japonisme: 9/11/11 - 9/18/11

13 September 2011

yellow silk @ 30

thirty years ago today i came home with cartons and cartons of the first issue of my new magazine, yellow silk. cartons and cartons would be piled into my car then unloaded into the middle of my (fortunately large) second bedroom which served as my office. as would become a habit, we threw a fundraiser to pay the printer; harry the baker made a cake that looked like a magazine cover, and bunches of poets came to read their work from the magazine. since the first issue was all women (they responded to a cal for manuscripts more quickly than the guys did), we had the reading at a local women's bar, the long-gone bacchanal. the place has been called britt-marie's for years now, and they've kept the old 'stained glass' B over the door.

a funny thing happened last night. i was reading over the excerpts from the magazine that i had put online long ago, and an amazing thing happened -- i felt really proud. i hadn't read that poetry for years, i guess, and it was like it was all new to me, and i loved it, and i wanted to share it with you, despite the fact that i saw the million typos for the first time too!

so please enjoy some little bits from the 15 years that it lasted.

there are many stories, ask if you want. i just might answer you.

or go see more. Yellow Silk

by the way, please don't order anything on the website. also, to progress from page to page, the easiest way is to start on any given issue. click on any word that is underlined. this will take you to another page with work from the same issue. on that second page, in eensy tiny letters, it will say, 'go to next issue' (or something like that. if there is no underlined word, the 'go to next issue' will be on that table of contents page.

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11 September 2011

don't call me rosie!

why are we always flowers? my love is like a red red rose. no she's not. a rose is a rose, and she is a person. she will not wilt within a week. she will not lose her color, turn brown, and dry out. and you know that if she does, max factor will have the solution she's looking for.

but since she is actually a living human, why should she? why is it so important to keep the appearances: colors, glows, silken-like qualities of youth? because why are women here but to reproduce.

no, i don't believe that, even if it's true. it's just that the older i get, the more a biological determinist i seem to get. to not be living your life as a woman whose main goal is to family and reproduce, is to consciously depart from your genes.

and face social retribution when you do. though defining one's self should be everyone's own private prerogative, it simply is not. each individual is a part of a larger social animal, and it is that animal's job to mind the bits and pieces. anyone who might question, or cause another to question, is a "Bad Influence." (maybe even mentally ill)

why must jennifer lopez be seen in a different outfit every week when she judges american idol? even i feel that pressure, even if i'm just going to the store. is it true, as i tell myself, that i just can't stand repetition, or something else, something much darker and inbred?

and we are not allowed to do anything that marks us as uninterested in reproducing. how often will you see an ad on tv telling you that you look beautiful in white hair, why change it? and in fact, where does it say that you needn't be beautiful?

i admit it, i'm
the odd one out. asperger's gives one distance. if you don't "get" the rules, you are more likely to notice their forms. but that does not invalidate my questions. is there a future role for women in which to be called a red, red rose would be an insult?

at one point,
will we be free enough to live without expectations? or are the expectations a necessity if our species is to survive? like sand through an hourglass, an individual life passes along its genes and then moves on. anyone who wants to stop it can must pay the price. and all this goes on beyond our ken and beyond our reach.

until someone reaches out to pluck that flower.

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