- and it was. it was a delightful surprise to be called back for the final round on sunday, and i am perhaps more proud of myself for sticking to my guns when i thought it's too late for them to call me, which means i didnt make it, but i played well and i'm pretty happy with that. and was completely satisfied with that thought.

i played a little bit psyched-out and sloppy at the end, perhaps the worst performance of that piece i've ever given, and placed pretty low on the totem pole for finalists -- who were all playing extensive romantic pieces. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i made it into the finals, which nobody was expecting, where i felt like i totally humiliated myself in front of all these Real Pianists. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i am the bigfoot representative, with the price of gas back in her pocket.

the whole scene of competitive piano is ridiculous. lots of flash and "artistically subdued" twinkly bullshit. one girl wore a floor-length red gown. tension. unspeaking pianists whose smiles never leave their mouths trailing anxious parents and coaches and somebody is carrying the gloves, the score, the sweater. there are people, quilters-union kind, to kindly shepherd your idiot pianisting machine with tight small-bird shoulders around to this piano, or that one, the concert hall. i congratulated one girl who had done really well after the awards were handed out, and she didnt look at me disdainfully, but rather as if i had just landed from outer space. there was a pause. she didnt smile. "oh. you too."

its distressing how quickly one can learn to hate people one hasn't even met. [especially after one has been driving in the city. (for the record, chinatown is a lie. it doesnt exist.)] i dont like the person i am when i'm there.

and still i'm completely caught by this itch that says, go back next year. beat their slimy little asses. do better. big fat vegan white girl with hairy legs is going back to triumph over your stupid liszt machine ass.

the man is asleep in his chair,
slumped and snoring as if he could summon dolphins.
i get up to turn off the t.v. and a sudden
warm line of fondness
rises in my chest.
we must still be more human than machine.

in a wonderfully misguided attempt to bike to mad river yesterday, i found myself in mckinleyville. it was absolutely wonderful.

the pecan tree is full of wind. it sounds like a garbage bag full of drafted letters and grocery receipts. for lack of other company, i address my beer bottle. "yes? does that make sense?" it's my fourth day at home.

it's my first day at home. my mother planted corn in our backyard. "that's a sad story," she says. the battery-powered fountain that looks like the space needle among ankle-high snow peas and hummingbird-friendly flower choices is now full, so she turns off the hose. "they were dying at rite-aide. i bought them so at least they could die in our backyard."

there is a moment where no response comes to mind. "the garden looks nice." i think it looks ridiculous. it's something to say.

"i think its a little hokey." she shrugs. "i just consolidated all of the garden things into that one spot." she gestures unenthusiastically with the spray nozzle like an interim monarch.

home smells now like christmas, thanksgiving, summer vacation. like sunburned shoulders and canned peas. i think i've made a mess of a lot of things. i'm only twenty years old.

i'm ninety years old and on the road and the price of gas is $4.33 and i'm just driving for the sake of the road. "whatever you decide to do," chris tells me, "will be the right thing."

the water in the teapot begins to boil.
i am trying to see how many spit bubbles
i can fit on my tongue.
i'm not counting, and that is not the point.

there is a haiku written on my back in lipstick
by a stranger i met over the internet.
i dont know what it says.
but that is not the point.

you and i both wake up with the dawn.
it is like an experimental film.
shall we spin out life in our fiery raptures?
shall we stay in bed?

dear lenny --

i think i love you.
ps: that bassoon player has a perfect face for playing bassoon.

time for a set of david shirgley gems:




( two more and a tattoo i really like. )

i am now getting spam written in the style of rumi:

fill in your life with colors of gladness.

today was the first day of finals. somebody called the university and said that they had a bomb rigged and were going to blow up the music building, the art building, and two of the science buildings. everything was evacuated, and they found (as far as i know from my roommate, who is employed to the source) one wrapped around one of the main support beams of the art building.

meanwhile, a friend and i went to the beach, did a silly photoshoot, and got high in his truck while listening to beethoven sonatas.







(i am my father's daughter.)

i'm reading a lot about post-system-collapse societies and i admit it's a bit of a wake up call, a bit of a resultant paranoia. how will i get back to see my family if i'm on the east coast, in indiana, in iowa. can i see my family. is it worth it, their suburban life. we cant farm, not really. we've six acres on a hill but it's far away from any water source and summers could/will be miserable.

i would go to arcata, to oregon, this space between plasticalifornia and washington where water is everywhere and rich soil exists and knowledge of pre-cheap oil everything exists and suburbia doesn't. my family would probably not come with me. is it worth it. who else is trying to get there.

i cant help but wonder if this expansion until disaster regimen of the human species is just an evolutionary tactic for diversifying the gene pool.

come see me perform gershwin's concerto in f for piano and orchestra with the humboldt state university symphony:

friday, may 2nd, 8pm
sunday, may 4th, 2pm

fulkerson recital hall, free for hsu students, $3 other students/seniors, $8 general

time for round two.

if you're bored this friday morning at 11:40, tune into khsu. deborah set up a radio interview for me for sunday's publicity. its a trip that i can write sunday and not april 20th, twenty million years from now. after the fleisher master class, a lot of people seem to know who i am, and the radio show was how ching-ming nearly filled the house last sunday. so, with any luck, it'll be a biggish turn-out. a full-ish house of people who are either trusting me with their energies for forty-five minutes or anticipating free beer at the non-existent intermission. it's an hors d'oeuvre of the recital world. i'm trying to think like i'm planning a war, all stasis and stratagem in a green dress. i woke myself up two days ago by trilling the opening note of one of the pieces on my faded purple pillowcase.

(i really should go to the gym but all i want to do is go home, make a pot of coffee and eat last night's left-over pasta.)

can i get this ready i've got this ready i am ready i should be ready i will be ready i'm ready fucking ready to go.






5pm, fulkerson recital hall. this is really exciting.

one thing i am unashamedly greedy for
is color;

i am on the train, watching
the kind, wet fields of california
pass me by and i wonder
how

does the paint mixer know
when to stop mixing his paint?