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Two poems

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Sometimes I wander into the NSCC library and check out magazines for no reason. The last time I was in, I checked out an issue of Poetry Northwest. I found a couple poems that I liked.

Aperture

Even though it was only last night
I keep turning to the image of you
leaning in to kiss me
as if it were an old photograph.

The early moonlight on your face,
the open doorway. I keep entering
and then leaving the frame.

And every time I bend into the glossy edge,
I see the small shadow I cast across your body
hover, and then lift
like something briefly darkening the lens.

-Danusha Laméris

Hm, well after typing it, I don’t like it as much as I did before. I like the sentiment and the imagery, but I don’t like the language so much. I think I would put the thoughts in a different order.

I also liked the following poem, because it’s pretty bitter and cruel, which surprises me. At least it feels bitter. I don’t know if it’s meant to be taken that way. Maybe just angry. Maybe sour grapes.

I am trying to break your heart

I am hoping
to hang your head

on my wall
in shame–

the slightest taxidermy
thrills me. Fish

forever leaping
on the living room wall–

paperweights made
from the skulls

of small animals.
I want to wear

your smile on my sleeve
& break

your heart like a horse
or its leg. Weeks of being

bucked off, then
all at once, you’re mine–

Put me down.

I want to call you thine

to tattoo mercy
along my knuckles. I assassin

down the avenue.
I hope

to have you forgotten
by noon. To know you

by your knees
palsied by prayer.

Loneliness is a science–

consider the taxidermist’s
tender hands

trying to keep from losing
skin, the bobcat grin

of the living.

- Kevin Young

I don’t like that poem either, after typing it. What does taxidermy have to do with a broken heart? (It reminds me of people who have their dead dogs stuffed so they can put them in their living room and still pet them.) Maybe the author is talking to himself. What if he’s trying to break his own heart? That would make more sense to me.

It’s strange to think of someone laboring so long over a poem, getting the words just right, deciding to use “&” instead of “and”… and then me, reading the poem, failing to understand it or feel compelled to really understand it, moving on to the next thing. Poor poets. I bet they work the hardest, and for the smallest return.

Jen struggles with socks
Jen struggles with socks, 2009

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Don’t tell me real poems can’t start with “WTF”

Monday, August 17, 2009

In keeping with my tradition of posting strange things during finals week

(because I never post strange things otherwise)

here is a poem I wrote last week. It is called “Cork”.

WTF: I dreamed about cork last night.
I saw how it forms naturally,
and what it looks like before it is carved.
It falls from pine trees
in the shape of ginger roots.
Clearly this reflects the reality of cork.

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Pro-ana on flickr

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I am shocked by a subculture I just found on flickr, which I should have already guessed was present, since it’s widespread on the Internet through personal websites… The pro ana people.

:(

One of my photos has a shot of the cover of the book “Thin” (Greenfield, Lauren, David B. Herzog, and Michael Strober. 2006. San Francisco: Chronicle Books), which is a photodocumentary about girls in an inpatient eating disorder clinic. It’s an extremely disturbing book (especially the photos of diary excerpts), and I imagine it’s highly triggering for people with eating disorders. Today it was favorited by someone with “thin” in her flickr user name, and started to get a bad feeling as I went to check out what other images she had favorited… her favorites were all thinspiration.

book queue
Book queue, 2007

Today I discovered that people with anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa have been posting revealing self-portraits on flickr, showing off protruding bones and disturbingly concave areas… I feel so sad and scared when I look at these photos, not only because some of them are very young, but because there are predatory flickr users making approving sexual comments about these photos, praising the girls for being sexy. It’s the worst combination. You have these people with a mental disorder, suffering horribly, and then you have the sexual predators encouraging them and giving them the attention they want so badly.

A psychologist once told me that in an inpatient psych ward, you’ve got to keep the people who think they’re Jesus separate from the people who are seeking Jesus.

I took some screenshots of a few image/comment pairings that I found, which are behind the links because I don’t want to display them out on my main blagoblag page. I used a mosaic filter to preserve identity and modesty of the girls, but you get the idea. I did not hide the identity of the flickr users who commented.

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

The girl in photos 4, 5, and 6 also had posted cell phone pics of herself receiving feeding through nasogastric intubation at an inpatient treatment facility somewhere.

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One year ago, two years ago…

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

It’s time for another game of One Year Ago, Two Years Ago…

One year ago I was not taking photos, but I was in the middle of my 365 Sketches project, and I drew this:
bones
Bones, 2008

Two years ago we celebrated Shawna’s 30th birthday. Before Cynthia, Jen and I went over, we took silly self portraits at my house with my camera remote:
autonomic nervous system
Autonomic nervous system, 2007

Three years ago, Scott and Katie got married. I took home some of their flowers:
centerpiece leftovers
Centerpiece leftovers, 2006

Four years ago, I went blackberry picking with Jen, and got her to pose for this photo:
Crime scene
Crime scene, 2005

Apparently I did not take photos during the second week of August in 2003 and 2004.

Seven years ago, Richard and I were in North Carolina visiting family, and from this picture I surmise he was feeling a bit angsty:
devil dreads
Richard, 2002

(Oh, what’s that Grandma? No, I told you we aren’t Satan worshippers, and I was serious!)

Eight years ago, I was wearing a crown of mint on my head and kissing my honey:
a kiss
Kiss, 2001

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Early warning signs of cancer

Monday, August 10, 2009

I had to write this up for some homework tonight, and thought I would share. It’s a quick little thing about early warning signs of cancer.

This isn’t a comforting list, because a lot of these symptoms also accompany chronic disease, but it’s better to be aware of them and get them checked out, than to ignore them! If you are prone to ignoring your state of health because you find doctor visits unpleasant, you will just have to get over it– take care of yourself for the people you love and who love you back. If you don’t, I will rap the backs of your lazy-ass knuckles with my medical assistant stick of authority!!

The mnemonic “CAUTION” can be used to remember some early warning signs of cancer: Change in bowel or bladder habits; A sore that does not heal; Unusual bleeding or discharge; Thickening, lumps, or changes in the shape of the testicles or breasts; Indigestion or difficulty swallowing; Obvious change in a wart or mole; and a Nagging cough or hoarseness of the voice.

You should be alert for changes in your bowel habits (for example, changes in the color, consistency, size, and shape of stools) or a change in bladder function. Constipation and diarrhea over a period of time could be a sign of colon cancer. Be alert for signs of blood in the stool (it can appear as obvious red blood, or if the bleeding is high up in the intestines, it will be digested and appear as dark/tarry areas of stool). Blood in the urine looks like reddish-yellow or dark red urine.

You should be alert for sores that do not heal (for example, a sore in the mouth, or white patches on the mouth and tongue). Since cancer cells are not bound strongly to each other, cancers tend to be fragile and bleed easily. Cancers may grow into blood vessels, causing the vessels to rupture. Watch out for blood in your phlegm, stool, and urine.

Gastrointestinal changes can be cancer warning signs. Take note of persistent diarrhea or constipation, difficulty swallowing, nausea, vomiting, unexplained weight loss, pain after eating, or frequently feeling full, even after eating only a small meal. Also take note if you have a persistent cough or hoarse throat, or having trouble swallowing. If any of these are chronic, inexplicable problems, see your doctor.

When looking at skin, keep an eye out for changes in the color, size or appearance of moles, freckles, and warts. Other skin signs that can indicate cancer are darker looking skin (hyperpigmentation), yellow skin and eyes (jaundice), and reddened skin (erythema).

innovative medical instrumentation
Jen’s primitive nasal speculum, 2007

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North Palm Beach, respek

Friday, July 31, 2009

I’m putting together a photography show for a new venue (excited!) and whenever I do this, I inevitably end up finding some really funny old photos, such as this photo I took with a cameraphone in a craft store in North Palm Beach, Florida.

richard sends mad love to the laydeeez
Richard sends mad love to the laydeeez, 2007

Richard is like, “The honies can resist neither my large wooden kraft letters nor my tropical print shirt.”

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Testing for depression

Monday, July 27, 2009

Richard recently mentioned what he believed to be a Chinese blessing, “May you live in interesting times”. Turns out this phrase was actually a (probably misattributed) Chinese curse. Hilarious.

Summer has been interesting so far. I can’t say that interesting is always pleasant, but… at least I’m finding things interesting in the first place. Even if life is going badly, when I am feeling well-adjusted and highly-adaptable, novelty feels pleasant.

Having known this about myself for a while, I can use it to make a mental check of my emotional state. Depression is something I worry about a lot, having had to drag myself out of it by tooth and nail so many times in the past. If I’ve been wondering if I’m sliding back towards an emotionally depressed state, I can ask myself, “Is novelty pleasurable?” If not, I make a note to keep checking in on myself. I keep Richard informed. If I decide I am actually depressed again, then I have to make that call to my psychiatrist. These few steps make up a seemingly simple plan; it was anything but simple to arrive at. I had no one to teach me these things.

Maybe some day I will have the vocabulary and skill to explain what clinical depression has felt like for me. I hope so. I want so badly for the public to be more educated about depression. In general, our society is not knowledgeable enough to recognize the symptoms of mental illness (except for the really obvious ones you can learn about on TV). We do not seek help for mental issues as skillfully as we seek help when we break a bone. On top of this, mental illness is still a taboo subject that many people don’t even want to deal with at all. For many good reasons, we hide it in ourselves– but we need not.

It’s a frustrating situation to contemplate.

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Firework abstracts

Monday, July 13, 2009

I don’t know what’s been going on in my head lately. It’s been so hard to decode myself. I have not felt peaceful this past week, but I don’t know why. I remind myself of an abused dog who lashes out insensibly at every startling thing around it.

I had a strange experience this morning. One of my cats acted cruelly to my other cat, and I was so upset that I just burst into tears and couldn’t stop crying. What the hell? Usually I regard my cats’ behavior with amusement, even when they do “bad” things, and I try to think about how I might train away the undesirable behavior and encourage harmony in the household. I don’t take it personally. But this time, I did take the behavior personally– not quite anthropomorphizing, but certainly adding creative interpretations– and it was so obvious to me what was happening (this nonstop crying and feeling disturbed), that I realized much faster than normal that this was a flashback of some kind to my childhood. I realized it had to do with something that happened when I was in a foster home when I was 5-6 years old, which is too crude and stupid to talk about even here (where I talk about crude and stupid things as a matter of course).

I guess part of me wants to talk about it, since it seems like the only form of justice my tormenters will ever get, even if they never know it… but I can’t force myself to do it, yet. It is hard to figure out what is appropriate and inappropriate to blog about. I know I have already crossed boundaries that most people would never cross, in sharing personal information, but I do it because I want other people to benefit from my experiences.

Anyway, I have this to say to people who treat kids like a worthless pieces of shit: if nothing else will motivate you to stop but a fear of exposure and embarrassment, think about this: I can almost guarantee you that any kid you abuse will toot your deeds all over the damn internet, in one form or another. If you’re lucky, they won’t use your real name, but it’s not hard to put two and two together in this wonderful “information age”.

In this blagoblog, I walk strange lines between piecemeal autobiography, talking about my art, and just ordinary musings on things that excite me. It doesn’t seem like all those things belong in the same place. When I talk about my art, I consider it business-related. But in the physical workplace, I would never dare talk about my life history the way I do here. So what makes it okay to mix all these things up in a blog? I don’t really know if it is okay. It certainly doesn’t feel good while it’s happening, this slow parceling out thoughts (for an indefinite period of time (to an undefined audience))– it’s unnerving.

Yes– so even though I don’t know what’s going on with me this past week, I just know, “It hurts!” At least I know enough about myself to understand that it does hurt, which is something I couldn’t have told you ten years ago.

Oh, hell. I really did just mean to post some fireworks photos when I started this post. Here they are:


Untitled, July 2009


Untitled, July 2009


Untitled, July 2009

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A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

I finally got around to reading A Blind Man Can See How Much I Love You, by Amy Bloom. I read Come to Me last year, and loved it. I felt shocked when I read those stories, and stunned by their beauty and truth. (It’s strange– what I perceive as beauty might be the feeling I get when characters actually act with passion, instead of living like lumps, their lives indistinguishable and slowly becoming one with the earth around them.)

A Blind Man… wasn’t as good as Come To Me, but the very last story in this book, “The Story,” was cool. At some point during the telling, the role of narrator seems to dissolve away, and the voice of the “real author” takes over… it’s a strange and cool effect.

“The Story” is about a recent widow and a couple with a child who lives next door. Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of the end:

Sandra, as I’ve named her, was actually a therapist but not a psychiatrist, and I disliked her so much I can’t bear to make you think, even in this story, that she had the discipline and drive and intellectual persistence to become a physician. She had nothing but appetite and brass balls, and she was the worst mother I ever saw.

I wished her harm and acted on that wish, without regret. Even now I regard her destruction as a very good thing, and that undermines the necessary fictive texture of deep ambiguity, the roiling ambivalence that might give tension to the narrator’s affection. Sandra pinched Miranda for not falling asleep quickly enough, and she gave her potato chips for breakfast and Slurpees for lunch, she cut her daughter’s hair with pinking shears and spent two hundred dollars she didn’t have on her own monthly Madison Avenue cuts. She left that child in more stores than I can remember, cut cocaine on her changing table, and blamed the poor little thing for every disappointment and heartache in her own life, until Miranda’s eyes welled up just at the sound of her mother calling her name. And if Sandra was not evil, she was worse than foolish, and sick, and more to the point, incurable. If Sandra was smooshed inside a wrecked car, splattered against the inside of a tunnel, I wouldn’t feel even so sad for her as I did for Princess Diana, for whom I felt very little indeed.

And here are some excerpts from the middle of the end:

The story I began to write would have skewered her, of course. Anyone who knew her would have read it and known it was she and thought badly of her while reading. She would have been embarrassed and angry. That really is not what I have in mind. I want her skin like a rug on my floor, warm throat slit, heart still beating behind the newly bricked-up wall. [...]

I can’t say I didn’t intend harm. I intended not only harm but death, or if not her death, which I think is a little beyond my psychological reach, then her disappearance, which is less satisfying because it’s not permanent but better because there is no body.

And here is the end:

I have made the best and happiest ending that I can in this world, made it out of the flax and netting and leftover trim of someone else’s life, I know, but made it to keep the innocent safe and the guilty punished, and I have made it as the world should be and not as I have found it.


Untitled, Yelapa, Jalisco, 2006

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UW alert

Thursday, July 2, 2009

From: uwalert@washington.edu
Subject: UW Alert
Date: July 2, 2009 5:01:58 PM PDT
To: [me]

Dear Jessie Hirsch,

Armed robbery on Brooklyn and 50th. Two armed suspects heading south to
Campus Parkway. Stay alert

I’m still on the mailing list for the University of Washington alert service. This is a recent innovation– I think it was implemented last year, but I can’t remember exactly. Sometimes I get e-mail/SMS messages that alert me to a hazmat spill in some chemistry building, and other times, I get one like the above.

What a great way to mobilize eyes! I could go on for hours mocking the UW about various things, having spent 5 years there as a disgruntled student, but I will not mock them about this. There is something terrifying and wonderful about the thought of 45k+ students all getting the same important information at once.

So, around 5pm, Brooklyn and 50th was probably packed as usual with UW students looking for dinner. I like to imagine the armed suspects making for Campus Parkway (?!) when all of a sudden cell phones ring all around, everyone pulls them out, and the armed suspects filled with sudden, violent terror.

pay phone
Payphone on Brooklyn, 2008

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