with this line, I'll mark the past...
Sep. 27th, 2004 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Okay. So. Like I said. Bad idea not writing yesterday. I shall not make that mistake again today. Today I will get back on that zeppelin with Dorry, or get her off of it, and move her like a Queen's rook towards THE END of "Bradbury Weather." She's almost there. She only needs a little push.
Yesterday, desperate for the company of someone as sour as myself, I pulled Dorothy Parker down of the shelf. I read through her poetry and part of "A Telephone Call." I was looking for something which I failed to find. But that really didn't matter. I found a few other things I needed to find. Dorothy Parker's wit and disgust can lift me at times and make me feel less alone. She is as kindred a spirit for me as Lovecraft. She'd probably disagree. I expect she'd hate me entirely. But that seems right, too.
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I have to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
In 1973, Brendan Gill wrote of Dorothy Parker:
There are writers who die to the world long before they are dead, and if this is sometimes by choice, more often it is a fate imposed on them by others and not easily dealt with. A writer enjoys a vogue, and, the vogue having passed, either he consents to endure the obscurity into which he has been thrust or he struggles against it in vain, with a bitterness that tends to increase as his powers diminish. No matter how well or badly he behaves, the result is the same. If the work is of a certain quality, it survives the passing of the vogue, but the maker of the work no longer effectually exists. Even though he goes on writing, he dwells in a limbo of the half-forgotten, and his obituary notices are read with a flippant, unthinking incredulity: who would have guessed that the tattered old teller of tales had had it in him to hang on so fiercely? What on earth had he been waiting for? Hoping for? Dreading?
In 1997, Poppy and I spent a few days at the Algonquin Hotel, just before it was remodled and the prices jacked up so high that no decent writer would ever again be able to afford a room there. We drank sidecars and imagined ourselves members of some latter-day Round Table. It was wholly pretentious, of course, but then so were the members of the Algonquin Round Table. Or, rather, they exist now so utterly in another time and place, so lost and removed from us in every sense, that we can only perceive pretension.
That was the year before Silk was published, thirty years after Dorothy Parker's possibly belated death.
Into love and out again,
Thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen--
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said.
Could it be, when I was young,
Someone dropped me on my head?
Gill writes that Dorothy Parker "was given to making reckless remarks..." I can't help but find that admirable.
The nightmares were bad again last night. I thought the rain would help me sleep, but I suspect the wind conspired against it; I just hope we don't lose power today.
Okay. That's enough for now.
Yesterday, desperate for the company of someone as sour as myself, I pulled Dorothy Parker down of the shelf. I read through her poetry and part of "A Telephone Call." I was looking for something which I failed to find. But that really didn't matter. I found a few other things I needed to find. Dorothy Parker's wit and disgust can lift me at times and make me feel less alone. She is as kindred a spirit for me as Lovecraft. She'd probably disagree. I expect she'd hate me entirely. But that seems right, too.
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I have to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
In 1973, Brendan Gill wrote of Dorothy Parker:
There are writers who die to the world long before they are dead, and if this is sometimes by choice, more often it is a fate imposed on them by others and not easily dealt with. A writer enjoys a vogue, and, the vogue having passed, either he consents to endure the obscurity into which he has been thrust or he struggles against it in vain, with a bitterness that tends to increase as his powers diminish. No matter how well or badly he behaves, the result is the same. If the work is of a certain quality, it survives the passing of the vogue, but the maker of the work no longer effectually exists. Even though he goes on writing, he dwells in a limbo of the half-forgotten, and his obituary notices are read with a flippant, unthinking incredulity: who would have guessed that the tattered old teller of tales had had it in him to hang on so fiercely? What on earth had he been waiting for? Hoping for? Dreading?
In 1997, Poppy and I spent a few days at the Algonquin Hotel, just before it was remodled and the prices jacked up so high that no decent writer would ever again be able to afford a room there. We drank sidecars and imagined ourselves members of some latter-day Round Table. It was wholly pretentious, of course, but then so were the members of the Algonquin Round Table. Or, rather, they exist now so utterly in another time and place, so lost and removed from us in every sense, that we can only perceive pretension.
That was the year before Silk was published, thirty years after Dorothy Parker's possibly belated death.
Into love and out again,
Thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen--
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said.
Could it be, when I was young,
Someone dropped me on my head?
Gill writes that Dorothy Parker "was given to making reckless remarks..." I can't help but find that admirable.
The nightmares were bad again last night. I thought the rain would help me sleep, but I suspect the wind conspired against it; I just hope we don't lose power today.
Okay. That's enough for now.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:03 pm (UTC)Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
That has always made me laugh, some days it's the perfect sentiment. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:06 pm (UTC)Yes. I think this poem has saved my life several times. I would have used it today in the post, only "Theory" was stuck in my head.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:10 pm (UTC)I was jealous as hell a few months ago when I saw there was a book entitled Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin, that would have been such a great song/album title.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:56 pm (UTC)Mine, too. Especially during my teen years, when I had the words scrawled on my closet door. The involuntary laugh it always provoked was surprisingly enough to keep me from offing myself.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 05:01 pm (UTC)Many times.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 05:02 pm (UTC)Sorry. I've never really been able to listen to Prince.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 06:11 pm (UTC)I am an avid Prince fan, especially when I can find boots of live shows. I have to remember at times that evangelizing his music is a crime in 28 states and Puerto Rico. I'll only state that a great place to start with Prince is Sign O' The Times, as it's a gentler record that some of his others, more deep than fervent, just as weird but charmingly so.
OK, I'll shut up now.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 07:02 pm (UTC)I FINALLY saw him in concert for the musicology tour. I only wish that I could have gotten out to the after concert party at Paisley Park - I never made it out to Paisley Park when I lived in Minnesota. It's too far away from Minneapolis. He's really does the Howard Hughes recluse routine well (didn't even know that he moved away) but yeah it was an amazing concert.
And the Time opened up for him that night too.
So yeah fellow Prince fan. Although I never liked The Ballad of Dorothy Parker. It was at the beginning of his slide into Warner Brothers idiotic symboldom.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 07:45 pm (UTC)And yet, he's STILL an amazing artist.
We return you now to Caitlin's blog.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 08:36 pm (UTC)I would disagree about Emancipation. I see that as the one where he finally started crawling out of the stupor. And I really liked Crystal Ball. But I'm biased because the Musicology tour was amazing and I really like that CD (free with concert ticket)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 08:58 pm (UTC)And I loved Grafitti Bridge as an album- Joy in Repetition was an amazing song.
I can't listen to a lot of Emancipation anymore. Part of it is the tragedy that followed the album. For those unfamiliar, the second disc is pretty much a testament to his wife at the time (Mayte) and the upcoming birth of his son. But his son was born with a horrifying defect and died shortly thereafter. The marriage didn't last long after that.
And part of it is the three-disc idea. I just don't think there were three discs of great songs in here. Two discs, maybe. One disc? Would have been an amazingly tight album. Three? Nah.
One last Prince story: There's a 1987 bootleg, routinely called "Small Club", out there of an aftershow, I believe in either Denmark or Holland. It's an amazingly clear boot, one that I always wondered why P didn't release when he needed extra albums for WB. Anyway, the last track is the original version of "Rave 2 The Joy Fantastic". It's fireworks for your ears, with grinding, exploding, jangling, pulsating guitar by the man and his sidekick Mico. When he announced the album "Rave 2 The Joy Fantastic" (came out in 1999), I couldn't wait to hear the new version. But it was everything the other song wasn't- overproduced, sparse, dull. Same lyrics, but a totally different motif, and a pale, pale version of the original.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 05:03 pm (UTC)That is both cool and creepy.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 06:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-27 07:10 pm (UTC)I'm certainly as sour if not just bitter.
thanks for the Dorothy Parker turn-on
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 03:25 pm (UTC)You are very welcome.