Saturday, February 28, 2009

from "Poem for a Boy"

...I find it sweet
the barely nicked pinky you show
and I kiss; the forehead scar, too
the mean uncle my lips erase

And I feel tenderly toward
the panties your first wife didn't wear
one drive-in night, 1959.
What a thrill for your
19-year-old self
What a new, lovely thing
(how softly her hair falls)...

-----------------------

Song for new/lost love: "Last Date" by Floyd Cramer, 1960.

"May you live in interesting times..."

A famous Chinese curse, veiled as a blessing!

When I first decided to move to NYC in 2007, sans job and with very little savings, it was with the blind confidence of a Naif, a fool. At the time, I thought, "La la, it's the publishing capital of the world, I'll have no problem making a living..."

To the saint who watches over fools and children (even 40-something-year-old children)... THANK YOU! In the past two years, I've gotten quite lucky just in time: At two points of near-desperation, I, at-the-last-minute, got hired for projects by publishing companies, just in time to pay my way overdue rent and bills.

My last ex-project ran out in April 2008. I knew ahead of time that it would probably end then, but chose to hang onto hope and rumors: Maybe it won't end, maybe the company will call you back a month or so later. Didn't happen.

What did happen to me mentally after that April is that I laid around on my couch in May and June of 2008, lethargically watching re-runs of bad reality TV, sweltering (because New Jersey really does have hot summers and I couldn't afford to buy an air conditioner), doing absolutely nothing to find a job, waiting passively for a phone-call. In July, with my savings running out, I finally shook myself out of it and started scrambling. For the next 4 months, I did odds-n-ends, scraping together enough to live on, panicking in the meantime. I finally got hired for a 6-month project in November... and just found out that, due to company budget problems, this latest position really IS going to end after 6 months: This May 15.

Today's February 28. I've got 2-and-a-half months until May 15. And I learned my lesson after last April: Do not sit around on your ass thinking that a job is going to magically appear.

Initially upon hearing this latest news, I was scared and depressed, thinking, "Jesus Christ. Not again." Last year's job search was tough and emotionally draining. The constant "sell and sell and sell" of yourself wears you down, as does the overhanging financial fear. My initial panicked thought this second time was, "Well, I can always go back to Texas." Sure. I can do that. It's not that I'm in danger of starving or being homeless or anything. I've got people back home who will take care of me.

The thing is: I don't WANT to go back home to Texas. I like it a lot where I am. I like (nay, love) NYC and I like Jersey. There's the dumb, physical stuff like liking the weather a lot better here (all four seasons). There's the surface stuff like liking the general behavior of the people better here (frat boys/ex-frat boys don't rule here; people are generally down-to-earth, like in Texas, but also way more tolerant and sensible -- there seems to be a lack of underlying sadism in the Northeast, which is a genuine mental relief. I'll always be a Texan, but I cannot stand the shit that people get from being "different" there, even if it's "different" from the liberal PC bullshit in my liberal college hometown of Austin).

Point being: I want to stay here. I learned my lesson about lying around on my ass. I've been applying for jobs tonight in anticipation of May 15. I don't want to get a roommate to halve my bills, but I will do so if need be. It's nerve-wracking watching the latest layoff news on TV: "The highest unemployment rate in 16 years." 16 years ago, I was still in college mode, about to go off to grad school, sure of plentiful student loans, unconcerned about the job market. This go-round, I'm in full adult mode, fully aware for the first time that there are very real consequences.

It's scary, but it's also weirdly exhilarating. A personal test.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Perpetual

My two favorite love poems.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

--W.B. Yeats (1893)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAUCER

“Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote . . .”
At the top of your voice, where you swayed on the top of a stile,
Your arms raised—somewhat for balance, somewhat
To hold the reins of the straining attention
Of your imagined audience—you declaimed Chaucer
To a field of cows. And the Spring sky had done it
With its flying laundry, and the new emerald
Of the thorns, the hawthorn, the blackthorn,
And one of those bumpers of champagne
You snatched unpredictably from pure spirit.
Your voice went over the fields towards Grantchester.
It must have sounded lost. But the cows
Watched, then approached: they appreciated Chaucer.
You went on and on. Here were reasons
To recite Chaucer. Then came the Wyf of Bath,
Your favorite character in all literature.
You were rapt. And the cows were enthralled.
They shoved and jostled shoulders, making a ring,
To gaze into your face, with occasional snorts
Of exclamation, renewed their astounded attention,
Ears angling to catch every inflection,
Keeping their awed six feet of reverence
Away from you. You just could not believe it.
And you could not stop. What would happen
If you were to stop? Would they attack you,
Scared by the shock of silence, or wanting more—?
So you had to go on. You went on—
And twenty cows stayed with you hypnotized.
How did you stop? I can’t remember
You stopping. I imagine they reeled away—
Rolling eyes, as if driven from their fodder.
I imagine I shooed them away. But
Your sostenuto rendering of Chaucer
Was already perpetual. What followed
Found my attention too full
And had to go back into oblivion.

--Ted Hughes (1998)

-------------------------------------------------------

and here's one extra:

BEAUTY MOVES

...the trance of
your dark eyes, now closed
as dance takes hold,
head back to grin in
gold regress.

I love you like this, warm bliss
replacing once and future cold;
for now the mist of your happiness
settles on your skin -- not for
my own dumb tongue to bless --
but for lights
and all eyes to caress
and kiss.

-- Me (circa 1991)



Saturday, February 21, 2009

"The Wrestler": Adrian, and Hope, Have Left the Building


Having seen (and being an admirer of) director Darren Arenofsky's harrowing, jittery tales of obsession "Pi" (1998) and "Requiem for a Dream" (2000), I expected the style of "The Wrestler" to be similarly frenetic. And at first was a bit disappointed that it wasn't. I came out of the theater this afternoon feeling a bit subdued and flat, rather offhandedly chalking the movie up to, "OK, I got another Oscar-nominated film out of the way before tomorrow's ceremony."

Its subtlety fooled me, though; just now I woke up from a nap unable to keep from thinking about various philosophical aspects of the movie...The choices that the two main characters made, for instance, and why they made them. And could their fates have been avoided, and why they weren't. And whether or not the choices were actually spiritually valid ones, despite all evidence to the contrary.

After seeing "The Wrestler," and sleeping on it, a lot of other characters and works keep coming to mind. The Devil in the Bible, for one. Captain Ahab in "Moby-Dick." The main character in Mike Leigh's movie "Naked." Rocky Balboa. Barbara Ehrenreich's nonfiction book "Nickel and Dimed: Undercover in Low-Wage America."

And I keep picturing, also, uber-wrestler-success Hulk Hogan watching this movie; surely the thought crosses his mind: "There but for the grace of god go I." Just as I, when watching Karen Black's character in the tale of the underside of 1930s Hollywood "Day of the Locust" think, "There but for the grace of god goes Joan Crawford."

Randy "The Ram" Robinson in "The Wrestler" is the much more realistic flip-side of Rocky Balboa in "Rocky II." Remember Rocky's humiliations at the hands of the sarcastic TV ad-director? Or his humbleness at going back to work at the meat-packing plant after being told that any further boxing matches could possibly blind him? When Rocky decides to go back in the ring, though, you get a bit giddy, knowing that things are going to turn out OK in the end and you, the viewer, will get a big uplifting emotional payoff and feel good about yourself in the process: "I'm just like that scrappy underdog!" When "The Ram" decides to go back in the wrestling ring, you don't get any such panacea. More a sense of, "Oh shit. What's going to happen to this loser? What would I do? Am I like that?" And who, really, wants to be forced to question themselves like that?

But IS "The Ram" a loser? Well, yeah, of course, on the surface, by society's standards. But you've also got to hand it to him for being true to himself. He may be self-destructive both physically and emotionally, but isn't going out with a bang in your own realm really preferable to being nitpicked to death day-in and day-out by petty customers and managers in a soul-deadening job behind a deli counter? The vast majority of us, of course, pick some variation of the safe deli-counter route. And barely stop to question why that route is the only one available to us.

Which is why fictional and/or real-life characters like the Devil and Charles Manson and Captain Ahab are so fascinating: Things might have come to horrific ends (not necessarily planned to be such but always a possibility), but there's also some shocked sense of awe/admiration that these guys just said "Fuck it" and threw all caution to the wind in their very different quests for self-respect. What was it the Devil said? "I'd rather be the ruler of hell than a servant in heaven." Most of us wouldn't make that egotistical leap, but you've got to acknowledge the courage in doing so in the face of the almost-assured negative consequences.

"The Ram" is certainly no devil or Ahab or Manson; his life is lived on a much smaller, pettier, more realistic scale. But his sense of self is similar. And thus admirable in its own way, however lone or sad. There's no Adrian waiting to comfort him at the end of his trek. She'd already left the building. But there IS, nonetheless, one last "Ram Jam," one last leap of glory.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Hotter than a two-dollar pistol

I dedicated my graduate thesis, deservedly so, to this man (a 2008 Kennedy Center national honoree):



From the Washington Post article at the link above: "I think the whole egg in a nutshell," Jones says, trying one last time to explain his enormous appeal, "is that there's never been anything phony about me. What you see is what you get."

That's also what I love about him. He can sing the most intense, serious love songs, and then cut loose with the goofiest of ditties.

I also like his sign up outside his Tennessee home: "Forget the dog. Beware of the wife."

Kudos from "Films in Review" columnist





Films in Review - David Del Valle blog

In the midst of a shitty week emotionally, I was pleased and proud to get an e-mail saying that the film critic David Del Valle had nominated my Joan Crawford website as one of his favorites online! Below is what he had to say in his "Films in Review" column (though, I must note--"The Best of Everything" is a regular website, not a blog!):


4] THE BEST OF EVERYTHING

The ultimate Joan Crawford blog…even to call it a blog is to deny the full force of what this site does to keep the memory and career of Joan Crawford alive in a positive way. The book MOMMY DEAREST did this great star severe damage when her daughter made public what may or may not be the true picture of Crawford as a mother. However as a star there can be no question, she was one of the greatest and this site proves it over and over again. One of my favorite sites online.

-----------------------------------------------

It was really an honor, and a relief, to get an acknowledgment like that, especially at this difficult personal time. I may be inept at personal relations, but, by golly, I DO know how to convey the Spirit o' Joan to the world. Friends and lovers come and go, but in the grand scheme of things, it is the purity of the WORK that matters, that lasts, what you've given your heart and mind and soul directly to (as opposed to editing with your loved one in mind)...

I really have poured myself into "The Best of Everything" completely for the past 5 years, spending more than 30 hours a week (in addition to my full-time job) working on it. Why? Because a 27-year-old actress in a 1932 film once gave me goosebumps when I was 22... And ever since then, I've wanted the world to know exactly why she was so goosebump-raising. I thank god for the Internet, which gave me the means to channel my love and admiration for her into a forum that her admirers worldwide can share with me.

When national film historians (and Joan fans) like David Del Valle also take notice, it's delicious icing on the cake. Thank you, David!

Thursday, February 19, 2009

The Late Arrival




My travel to work every day involves hopping over from Jersey to Manhattan's Port Authority (42nd and 8th) to catch a company bus, which then takes me back into Jersey for my job. This all goes on around 7am every weekday morn.

Despite my usual bleariness at that hour, I almost always get a thrill when I first step onto the streets of NYC: the neon, the steam, the jackhammers, all at full blast...And I'm usually running late, and running to catch the company bus 8 blocks away, and trying to pick up a tabloid or two on the way... It's all very hectic, but exhilarating at the same time. So here's a ditty to my early-morning Manhattan.

---------------------------------------

The Late Arrival
(Port Authority, 7 a.m.)

Jumped a white-knuckle jitney through the tunnel of lerv
Spewed out where neon duels with dawn--the balls, the gall, the nerve!

Gave Ralph Kramden's ass a squeeze, one "To the moon!" before I dashed
Grabbing tabloids, jazzed to see what star, or plane, or market crashed

Slurping down each sluice of sunrise spilling toward me as I ran,
Smeared my greedy mouth with juices from the street's jackhammer jam

(How I'm starving, how I missed you---
Manhattan, here I am!)


----------------------------------------------

Some things in the poem that New Yorkers might know, but others might not:

"jitneys" -- crappy little run-down buses, often driven by cursing, swerving Middle Eastern men, that run between Manhattan and cities in Jersey along the Hudson shore. Since the regular Port Authority buses often are too few and far between during rush hour, if you're late, you catch a jitney bus...at your own risk! :)

"lerv" -- from Woody Allen's "Annie Hall": "I don't LOVE you, I LERV you..."

"Ralph Kramden's ass" -- there's a statue of "The Honeymooner"'s Ralph Kramden outside the Port Authority that I pass every day. (Gleason's occupation on the show was a Port Authority bus driver.)

"sluice of sunrise" -- in the morning on clear days, if you're walking down an avenue and looking east, you see the sun flowing down the building canyons/sluices as you cross each numbered street.

---------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

No More "I Love You"s...Please!




-----------------------------------------------------

I used to be a lunatic from the gracious days
I used to feel woebegone and so restless nights
My aching heart would bleed for you to see

Oh, but now

I don't find myself bouncing home
Whistling buttonhole tunes to make me cry

No more I love you's
The language is leaving me
No more i love you's changes are shifting
Outside the words

No one ever speaks about the monsters

I used to have demons in my room at night
Desire, despair, desire
So many monsters

No more i love you's
The language is leaving me
No more i love you's
The language is leaving me in silence
No more i love you's
Changes are shifting outside the words

And people are being real crazy
And you know what mommy?
Everybody was being real crazy
And the monsters are crazy.
There are monsters outside

Do be do be do do do oh
Outside the words

Sunday, February 15, 2009

My Slumdog Valentine!

My Valentine's Day ended up not sucking after all, thanks to seeing this beautiful, heart/gut-wrenching movie.(IMDB page)

Wow, what a ride!

I spent the whole movie either laughing so hard I was crying, or swallowing hard to keep from crying, or giving up and just crying, or muttering "oh shit!" or "oh my god!" under my breath from the plot tension...All the while marvelling wide-eyed at the thrilling visuals and tapping my foot to the catchy soundtrack (which I'm ordering tonight).

Here're the end credits to the movie, accompanied by its Oscar-nominated song "Jai Ho." I just teared up again while watching the video, just as I did watching it at the end of the movie...so grateful for the experience that I'd just had, and the gift of yet one more thing!

Friday, February 13, 2009

The Bus Long Snake

I'm completely knocked out by this profound poem (with accompanying art by the writer). The creator's a complete shit personally (no Valentine of mine since she's got a "building engineer" to see at a race tomorrow), but her work is, nonetheless, stunningly layered and beautiful and, as yet, ridiculously unacknowledged. I really dislike her personally right now, but...I can't stop reading this poem! :) (Damn...if I weren't such a prideful Leo, I'd love to just lie back and enjoy her. Alas.)


The Bus Long Snake

They found a fossil of a snake as long as a bus.
Don’t you wonder if Eve put her children on him,
to ride around on.
Or maybe she charmed him into her,
telling him it was just for fun,
just for the ride.
Just for the wisdom she gained of the knowledge
of how it could be used,
for the ride of good and evil,
like going to school,
having a teacher,
for the knowledge of good and evil,
for the knowledge that men are not Gods.
Since then she knew the power of love
to heal broken things
since then she knew the power of cutting off the devil’s head
since then she knew the strength of pain
when the bus long snake
came around to make love.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Manhattan, I missed you!

I started my current full-time job in mid-November. In the 3 months since then, nearly every cent has gone to catching up on bills that got behind while I was only semi-employed the previous 6 months, paying the rent, and buying groceries and bus passes. Aside from a couple of haircuts and a bit of clothes shopping for cheap GAP sweaters over Christmas, I've been unable to purchase anything for myself, really. And in the meantime, my good makeup was running out, my underwear had gone all to hell, etc. etc. There's such a thing as UPKEEP! And I wasn't upkeeping. And felt a bit decrepit as a result.(There's nothing worse than not being able to wear a new sweater because all of your current bras are dilapidated and will therefore make said sweater, and YOU, look a bit, oh...droopy.)

My saggy, draggy days are over, my friends! (Well, until it's UPKEEP-time again...) This Friday's paycheck was the first in 3 months that I didn't have to mainly save, that I could just SPEND, SPEND, SPEND! And I bought BRAS, BRAS, BRAS! OK, only 3... And one was the same cheap Bali-brand that I bought when I first arrived in NYC 2 years ago, the kind that too-quickly went downhill (so to speak)--- but that one's a generic white work-bra (as in "I don't really care if it's cute; no one's gonna see it"). The other two are gorgeous and cost over $60 each... That is, until I got to the register and discovered that, because I had on a red sweater, Macy's was giving me a 20% discount! (It was a weekend-long promotion for the American Heart Association: If you had on red, you got the discount; if not, you could buy a charity pin for $2 and still get the discount.)

Aside from my dilapidated-bra situation, I also had a serious dilapidated-panty situation. Now, lest you think I'm just negligent, let me explain: For the past, oh, probably 10 years, I've worn the same brand of underwear: "Adonna," sold by JCPenney. I swear to god, I've tried other panties in the past 10 years, and there was nothing like Adonna for not showing panty lines. They were cheap as hell, but underwear that cost 3 or 4 times as much just did not do the no-panty-line trick at all. As my current batch started to show signs of fray last year, I started searching for new Adonnas only desultorily online and in both NYC and San Antonio. Back then, the various stores just didn't seem to have any in stock every time I looked. I wasn't too worried; I thought for sure the next time I checked, I could find them... Nope. And this Christmas, after a year of looking, I got the official word: They're discontinued!

In the grand scheme of things, that's minor. In my habitual world, though... catastrophe! "No other panties fit right!" "Whatever shall I do!"

Well, what I discovered today at Macy's... In the past few years, while I was in my secluded little Adonna-world...there have been advances in panty-engineering. It's true. And the saleswomen knew all about said advances and shared their knowledge with me. I walked out of Macy's today with not only expensive/cheap-sale bras, but also expensive/cheap-sale panties...that don't hike up my ass! It was a good day in Manhattan.

And speaking of good days in Manhattan... It was about 40 degrees today, positively balmy after all of the lower-20s weather we've been having for over the past month. And it's been so long since I've been able to spend a whole day there just wandering around. After I got my "official shopping tasks" done (seriously, I woke up at 8am Saturday thinking only: "Bras/panties/makeup---GO!"), I made a beeline for the Union Square area, which I've loved ever since I worked there for 8 months last year... All the street vendors were out in the fine weather. One young woman was selling her small paintings of various classic movie stars (Marilyn, James Dean, Bogie). I stopped at her table to ask if she had any Joan Crawford... "No," she said... "But that's a great idea!" : ) : ) She was a hip-chick, so she wasn't trying to "suck up to the customer" or anything. It made me feel happy for Joan that I might've planted an idea in this artist's head...And it'll make me yet happier the day I walk by street vendors and actually see Joan in her rightful place among Marilyn and James!

Other Union Square delights: Popping in the Virgin record store, in the Strand bookstore, in a little off-the-beaten-path stationery/doo-dad shop that I always liked called "Kate's Paperie"... Window-shopping for shoes... (Today was not a buying-shoe-day. I was already worn out from the lingerie. Like lingerie, shoes warrant a whole day unto themselves.) And just leaning against a railing in the Square, having a smoke, turning my face up to the sun amid all the hustle-and-bustle (but also amid others doing the same thing as me---just sitting and soaking up/in). Enjoying a tiny kid in a stroller whose corduroy cap matched his dad's. Overhearing two 40-something women discuss beauty regimens. (One was bragging that everyone always told her she looked 10 years younger, claiming it was due to all of her own hard work at UPKEEP. Her friend was apologetic that she herself hadn't been trying over the years, and so was now paying the price... I was sunning and my eyes were closed when I first began hearing this, but I had to sneak a peak so I could judge for myself... The two women looked about the same age! The "10-years-younger"-one just had big chipmunk cheeks that OF COURSE made her, upon first glance, look more youthful... But what was her friend gonna say!)

As of this coming Wednesday, February 11, I will have been living in this area for 2 years. The first year in Manhattan, the second in Joisey, in a town just across the Hudson, overlooking the city. When I first moved here, Manhattan gave me goosebumps, as it had when I'd visited 2 or 3 times before. I thought maybe it was just me being dazzled because I was new... Nope. I got goosebumps all day today.

And, when I was on the subway, I actually got teary: A trio of buskers stepped into the car, 60-something-year-old black guys singing a doo-wop song from the '50s... When performers do stuff on the subway, you're supposed to look away, expressionless. ("Don't encourage them!") This time, though, I had to keep stifling a big, happy, goofy grin and keep my eyes from welling up at how pretty they sounded, how lucky I was to be able to hear them for free...

Manhattan's like that: So many neat, magical things for free, snatched off the subway or out of thin air; commonplace there, perhaps, but actually rare.

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Bill and Hillary

Here's a clip from Hillary's recent swearing in as Secretary of State: "...to my husband...I am so grateful to him for a lifetime of, uh...all kinds of experiences..."! :) These two are cute.

I remember arguing with my mom back during Clinton's impeachment trial---she predicted that the two would be divorced as soon as he was out of office, that they were just together for political reasons. I thought, "No way. He gives her the warmth that her cold father didn't (while still having the same intelligence); she gives him the structure and discipline that his wild mother didn't (while still having humor and intensity). No one's leaving anybody!" :)

"A penny, not a dime! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Speaking of the polite job conversations mentioned earlier...

Today my lunch cost something-and-33 cents. Instead of handing the lunch-lady a quarter and a dime for change, I accidentally handed her a quarter and a penny. Oooops! Much forced hilarity ensued, which tired me out tremendously.

I had a discussion once with a co-worker back at my corporation in Austin. Did we like the polite elevator conversations, or did we not? Sometimes, such simple things can be pleasant, making you feel "connected to humanity" for a second... My co-worker fell mostly on this side of the line, whereas such conversations tended, maybe 75% of the time, to make me feel a bit existentially ill at the utter blank triteness of it all... And I'm not being snotty when I say that. I don't feel "nausea" because Sartre told me 45 years ago that I should---that kind of thing actually does usually wear me out mentally.

On the same topic: Today at work I was talking with a co-worker about how much I miss working in Manhattan. She's from Long Island, lives with her mother, has worked both in the city and in the suburbs. To her, driving to the suburbs and taking a train to Manhattan is about the same, and she wondered what I liked so much about working in Manhattan...

Oh, I dunno. Not having to eat in a company cafeteria every day. Being able to step outside during your lunch-hour to go to the post office, or to buy a pair of shoes, or a candle, or a book, or a Christmas gift. Being able to grab a hot-dog from a street-vendor and sit on a bench in Union Square for lunch, watching passers-by. Hopping on the speedy, to-the-point subway instead of trolling along on the bus for an extra hour. Looking at the beautiful buildings. Spotting Elvis Costello walking by. Talking with co-workers about their encounters with Marilyn Monroe back in the day as opposed to talking about what your mom made for dinner last night. You know, little things...

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Across the Universe

Great opening lines:

Words are flowing out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe...

--------------------------------------
And then there's:

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---

--------------------------------------

And oh, OK, Old-Timers, I'll grant you:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and sorry I could not travel both...

Universal, Remote

I have an hour-45-minute commute to and from work every day. Initially, I somewhat enjoyed staring out the window, learning the New Jersey country/town-side. That "excitement" got expended after a couple of weeks.

Then I bought a little notebook to carry with me, thinking, "Hey! I'm a writer! I'll make notes!" Yeah. No.

I ain't gonna write about the utterly stilted polite conversation we bus-mates have daily on our company-sponsored bus that takes us to the suburbs of Jersey. The trek and the conversations are killin' me, but... I AM GRATEFUL FOR WORK SO I SHALL NOT COMPLAIN. There.

I will say, however, that a title and first line of a poem came to me last week while on the bus (thinking about a present that I was going to buy Miss Sandra and about our distance, both physically and mentally, from each other):

UNIVERSAL, REMOTE
We were flippant through channels

-----------------------------------------

I started mentally going on from there, but was coming up with trite cable stuff related to the "Discovery" channel et al., so I quit.

Did, though, think of something I jotted down years ago, after reading that the static that we now see on our TVs in between channels is actually left over from THE Big Bang that created THE universe...

Here was a blank thing, black thing, blanker
than the static remnants of the Big Bang
hovering in TV fuzz---ancient radiation
caught between our stations

-------------------------------
It KILLS me that I can't sustain the above thoughts... The fact that the Big Bang remnants are now static on our television stations... That is extremely profound...