morrissey seasick, yet still docked
thanks to bona drag making me go on a bit of a morrissey jag -oh
i
have
a love
in my life
film stills -troycmonk
joanna newsom - peach plum pear
thanks to echopanda
i am thinking about godard. his place in film. his place in culture. his old place.
it is interesting that his primary influence on film is so specific, a few years in scope -the godard of the 1960’s.
godard’s history, or his effect on history, is often summed up in the edit. the jump-cut specifically. the quick and somewhat obtrusive cut-through-time in breathless, his first feature in 1960, which was a means to an end. an artistic decision and problem solving solution as elemental as the choice of actor, camera or design.
i suppose that his films have failed to reach a wider audience due to distribution. there was a completely distorted time-line of his filmography, a result of a few of his early films being banned for content in major international cinemas. so for a long time, it was very hard to get a sense of his artistic development in the sixties when there were major discrepancies in release and completion dates.
his work in the seventies was primarily video and essayist tracts that barely saw the light of day except in major anthologies. that is getting corrected through the diligence of those who care. godard himself does not seem to be too involved in that process, as godard cares, and will forever only care, about now.
in the eighties, godard returned to film, though his video work remained.
his magnum opus, histoire(s) du cinema, was created for french television on video in 1989 and was completed in 1997. it is a great poetic essay that lays flat and folded, the story of cinema.
histoire(s) du cinema is a construction of layered images and sound- and to that measure it was released as a 5-cd set the complete soundtrack(without images) even before it was available on dvd (with images). it is available now only on dvd in france and japan and requires a region-free player. i was fortunate to have seen it projected at a sold out ucla screening some years ago.
the first film i ever saw by jean luc godard was hail mary in 1985, the year it was released. it is not an understatement to say that it changed my life. godard became my favorite director. i had not seen breathless or any other of his films. hail mary is an essay on a story, a very familiar story, told through considered edits of sound and image. its complex nature with regards to the whole of editing, indeed, the whole story, was radically different than any film i had seen before.
film stills from first name -carmen, hail mary, la chinoise,
histoire(s) du cinema, hail mary, respectfully
the death of the adult movie theatre. pictured above, the lee art theatre of richmond, virginia in its height as an adult movie house in the mid 1970's. and then the VCR appeared. by the time the lee art closed in 1993, it was screening videotapes and photocopying their covers for display like this:
as a child of the internet, it amazes me to think about a time when the only way you could consume porn movies was in public theatres. it also fascinates me to think about the porn industry's hand in all of the major technological advancements in entertainment since the VCR--from DVDs to the internet--and porn's staggering rate of production in general. did you know some producers average a movie every four days? that's a lot of sex.
a handy article on the subject can be found here.
(photos taken from here)
i seek film, books, even pieces of internet fluff, with a terrific competitiveness. i'm not looking to outdo anybody but simply to catch up, to match the world's seemingly tireless pace. spending too much time on the internet will do this to you. i think all the time: for every movie i see there are thousands more i haven't seen but should; for every book i read there are classics i haven't read and new books being written. this competitiveness consumes me and stresses me out. and beyond wanting to develop myself from the inside, there is the matter of outer style, of fashion, that i often find i don't have the energy for. given the choice, i would sooner see a movie than go shopping, but the larger issue is that i don't think there needs to be a choice. i would like new clothes, or better daily clothes, but my energy is finite. how does one fix things to have it all?
we just watched hitchcock's rope, which leads me to the question:
how do you feel about films based on plays?
continuing in the series of artist couples to love: ruth gordon and garson kanin.
my generation grew up loving ruth gordon as maude in harold and maude (and don't forget where's poppa? and rosemary's baby!). but before she found fame later in life in the movies, ruth and her husband garson kanin spent a lifetime writing for the stage and film. most famously, ruth and garson wrote the katherine hepburn / spencer tracy films adam's rib and pat and mike; the dynamic between hepburn and tracy is said to have been based on ruth and garson's own marriage. and that is exactly how i'd like to imagine it--two fiercely intelligent, funny people, living and working and trading barbs. ruth and garson were married in 1942 and stayed together until ruth's passing in 1985. even cooler, garson was sixteen years ruth's junior, and god help me if i don't love the may-december thing. ruth gordon and garson kanin were an artist couple of the highest order. and aren't they adorable?
in the interest of full disclosure: we watched an entire season of the gilmore girls on dvd this weekend. that's six discs, four episodes per disc, an hour an episode. around saturday i started to despair. i grew quiet. by sunday i was over it, but now i'm having a really difficult time posting anything worth reading. i think my brain has gone soft. gilmore girls, you know i love you, but enough.
reentering the real world today, drawing my cape over my eyes and hissing at the sunlight: the less said about this, the better.
been thinking a lot about artist couples lately. the bechers are one of my favorites.
what makes a person spend time being sad when they could be happy? i was in the far east and i was walking down a path and there was a big happy party going on, and actually they were burning a person to death. they were having a party and they were happy, singing and dancing.
i'm not saying you should be happy when a person dies, but just that it's curious to see cases that prove you don't have to be sad about it, depending on what you think it means, and what you think about what you think it means.
a person can cry or laugh. always when you're crying you could be laughing, you have the choice. crazy people know how to do this best because their minds are loose. so you can take the flexibility your mind is capable of and make it work for you. you decide what you want to do and how you want to spend your time. remember, though, that i think i'm missing some chemicals, so it's easier for me than for a person who has a lot of responsibility chemicals, but the same principle could be applied in a lot of instances.
fortune cookie fortunes: baffling, boring, hastily typed.
i don't remember the last time i got a fortune cookie fortune or what it said. i am, however, generally disappointed with the trend of dispensing platitudes and not real fortunes in these cookies; the second one down is a classic example. this is a similar disappointment to what i experienced my first (and only) visit to a psychic. what i wanted was a real scam filled with specific forecasts; what i got was her guessing (incorrectly) that i was a makeup artist and the basic advice that relationships are hard work. what a waste of forty dollars.
i'm partial to frank o'hara's "lines for the fortune cookies," which i've been quietly adding to the bottom of our site for a few days. highlights include:
"you will write a great play and it will run for three performances."
"relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing."
"you are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it."
"who do you think you are, anyway? jo van fleet?"
we need more poets in the cookie factories.
they could probably use the extra income, too.
let's spend a few minutes with j s e 's 'grandfather,' peter falk
via wim wenders
courtesy of tobrouk1968 Channel
much thanks because i am in an wim wenders mood
-uh more about that later, maybe
the scale pictured above is common around the world; the faces in particular compose the wong-baker pain scale, the trademark work of two medical professionals in the nearly 1980's. maybe you've seen these little guys around your doctor's office, staring at you.
for as many amazing developments as there have been even in the last fifty years or so, there are certain aspects of medical practice, like this one, that strike me as hilariously primitive. i don't blame doctors, since how else can you assess pain that cannot be observed? the problem with the scale, of course--which becomes even more evident if you've ever had to rate your own pain on one--is that it is up to the patient to give as accurate a rating of their own pain as possible. this can be confusing and difficult, especially when you're in pain. also problematic are the faces; given descriptions like "no humor, serious, flat" or "furrowed brow, pursed lips, breath holding," one might reasonably assume that i am in a state of mild to moderate pain most of the time. but maybe that's just my face, and i defy you, science, to cure my face.
the worst pain i've ever experienced, i think, was trying to walk normally on a sprained ankle. or maybe it was a urinary tract infection. see, i can't remember, because i have no memory for pain, and when i'm in pain, well, you'd be hard-pressed to get me to describe anything accurately.
it's a curious thing. i do so like scales, however.
this site constantly updates itself to arrange the world's national capitals from hottest to coldest in temperature. i mention this because rhan hates the summertime so very much, and it is good to remind oneself that it could always be hotter. see, honey? at least we don't live in belmopan.
site created by aleksandra domanovic, found via (the always outstanding) vvork.
i'm going through a bit of a francophile period right now. we went to amoeba today in search of a replacement for my lost francoise hardy cd, but i ended up leaving with a four-disc japanese boxset called "best chanson 100." all the song titles are in japanese on the back and come up in japanese when i upload them to itunes. rad.
anyhow, i'm searching youtube and i stumble upon this great moment from jules et jim. it occurs to me now that i should have posted this for mother's day, because i can't hear this song, or watch this movie, without thinking of my mom.
so, in the spirit of la france and better-late-than-never-ing: this one's for you, mom.
so we just watched mayor of the sunset strip two nights ago, and who should we see last night at canter's but rodney bingenheimer himself, sitting at his own rodney bingenheimer booth, alone. we've seen him there a bunch of times, but it was especially poignant last night, having just seen that movie. his booth is situated right near the stairs to the bathrooms, so rhan and i both took the opportunity as we went upstairs to either nod at rodney (me) or introduce ourselves briefly to rodney (rhan). it was a good thing that he left when he did, because staring over at him sitting alone in the booth on a hoppin' saturday night was making rhan unbearably sad.
mayor of the sunset strip is a really sad film. also, it's uniquely disorienting to see somebody on the screen and then to almost immediately see them in real life; it made me feel really weird. i sincerely hope that rodney is happy. i'd like to imagine he went home last night and put a good record on, maybe watched something funny on tv, and fell asleep.
tv screenshots by r s e of jlg's sauve qui peut (la vie)
still loving this old song by destroyer
here
I. agnes varda’s le bonheur (happiness).
this film examines the notion of quantifiable happiness. it so reminds me of my father’s life, or what i am still learning about my father’s life as i grow older. in the many times i have made life altering decisions, my father would offer me his definition of “quality of life.” to my father, happiness isn’t a question of all or nothing--not happy or unhappy--but is instead an entity which can be measured in levels--happier or less happy. in the logic of quatifiable happiness, the more happiness you have, the happier you will be. this is my father’s logic.
if asked, however, my father’s short answer would simply be that happiness is love.
II. for me, love and happiness are not entirely the same.
i’m not so sure that my happiness is a function of the love in my life.
j s e asked me recently if i had ever experienced a six-month period in which i was consistently happy. i can say yes, but only in retrospect. day by day, i can’t definitively say. i may not be a happy man. but maybe i am.
i had a happy childhood. i’d say around 53% happy. my family dissolved in two when i was ten. my dad fell in love with my nanny. he quickly ended his unhappy marriage to my mother to be with the love of his life, my step mother of 30 or so years. i was not allowed to go to my father’s wedding, so i am to this day unsure of the exact year of their marriage.
shortly after their marriage, i too left my mother to live with my father and my step mother. happiness was living with them. my father’s side of the family was a far happier family than my mother’s side. this was entirely clear to me then and it still is today. when i was with my maternal side of the family, i was less than a happy child.
III. i fell for juliet a year ago, and we were married almost instantly. she is the love of my life, and i am happiest in her presence. you see, j s e is a happy person. this is not to say that she is care-free or without highs and lows. but happiness is her air. she is clear in her joy. i see it in her eyes, her face and in her body. it is her voice even in her printed word. life is happiness for my juliet.
i was profoundly moved and stirred by agnes varda’s le bonheur. it is available to rent from netflix or at your local independent video library. or to own from criterion.
if all is happiness
then happiness is this
and happiness is that.
tv screen shots by r s e from varda’s short film, du côté de la côte (1958)
how to honor the passing of robert rauschenberg?
why not listen to 4'33" by john cage?
goodbye robert.
movies i want; movies i want to see.
are you like me? do you think every new movie you see--or every new book you read, or blank notebook you crack open--might be the one, the one to change your life forever? it is my ever-renewing hope. i am imagining the film collection of my future: no throwaway titles, everything essential, inspiring, revisited again and again. if i had a wad of cash in my pocket right now, boy howdy, i'd empty the internet. for today, however, rentals are good, and my dreams are my own.
stills from three people trapped in infinite politeness by carl burgess. genius.
i have spent my entire adult life to date working in service jobs. i am also the daughter of a japanese mother and so am at least half-steeped, if only by osmosis, in japanese culture and its ingratiating tendencies.
i am aware of politeness at almost all times.
i think i'm developing a permanent mark on my tongue from holding it so much. the service industry thrives on a philosophy of unfailing politeness, at least in my experience. sometimes it fails. but for all the instances of impoliteness or outright bitchy service i have suffered in my life as a customer, those moments pale in comparison to the sheer volume and intensity of impoliteness leveled at me by customers when i've worked as the person behind the counter. from basic things, like being on their cell phones when they order, to downright outrageous things, like spitting coffee in someone's face because it wasn't fixed right (this actually happened to my sister). there's a problem in the mechanism here, because this unfailing politeness thing doesn't work both ways. there was an italian gelato shop next to the restaurant where i used to work, and the owners' unofficial policy was "the customer is always wrong." they knew what they were talking about.
yet for the most part, i'm smiling. it can become a reflex, the polite smiling, if you're not careful. at one point i had heard myself saying "have a great day!" so much that i started playing with the delivery, just to ground myself:
"have a great day."
"you have a great day."
"would you do me a favor? have yourself a great day."
(that last one is best delivered in a half-whisper, like a precious secret.)
the amazing thing about those people up there is that they'll smile at you forever if you don't turn them off. spooky, no?
i love gundrun gut's 'i put a record on'
click on the photo above to listen to her song 'tip tip'
gudrun gut links
wire magazine's gundrun gut feature
photos by olaf unverzart for wire magazine
eloge de l'amour by j l g
photos from dvd beaver
i've installed a tv/dvd player on my desk next to the computer, so now i can have two sets of images running really close to me at all times. this has long been a dream of mine, and if i could have two or three more monitors on or near my desk i would do it, keeping them all on and running at once. i put a woman under the influence on the tv yesterday while i searched the internet, this time remembering how good the music is in that movie. cleo from 5 to 7 came next, which rekindled an absolute love for agnes varda--and then i discovered this amazing film, which just put me over the top, playing cleo and reponse de femmes at once, right next to each other.
as we speak, there are thousands of people in this world making exquisitely beautiful things. it was one of those weekends where that fact presented itself to me over and over again. certain scenes in mister lonely, which are among some of the most beautiful things i have ever seen on film, the fact of samantha morton and everything she does, the way agnes varda captures images and light, the idea that there are two stunning richard serra pieces within walking distance from our apartment, an upcoming collaboration with my best friend...it just goes on and on. rhan said i had a glow last night. it was a really good weekend.
10 december 1975: on kawara reminds us that he is still alive.
12 may 2008: me too, world! me too!
mister lonely- nothing could be more inspiring
than images on the screen that you have never seen before
and yet
there is something wildly familiar in the images in harmony korine’s mister lonely
because he chose to populate his story with characters that are unique and iconic.
i don’t know if this film is playing in your town but when it does go go go!
i’m certain that it will be made available in some form or another soon.
(hopefully projected on a screen)
samantha morton is the touch touch actor!
and
diego luna is indescribably brilliant
oh
everyone in that film, like the film itself, is very very special.
juliet: i second everything rhan says. this movie is gorgeous. see it immediately.
from john campbell's blog.
(update: there have been some incorrect links floating around the internet;
this is the source of these wonderful comics!)
if you need to find us tonight, we'll be at the movies. oh boy!
on the subject of impersonators: yesterday this struggling actor came into the store where i work, and before i knew it i found myself the audience of one for an unsolicited christopher walken impression. he was a short, enthusiastic asian guy, and he performed chris walken as he might have been in star wars. christopher walken as han solo, say, or christopher walken talking to chewbacca. i knew this guy had just come from a bad audition, so the pressure to be demonstratively entertained was especially high. the whole situation embarrassed me.
all respect, actors--i don't know how you do it.
also, there was this man in my town growing up who dressed as santa all year long. his house was always decorated full-on for christmas, reindeer and lights and everything; we called it the santa house. it was only much later, as adults, that my sister and i realized that that's sort of fucked up.
rhan does a really good mark e. smith, but he maintains that anyone can do mark e. smith, mostly by yelling and adding ah to the ends of the right words. it still makes me laugh every time. EVERY TIMEAH!
my coworker performed a shockingly accurate impression of vanna white for me once, which consisted of walking sort of sideways along a wall, pausing to tap the wall, and then continuing to walk while applauding softly. make someone do this for you and you'll see what i mean. spooky.
and what's up with you can call me al?
is that a whole song about wanting to be somebody else or what?
it is the dialogue, you know...
for me,
john mccain is a member of the wrong party
and he believes in that party.
other than that, he seems like an ok enough guy.
the worst nightmare stuff is pandering
to those in this country who still believe in war.
john stewart should host a presidential debate.
and he can even call it fake if he wants.
i. john lurie in stranger than paradise is rhan's style icon.
ii. fishing with john, covered in sores and boners.
there was a saying once, but for the life of me i cannot remember what that saying is. i was trying to remember it in an ascension. i stopped by the mall, i needed to buy a gift. i remembered the donna karan store. i used to buy all my clothes there. i bought my last big shoes at a shoe store near the escalators. i used to work in the mall. i used to work at lenscrafters. i used to work with terry & betty.
betty was a lab technician. she was older. how much older, i don't know. the same goes for terry, except he was an optician. i used to know their last names. i cannot remember them now and i can't remember the saying either. i don't remember liking them very much, terry & betty, but i did like them in a way. i got along with them fine. i think that's the way everyone felt about them.
terry was a peculiar man. he was an adamant smoker with wire-like
once-blond hair. he was a tiny man. he wore the same clothes everyday. his diet was horrible. he ate chick fil-a sandwiches religiously. maybe a corn-dog for variation.
terry was sort of scaly. he drank pepsi after pepsi, yet i remember him being extremely laid back. non confrontational, easy going. he was not a particularly happy man, nothing about him hopped up and down like the caffeine and nicotine would like you to think. he was a contradiction.
he had a bizarre sort of existence. a presence, you might say. sort of like a burp or a cloud of smoke. at the same time, terry was also a nice enough sort of fellow.
he gave me an accordion once. i'm not even sure how the subject came up. he used to play the accordion and he still had one. confused and moved, i took it. i may have even needed one, i can't remember.
that was really nice of the guy. he just gave it to me.
betty was cut from a similar cloth. she was not in the best shape. she was divorced i think, but i can't be sure. a mother of a boy, maybe he was grown. she was a smoker and her caffeine of choice was coffee.
betty was a little rough shod. she wore her years of service on her skin and hair, in her clothes and in her speaking voice. she was not well off. she was past her good point. something had past anyway. and of course, you could also tell she had a past.
something about her in retrospect gave me the impression that a man had not been so good for her. she wasn't looking anymore. she was who she was. it was a fact. i don't get the feeling that betty had lonely nights. maybe she did, i don't know.
in the lab, betty was a confident enough lab tech. she was not particularly brilliant but smart enough to know when she could not handle something. she would not try to hide it. she would gladly step out of the way if she thought that you could do it better. the concept of her knowledge was understood and that lent an air of confidence for me.
i remember once showing betty how to mix the plastic polish. i sort of comically exaggerated the instructions for the process.
you see, you have to put your hand in the jug of white polish powder while filling the jug with cold water. mixing with your hand, smoothing and swirling until the powder was gone and the polish liquid became a milk-like consistency....well you get the idea.
anyway, betty thought my demonstration was very funny and said that i made this work so much more fun.
betty like terry and i got along just fine. other folks that i worked with at the time drove me nuts in aggravations and confrontations. not terry & betty. i don't remember liking them very much, yet in retrospect i think they were alright.
when i think back on it, they were very good friends. good friends for each other. they often ate their food together and smoked cigarettes together. they laughed and were generally empathetic towards one another. and i think that they generally liked everyone else as well.
terry & betty. terry & betty.
terry & betty make me think of lorraine, the white witch and pathological liar, but that is an escalator ride for another time.
image: x-ray/optical composite of abell 2029
(credit: optical: noao/kitt peak/j.uson, d.dale; x-ray: nasa/cxc/ioa/s.allen et al.)
so i've been thinking a lot about night terrors lately. i found myself on a night terror support message board yesterday and ended up watching this crazy video.
in my cursory searches i've learned that night terrors generally affect children aged two to six, but the message board seems to indicate that there are some pretty unhappy adult sufferers out there, too.
night terrors are distinct from nightmares in that they typically aren't connected to any particular imagery or imagined provocation; sufferers seem to be experiencing episodes of pure fear, of fear without an object. people say anxiety is fear without an object, but i think of anxiety more as a vague, disorganized fear of all objects at once. this might just be a less succinct way of saying the same thing, but i maintain my argument: pure fear seems like something else altogether, something primal and dark and, in its own way, exciting. barring any night terror sufferers reading this, have you ever experienced terror--shrieking, uncontrollable terror--connected to nothing at all? the idea just blows my mind.
my fascination with night terrors is sort of in keeping with my fascination with people being haunted for any reason. i think that is really funny, to imagine or know a person who is haunted. you think you know somebody, maybe you work with them, but then you bring up the war or their dad or brushfires or something and they get this glassy, far-off look in their eyes, the kind of look that tells you oh, he's haunted and then you think to yourself hahaha! i love haunted so much that i have fantasies about being haunted myself. but i digress.
do you think i could make a movie about a person with night terrors?
do you think i could make it a comedy, too?
the very idea does it for me real bad.
oh, i'm excited now! and haunted.
so this was recently brought to my attention: army man, america's only magazine. it was a zine released in the late 80's--only a few hundred copies in all, i think-- created by writers like george meyer, john swartzwelder, and jack handey, who would later go on to work on shows like the simpsons and saturday night live. it is apparently legendary now, this army man. i guess i'm behind the times!
anyway, this was a pertinent discovery because i'm really into jack handey right now. this piece in particular--it never gets old for me. i have a long memory for things that make me laugh.
ps: click the image for easier reading.
"we think we pay such fleeting visual proteins little attention, but in actuality it might be what we remember most from a movie: the close-up with the unconscious eyelash flutter, the dawn light falling on a wet street, the woman’s hand moving to her mouth in a moment of panic, the fuzzy back-projection image of a city block long forgotten, the naked technicolor foolishness of a movie star’s open mouth singing a sheer idiocy in a musical, the way an actor’s body might move a touch too beautifully amidst a minor action (like christopher walken’s, a dancer’s body impersonating a steel worker’s, as he teasingly grabs for meryl streep’s dress as she runs out of the bar in the wedding scene from 1978’s the deer hunter), the ubiquitous setup when a man comes home from work, hangs up his hat and places his newspaper on the foyer table, before realizing, as he slows, that something’s terribly wrong."
(from anna karina and the american night by michael atkinson)
above, a screen capture from down by law--though in truth, the better image for me would be one of tom waits exiting shoeless from his apartment building, having just been thrown out by ellen barkin, plopping down among all his possessions strewn about the street, and putting his boots on again, rubbing the leather into his ankles--it's the rubbing that i love the best. i have no image of this moment except for that which i remember, and might always remember, which i suppose just reinforces the point that atkinson is making. there is no still image that could capture what it's like to watch a movie, to observe this detail and every movement towards and away from it, and describing it, in the end, does the moment little justice. there really is no medium like film. and isn't that wonderful?
atkinson's article can be found in last month's issue of the believer.
there are many black cat books in my dad's old collection. most of them were published in the 1960's and deal with social or scientific topics pertinent to the time in which they were released. ultraserious titles like drugs and the mind or man against aging--my dad seemed to like those best. what i take from this is that not only are these books badass looking but also potentially dangerously outdated.
this just makes me want to read them more.
note: i've never read any of the above books, but just look at them!
many thanks to gregoreverb, 5m@5hYdez, and tolstoy2007 for the images.
added: these old paperback book covers are everywhere! i'm lost in the internet!
so we went to phoenix to support my mom after a procedure she had done on her heart. my mom lives with a condition that causes her heart to beat erratically, and the surgery was performed to lessen, or hopefully eliminate, this problem. she was on the table for nearly nine hours; the doctors explained she has unusually thick muscles around the veins in her heart which made the procedure unduly tricky. as i sat there with my mom in her recovery, hearing doctors and nurses address her as a patient, i realized how impossible it is to talk about the heart without translating the words into metaphor. my mom's erratic heartbeat, my mom's muscley heart: if this were in a book, wouldn't it mean something? i'd like to believe that it would.
when i've read books where characters receive terrible news or are blindsided by betrayal, so often the feeling is described by saying his or her "heart sank." and maybe that's a cliche, but is there any other way to describe it as accurately? i remember once when i read a boyfriend's email behind his back and found letters he'd written about another girl--evidence of encounters i hadn't known about, feelings he'd hidden from me. and when i read them, when i even just saw the to and from lines--well, my heart just sank. it is a distinct feeling and it is real, and it happened to my heart, literally and figuratively, all at once.
i thought so much about the heart this weekend that i knew immediately i wanted to write about it, but now i'm finding that the words aren't really working. i had a writing teacher in college advise that the best way to communicate a character's feelings is to first think about how feeling manifests itself in the body. by that measure, it will suffice to tell you that these past few days, seeing my hometown, being in the house i used to live in, i felt such an upwelling of nostalgia that it made it difficult to swallow, and that seeing my mom in the hospital bed, unwrapping the cellophane from a dinner roll and tearing off small pieces to eat--my mom, pale and sweet and tired--that my heart felt so full i thought it might burst.
cliche or not, this is the only heart that i know,
the same heart that beats in my chest.
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