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She invited them for coffee with some TNT
I was supposed to see Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (1989) tonight at the Coolidge Corner Theatre, but I suspect I am going to be curled up with chicken soup. This is how most of the last couple of days have gone.
Yesterday was the memorial brunch for my grandfather at the Colonial Inn in Concord, where he and my grandmother liked to meet us when they were in town. After my grandfather's cataract surgery, my brother remembers, when he was wearing an eyepatch, they came in once with a tricorne hat and a fife between them, evidently having settled for being wounded soldiers of the Revolutionary War. I hadn't remembered that at all. My mother had some photographs of them I'd never seen: right after they met in 1943, in Mississippi with my three-year-old mother and seven-month-old Jeff. They would have looked like models of a young academic couple if they weren't squinting into the light, with children spilling out of their arms. I may try to scan and post some, but I can promise nothing.
Have a terrific article from The Paris Review about librarian porn. Featuring librarians, I'm afraid, not necessarily written for them. That would be a lot more about rare books and silence. Nevertheless:
Almost immediately, I hit a snag. It is close to impossible to browse a serious library's collection of porn and porn criticism without getting sucked into big, sexy historical theories. Within an hour of my visit to Harvard's Widener Library, I was beginning to suspect that smut had been behind the rise of . . . everything. I discovered that pornos caused the French Revolution, and that the Renaissance really got going when images of hard-core, swan-on-guy action began to circulate among the people. Every pornographer of note, it seemed, was a pop philosopher; every philosopher, a closet pornographer. As for the rise of the novel, of literary realism, this, I learned, was linked to a certain eighteenth-century depiction of a ponytailed dude taking it from behind from another ponytailed dude while the first dude gets sucked off by a chick, who is also taking it from behind from yet a third ponytailed dude, all while another chick—who happens to be wearing a lovely Dormeuse-style cap—rides piggyback on the first dude, which positions her perfectly to flog the third dude, while being orally pleasured from behind by the second dude. The caption to this illustration reads, "A Typical Scene." According to the pile of books I'd stacked onto my library desk, our story is nothing but the evolutionary history of the Porno sapiens.
Somebody send me some hot swan-on-guy. This would be where I curl up.
Yesterday was the memorial brunch for my grandfather at the Colonial Inn in Concord, where he and my grandmother liked to meet us when they were in town. After my grandfather's cataract surgery, my brother remembers, when he was wearing an eyepatch, they came in once with a tricorne hat and a fife between them, evidently having settled for being wounded soldiers of the Revolutionary War. I hadn't remembered that at all. My mother had some photographs of them I'd never seen: right after they met in 1943, in Mississippi with my three-year-old mother and seven-month-old Jeff. They would have looked like models of a young academic couple if they weren't squinting into the light, with children spilling out of their arms. I may try to scan and post some, but I can promise nothing.
Have a terrific article from The Paris Review about librarian porn. Featuring librarians, I'm afraid, not necessarily written for them. That would be a lot more about rare books and silence. Nevertheless:
Almost immediately, I hit a snag. It is close to impossible to browse a serious library's collection of porn and porn criticism without getting sucked into big, sexy historical theories. Within an hour of my visit to Harvard's Widener Library, I was beginning to suspect that smut had been behind the rise of . . . everything. I discovered that pornos caused the French Revolution, and that the Renaissance really got going when images of hard-core, swan-on-guy action began to circulate among the people. Every pornographer of note, it seemed, was a pop philosopher; every philosopher, a closet pornographer. As for the rise of the novel, of literary realism, this, I learned, was linked to a certain eighteenth-century depiction of a ponytailed dude taking it from behind from another ponytailed dude while the first dude gets sucked off by a chick, who is also taking it from behind from yet a third ponytailed dude, all while another chick—who happens to be wearing a lovely Dormeuse-style cap—rides piggyback on the first dude, which positions her perfectly to flog the third dude, while being orally pleasured from behind by the second dude. The caption to this illustration reads, "A Typical Scene." According to the pile of books I'd stacked onto my library desk, our story is nothing but the evolutionary history of the Porno sapiens.
Somebody send me some hot swan-on-guy. This would be where I curl up.
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(Poem! Poem!)
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You can keep going . . .
swan poemlet, then
We met the swanmay brothers in Sydney, late on an autumn Saturday,
their feathers fluffed as flannel-flowers on the hillsides,
hair black as crows' gifts;
all soaked to the skin in the afternoon's thunderstorm,
makeup running, red-ringed on each eye, blood-crimson in lipstick.
One's plume-shake left a star-trail of glitter, caught in the surface tension,
sprayed the passers-by with droplets, and gone:
off down the slicked footpath, running -
their laughter
mournful, in the echo, as birds call in flight.
cf. Noonghaburra legend
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makeup running, red-ringed on each eye, blood-crimson in lipstick.
Prrrrrt.
Thank you. Especially that last line.
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