The Romantic As A Raspberry

photo by N.V.

If he could
he would tell her how highways at night are like roses—
white roses facing east and red roses facing west.

He might move on to a metaphor–
about how her face is a page he’s been longing to turn,
or her gaze a blanket too beautiful
to count stars under (that is his way).
And when things got slow, he could
lift her up with something strange, or sweet–
like did she know that the cappuccino
she is sipping slowly under the awning
gets its name from the hooded frocks of the Franciscan friars?
(Those were a similar shade of brown
as the drink, and the deep dark of her eyes.)

Where others shut themselves, he opens;
he is like newly-bottled wine,
a coastal Pinot Noir, with a hint of raspberry lingering
in the aftertaste of simmered citrus–
too young, too sweet
for this year.
He will spend his nights in quiet rooms,
bent over clicking ice to print fresh rings over old poetry,
wishing, in the words of Ira Gershwin
or Lorenz Hart,
that his romance didn’t need a thing to start
but her and conversation over coffee.

I am not like this.
I think of ordinary things, like chocolate labs and laundry on a Thursday.
I have never read Keats or Wordsworth
or Joyce’s Portrait;
I will not write you sonnets
or sketch your silhouette on an evening train.
And when you laugh and say,
“You know so many words!”
I will not tell you it’s because you are a butterfly;
(it makes no sense, you won’t get it)
even though I see how with each time
your name cascades down my throat
it melts me, like the syllables in far-fal-la–
(which is Italian for butterfly,
and the most beautiful word I know).

No, love is a simple thing,
as commonplace as socks or bad weather.
It is the blueprint
of a house before that is even built,
where nothing can be lost in its dark corners
or laced beneath the wings of its patterned wallpaper;
(after all I should not wish to misplace myself
in the mere impossibility of you).

So, I got you some highways. Care for a monk?

(July 16, 2008)

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Broken legs? You need crutches!

Do you have trouble getting up in the morning? Spend long hours lying in bed, unable to lift your own weight? You may be a victim of a broken leg. We can help!

No matter how crippling your condition, we’ve got the perfect set of crutches for you. Fully seasoned (definitely been used before), weather tested (they’ve been hanging out on our patio for about two years), I know those look like bloodstains but they’re actually birdshit, well-cushioned bars of steel, built to heal. These babies are the real deal! Not only are they fine examples of state-of-the-art crutch craftsmanship, but they’re antiques as well (they came with the apartment. We’ve considered carbon dating). And they can be yours.

Crutches

Crutches.

What’s that, you’ve heard there’s more to the offer? That’s right Mama–these babies are ABSOLUTELY FREE! Lead free, gluten free, ad free, we’d make them hands free but that would defeat the purpose, and yours for only $9.99 + shipping & handling!! (Hidden costs not included. Promo not available at all locations. At least not any that you could get to).

But wait! Call now and we’ll include a second pair of crutches, at no additional cost. Why settle for just one pair, when you can have two? That’s right, two pairs of crutches. Charm the ladies with your swagger. Share a pair with the kids for full-throttle family fun. Recovering from surgery has never been so stylish. All this can be yours, and more: just give us your credit card info.

Crutches #2

Second pair of crutches.

The word is on the street. These babies are so fly, you’re gonna wish your legs were broken all the time! Please don’t delay: supplies are limited, and can go fast. Unlike you.

Call today.

NV 3/10

(If this doesn’t make Best of Craigslist, I am kidnapping Craig’s first-born child. And would somebody please take these things off my patio.)

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Dear Vassar, please take my ancient keyboard

(in response to visiting the Vassar music department treasure room on Wednesday, February 3rd)

February 7, 2081
Greater Republic of California

Dear Board of Trustees and Esteemed Faculty of the Music Department at Vassar College;

As I am writing you, I am in a state of wonderful health and nowhere near the end of my long and lucrative life. However, in the event of my eventual departure, I would like to direct my estate to leave in your safekeeping a much beloved personal musical instrument of mine, hand-selected from my vast and highly prized collection. This specimen is a rare jewel in the world of musical antiques, and I can only hope that my contribution will bring much joy and enlightenment to the realm of higher education.

Here are the specs of the instrument in question:

C.K. (short for “crappy keyboard”) is a five-octave Casio manufactured in the late 1980s. He is equipped with exactly one hundred synthesized patches that can make him sound like a truly blood-curling specimen of a flute, a somewhat nauseating banjo, an almost acceptable amateur string orchestra, as well as a lovely little music box. Much like the beautiful Viennese keyboard already in your possession (the one with the pedals that provide impromptu Turkish rhythms) one can select from C.K.’s hundred and one pre-programmed dance beats, ranging from salsa to disco to three entirely different kinds of hip hop. Lastly, C.K. comes complete with a song bank that features such gems as “The Saints Are Marching In,” and the theme song from the 1988 Japanese film classic, “Totoro.” A fine specimen of late 20th century craftsmanship!

If you are unsatisfied with what the instrument represents, allow me to demonstrate some ways in which C.K. will fit splendidly into your collection. I notice that you have in your possession a Pratensis harpsichord from 1610, which was once fashioned to look older by a reseller of vintage instruments. Much like the Pratensis, you could say C.K. has been made to seem older than he is by the broken RCA input: I have found this problem to be easily fixable by simply hanging a 20-ft coil of quarter-inch cable on top of the RCA adaptor (I am sure you have a suitable version of such a cable in your collection; I realize most instruments today can be linked wirelessly to their respective amplifiers using Google Rock). To add to the vintage feel, I will make sure that he comes into your possession extra dusty, with a set of original and perfectly authentic Duracell batteries still intact, ready for thorough academic research.

You may be wondering why I volunteer this particular instrument as contribution. What makes my little keyboard so special that he can stand alongside a 17th century harpsichord? Well, what keeps him from such a post? All things age the same: creators die, companies vanish, production ceases and availability grows scarce. Time has a funny way of bringing mystery into things. In three hundred years, my keyboard will be a relic, and the era that created it more distant, more intriguing. Even as we near the end of the 21st century, children are collecting mp3s in the same way that I, seventy years ago, quivered at the sight of gently-used vinyl. Is the older thing more important to us? Is it more interesting? Harder to come by, sure, and with a higher price tag, but is that fact alone enough to keep us from being fascinated by both? Or do we hold one generation’s contribution to be more important that another’s? Do we prize any one era of history above the rest?

I don’t believe we do. I believe that the real reason we value antiques like the Broadwood piano or that sweet little clavichord I remember Professor Libin playing is because of the stories they tell: stories that are older than ours, stories that will continue to evolve beyond us and perhaps in spite of us. We find comfort in this, in knowing we are one pair in a long line of hands, one owner of a thing that is too elusive to belong. We find beauty in the idea that the things we create, or perhaps even just the things we touch, will have meaning beyond us, meaning that somehow contains us–perhaps we also find peace. Anything with a history will always be valuable, because the rich and constantly turning lives of these objects is perhaps the closest we humans get to immortality.

Which is why you should take my keyboard.

Sincerely yours,
Nina Vyedin

P.S. Your new correlate in the study of Ancient Rock sounds fascinating. I believe students today will benefit greatly from studying the ways of the Masters. After all, it’s not often that you hear a college choir take on the lost works of Led Zeppelin, and I look forward to attending the performance in the newly renovated Martel Hall this spring. I hear you finally installed strobe lights! How very quaint.

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What To Do At A Stop Sign In California (and other life lessons)

In Ten (Relatively) Easy Steps

1. This is a stop sign. So is thisThisthis, and this is not. This is a stop sign in Canada. You should not need to remember the last part mainly because this post is concerned only with stop signs in California. *WARNING* If you should come upon a stop sign closely resembling the one depicted in the final image, YOU ARE NOT IN CALIFORNIA!!! You are in Canada. Other indications of being in Canada include sightings of Celine Dion, a sign that reads “Niagara Falls next left,” and people trying to sell you maple syrup. “Eh?” you might ask yourself. Don’t panic! When in doubt, travel SOUTH!

2. Now that you can correctly identify a Californian stop sign, we must talk about the correct way to approach one. But wait–don’t move! Is your ride pimping? If yes, you may proceed to the next instruction. If no, you may think about installing a set of spinning rims or a bad-ass speaker system. These little additions will make a huge difference in the long run. Personally, we think if the technique is good, what you drive is of little consequence. Naturally, we can’t all sport Chevys, Buicks, Regals, or Ribbys. But the beauty of California is that it is a very accepting place that embraces all sorts of diversity fun.

3. Now that your ride is pimping, it is time to go “rolling with the homies”. One must be in the state of “rolling with the homies” when approaching a stop sign, and one must seek to return to said state just after the stop sign. During the stop sign, one will still be “rolling with the homies,” only slower. This implies that you must have “homies” (and that they must allow themselves to be referred to as just that). There are many ways to make homies (even when you are not at home!), and we highly encourage you to go out and try to find some before tackling this tricky stop sign business. Before we proceed, there IS a difference between “homies” and a “posse”. You cannot have a “posse” until you have mastered the stop signs, among other things. And you cannot tackle stop signs without “homies”. All will come to you in due time. Don’t sweat it.

4. So you got the ride, you got the homies, and you’re rolling–that is truly fab! Congrats, you are obvi. on the way to true Californianhood. Unfortunately, rolling with the homies is not much fun without some sweet sounds to accompany you. The choice of music is possibly the most important decision you will make as you approach your stop sign. The music should suit the mood, the occasion, the time of day, the name of the street, the color of your cap. It should embody everything that is surrounding you–it should be metonymic of the very atmosphere it comprises. As a general rule of thumb, avoid thisthis, and this. You may also want to avoid this.
If you play this, you shall be mauled by rabid squirrels. Beware.
Some smart choices include “Ghost Ride It” by Mistah Fab, “I Wear My Stunna Glasses at Night” by The Federation, and “Bay Slang” by the Hyphy Boyz. Acceptable is “This is Why I’m Hot” by M.I.M.S., because he mentions Hyphy and calls it “Sac-town”. Even though no one we know calls it “Sac-town”. It still sounds pretty cool.

5. Windows dowwwwwn, system uppppp.

6. Stop signs are made to be noticed (as are all things bright red and octagonal on your side of the road). The challenge thus is not to not notice a stop sign, but to successfully deny its existence until the last possible moment. Or at least to pretend to have denied its existence all along. To the homies, as well as to the unsuspecting onlooker, it must appear as though you are cruising along and then, a stop sign! upon which you will effortlessly execute the proper stop sign maneuver and, Voila! Beautiful. Naturally, you shall endure a grueling internal struggle throughout the entirety of this seemingly casual ritual. You must not let on. Stoicism is key. The stop sign is nothing!! The stop sign is everything! Find your inner road marker!

7. Almost there! Now, the next step is crucial. CRUCIAL. So crucial, in fact, that I have decided to write it out in code so that everyone in San Jose can understand. Ready?

void stopDammit() {
if (copOnCorner()) {
stop();
} else {
rollWithHomies();
}
}

Execute it.

8. Other good reasons to actually stop include thisthisthis, and this. If no such thing appears, proceed to step 10. (If the last one appears, do call us. This is a serious traffic hazard that must be taken care of promptly and properly).

9. Finally! The stage is set for the most difficult part, and the true test of both your patience and agility. Approach the intersection head on (never arrive at an angle–oblique motion is a tell-tale sign of inexperience). Press down on the brakes smoothly and with calm cool control. This is an art form. Timing is everything. Imagine yourself a French aristocrat strolling the gorgeous grounds of Louis XIV’s palace at Versailles. Think aloof, debonair; picture yourself exhaling in ecstasy while exclaiming <<Ces jardins sont merveilleux!>>. Put your stunna shades on to help you concentrate as you glance both ways nonchalantly to make sure no other cars got there before you. If they did (les bastards!) inch forward very very slowly until they have passed, then continue on your way. Use the recovery period to work up to the speed you were cruising at contently before the blasted stop sign popped up. It should be seamless and professional. As a final touch, turn your cap backwards as you pull away, as if to say, “I would protest this being here, but my life is preoccupied already by this rolling with the homies business, and really, I’m just too chill to care.”
10. Do not get discouraged if your first few attempts are unsuccessful: a beginner’s mind is a beautiful place to start. Practice. A lot. Check to make sure you are in the proper state/nation/continent, and possess all the necessary equipment. Try changing homies or cars. If nothing seems to work, you may be hopeless. Try moving to Canada. That’s NORTH of here. They actually stop at stop signs there (we think).

How to Discuss a Stop Sign

This too is tricky business, but generally, it is considered good form to let a minute or so pass before commenting on an event, especially something as major as a stop sign. Usually, a homie will speak up first, expressing her opinion slowly and clearly while others nod in agreement. Your task is to essentially repeat what she said, with slight variation. For example,

She says: “Dude, that stop sign was like…whoa dude.”
You reply: “It was like, totally whoa, dude.”

Or,

She says: “Man, that stop sign was like chill, man.”
You say: “It was like, hella chill, man.”

“Totally” and “hella” are great intensifiers to add to your vocabulary. “Totally” is an adverb formed by taking the word for “sum” or “compilation of absolutely everything” and adding “-ly”; “hella” originated from the Latin word “helluor,” meaning to guzzle or to gormandize, or possibly from “helleborus” the name of a plant said to contain the recipe for madness. Do try and avoid using the two intensifiers in combination. For example, with the expression “That’s sweet!” one might be justified in saying “That’s totally sweet!” or even “That’s hella sweet!” But never ever “That’s totally hella sweet.” That’s like a double positive. People will laugh and throw things at you. Just say no.

Please note that while “Totally” can totally be used with “legit” (as in, “that’s totally legit!”), “hella” is used less so in this context. “That’s hella legit!” while being grammatically correct, is seldom encountered. However, one would be entirely justified in using it if one so wishes.


Congratulations! You are now ready to tackle a stop sign in the Golden State!

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4339 to Atlanta

On greyscale days like these when nothing seems to stand out it is easier just to stay inside our minds and color in our thoughts. We could be just like two preschoolers with thick red crayons at a restaurant hard at work on our placemat masterpiece. This is my favorite thing of all to do when it snows.

Living you is like living an abstraction, or a sunrise, because everything about you is bright like the outline of a Christmas tree or the skeleton of a city from the summit at three in the morning, and you are unbound like a firefly in a museum of lanterns, and endless, like the number of angles from which rainbows can be reached. And if I were an empty space, I would linger on the corners of your name so that your hand would brush against my continuity every time you began or ended something. You are so very beautiful sometimes I am at a loss for words.

It is 4 am, and I am sitting in a little bakery in Atlanta waiting for an 8 am flight. Our plane was delayed on account of our pilot having accidentally steered us straight into a huge pile of snow, so I missed my connection and have to wait for another. I just spent the past few hours chatting with the production manager for the Grammys and the Superbowl about Prince’s backstage antics, the concept of originality, Six Degrees of Separation, and the way genuine relationships always seem to recycle and rebuild themselves around something new and useful. He’s pretty cool. It is such an incredibly small world.

I am almost home. I am so happy. I am so inspired to inspire. I am so in love with something. I am so craving some decent coffee and sunshine and having the most important people ever by my side once again and forever.

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the california chronicles, pt. 2

It is twelve twenty-eight. I strike a match.

In the quiet I go running through the cool night. The sun sets late out here and it takes a while for the heat to evaporate, rising up through the brown and the upstairs bedrooms. I find myself circling around and around the route through the townhouses, clockwise like an old carousel horse, losing myself to the path I’ve followed for the past five years. I catch my breath on the wandering smoke of my neighbor’s cigarette as she waves at me on her way to her front door through the darkness. It tastes strangely sweet. She tosses it into the dirt on the side of the path.

There is no reason for me to be out here, except I have trouble sleeping and I need to breathe. I hate days when there is no moon. I am terrified of darkness, of loneliness, of something I can’t put my finger on but dream about whenever I’m at home, quiet disasters, little terrors that make no sense to anyone but my own tired mind. I wake up at cold hours, suddenly aware that I lonely, feeling like an image is slipping away, like a part of me quietly knows that I am at a point in my life where I have everything I will ever need, and that someday, soon, I will lose it all, piece by piece by piece, like puzzle that needs to be put away.

So I run my mind like a racehorse, until it is clear and I can think, and then I sit on the stair, watching the windows dim and the street slow. Out of a second-story apartment across the street appears a man with a fauxhawk and a white wifebeater, followed by a small reddish-brown dog with pointed ears. I can’t make out the man’s features; all I can see is the bright orange embers of the tip of his cigarette, and his silhouette against the staircase. He walks slowly up and down the street, the dog, leashless, trotting at his side. Then he stops, looking up at the sky, and exhales. Something about him goes so still it makes my heartbeat slow. In the window way above, an invisible hand lights a candle. He becomes a picture I can frame.

Sometimes I wish I smoked, just to have something warm in my hands, just to have an excuse to light another match into the solitude of my own front porch. I also wish I wasn’t allergic to dogs. Not sure about that fauxhawk though, it might throw my style all out of whack.

I write by candlelight, between sips of tea, my fingertips lightly coated in sulfur and potassium chlorate, from a room that smells like vanilla coffee and blueberries. The sprinklers outside are making a rhythm like rain on warm pavement. I like watching the lights being extinguished in windows as I pass beneath them. I want to know, are you afraid of the dark, like I am?

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why the world would be a better place if i had a boyfriend

**AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a satire. It was born of many hours reading best of craigslist. Please don’t take me too seriously :-) .**

Dear non-denominational deity of unspecified gender and number, aka God;

First off, congrats on creating the Earth. Very very good job. A+ first draft. Truly stunning and original work. May need some editing here and there, and a few of those characters are just kind of idiots that you can cut out, but the rest looks really quite promising. If you weren’t already famous for the Vatican and the Spanish Inquisition and stuff, this would surely be your ticket to celebrity status.

The reason I am contacting you, however, has little to do with your project, and more to do with my role in it. The truth is that, while I am perfectly aware that I have very little room to complain, I am not entirely happy with the hand you are dealing me at the moment. And so I would like to offer you a proposition. A compromise, if I may.

You see, someday, I will fall in love with a boy who is straight, available, and into me, who is not off-limits or a fictional character, a teacher, a creeper, a convicted criminal, or someone who is convinced he will end up married to his ex ex girlfriend from five years ago, or his mother. On that day, I promise to start taking out the recyclables and putting each one into its proper bin. I will stop going the five extra miles to the Safeway in Sunnyvale just because they have better blueberries. I will drive the speed limit. I will clean my room. I will wear sunscreen every time I go out. I will put my car up for sale and resort to using only public transportation as a means of getting around. I will move to a place where they have public transportation. I will take a vow of silence until we find an alternative source of energy. I will refrain from making inappropriate sexual comments regarding my friends’ mothers.

I will use the most energy efficient setting on the dishwasher. I will do the dishes. I will turn off all the lights when I leave the room. I will learn to fill out tax forms. I will balance my checkbook, find a respectable job, and declare financial independence from my parents. I will call home every day. I will stop eating in and around the area surrounding my laptop. I will limit my caffeine consumption to two cups of coffee a day. I will warn others about the dangers of smoking, and of driving like people from Boston. I will protest global warming. I will shop organic. I will promote research, of all things, at all times, even on weekends. I will permanently turn off my air conditioning, and convert my house into a Bikram Yoga studio. I will sponsor an endangered species. I will ban abortion, adoption, abstinence, and babies altogether, unless they are very cute babies, in which case exceptions can be made. I will give out free contraceptives, to anyone, at any time: they will just magically appear in your pocket the moment you need them. Unless you’re not wearing any clothes, in which case they will appear somewhere in your general vicinity. You may have to look around.

I will stabilize the economy—how, may you ask? Why, I will find a lasso and reel that sucker in like a wild mustang, and put it into the first old barn I can find. I will name it and we will share a special bond. I will tell Ben Bernanke to feed it only vegan gluten-free whole-grain raw-food things, so that it will stay healthy. On such a diet it will soon become not only very large but also biodegradable, as you may have guessed, and we will be able to use our growing economy to help fuel our jets, without polluting the environment. I will make all currency with 100% recycled materials, and compostable. As a natural consequence, I will no longer waste money.

I will legalize every kind of marriage, everywhere. I will make it easier to become an American citizen from Mexico. I will standardize prices to above fair trade. I will become a one-man co-op, working for the betterment of humankind. I will go to church on Sundays, and I will make it okay to wear white after Labor Day. I will make sure there are always sales on cute shoes. I will ban the act of wearing tights as pants, but clarify that leggings are alright with long shirts, because my friend Siobhan says so. I will bring back disco. I will party like it’s 1999. I will institutionalize the term, “mad acad,” and I will take the money we spend on sucking the fat out of our food and put it towards feeding the masses. I will make sugar-free chocolate illegal. I will make sure the only cell cancer sees is a prison cell. I will learn how to cook my dinner without setting the house on fire.

In other words, the world would be a much better place if I wasn’t so damn lonely, and if I could have a little bit more luck than what I’m normally used to, and perhaps even a chance to grow up. I realize you are busy these days, got a lot of things on your plate, but please; if I could offer you this deal, and lend you a helping hand simply by being an adult and a better person (and working a few miracles here and there), you may find yourself with a lot fewer things on your plate, and maybe even some vacation time (could be nice). All I want in exchange is a genuine bona fide beautiful stranger to walk into my life, asking to be taken on as a part-time lover or a full-time friend (the latter comes complete with full company benefits, but no trading options—let’s talk). Now, is that really so much? Cosmic coincidence is your middle name. Could you, would you, make mine a good one? And soon, if at all possible?

Yours so very truly,
Me

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invitation

 

There is an image
a pilgrimage
in fall inaugural,
that lingers like a leaf
a belief
on the fingers of branches;
A moment’s atonement.

So,
when the apples
come down
doll-faced
on grounds uncommon,
sense the separation
of ripe from unripe,
of gold from old gold;
an untold experience.

 

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Hudson River School

On your first day
in your blue dress you put on the projector a portrait of
the artist and Thomas Cole, in a landscape of shadow.
They stood poised against the irrevocable gesture of the wilderness,
like two geese in front of an endless lake;
you said someday we too would come to understand
that destiny.

And so we understood it
the way Thoreau understood it, voiceless
like a morning at Walden Pond, glimpsed it
through the transparent eye of Ralph Waldo Emerson
and the snowy curtains
of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s lover’s house–
but I never understood why you
came to understand it
much sooner than any of us.

So it is fitting that three years later
I find myself in front of a John Frederick Kensett
in a gallery at Vassar College; I think of your red hair.
The ships set out across a harbor of pale sails
like so many lost teeth:
the houses stand small and inconspicuous against the black rock,
and somewhere a steam train
coughs and tosses up pillows of smoke as if
scattering your ashes all over the waterfront.
It is cold on this side of the Hudson;
fall and its golden pageant ended early this year,
the earth and I are bound by a constitution of snow.
We stand knee-deep in wonder
at the edge of a darkened wood,
where no book can usher us
through a world sleeping deep beneath its own white weight,
like a page left blank.

And as I draw upon that nameless threshold,
that quiet sublime,
it helps somehow to know that you, so lifelike,
have already crossed it.

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Never think outside the litterbox

Dear cats,
You’re dumb. Please stop peeing on our bathroom floor. This makes absolutely no sense as the litterbox is literally two steps away from the place you are peeing. I know you think this is cool, but it’s not. It’s not cool. Whoever told you this was cool was seriously misinformed. If you do not kindly discontinue this behavior, Liz and I will probably disown you for the duration of 20 minutes.

Love,
Your disgruntled owner, and her new socks

P.S. As a reminder, I have sprayed the bathroom floor with citrus flavored vegetable wash. So now you can feel my pain when you wake up in the middle of the night and get gross on your paws. Ha ha, cats. Ha ha.

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The Aries Looks Backwards

The Aries Looks Backwards

Nights were spotted then, too, and longer:
In our living room linoleum,
digesting an apple in the middle of an
earthquake, I bounced towards the radiator, off walls stained
yellow from the bug spray, and the skeletons of
countless unaccountable cockroaches
veiled and very dead on the floor. I was laughing: you, looking at me petrified, put down the phone.

America has no stains or cockroaches. America is white as a plastic bag.
When you call, my iPhone sets off earthquakes in my coat pockets.

Nights are spotted here, too, and longer:
In new cities, dreaming of old apartments,
Never look back.

(This is pretty old, 2009 maybe?)

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Why I Don’t Like California

(this was photocopied from the original, don’t expect great image quality.  :-) )

Happy New Year!!

Nina

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Things Smaller Than Dust (A Love Poem in Four Parts)

Things Smaller Than Dust (A Love Poem in Four Parts)

One.

On the way home from school
I told you I’d read in a book
that an octopus has three hearts.

it was Wednesday
and you were mad because I had thrown stones
at the schoolyard blackbirds
with some of the other boys. So you swore silence
as we, two fireflies in the carpool lane
pushed through an hour of lilac
towards a gorgonzola moon.

these things I learned from you:
never light a candle with your last match.
make sure you know what hands really mean
before you use them.

Two.

as a child it surprised me to learn
that there are things smaller than dust.

there are things irrevocable and
lost upon the stone-age of roses:
things lost upon the dark interval
between the fire and
the thin layer of black ice
to which we so effortlessly return.

it is light that feeds our world, not stone.
light that lends flight to birds, light that belies
the stark beauty of our biology;
light that fills our hands
with light.

until it does not matter
if we go from dust to ashes, or the other way around;
the wind picks up whatever little it can carry.

Three.

These things I learned from you:
your blue curtains and the dark rain
speckled with dark birds.
your bed, un lit
by the afternoon sun
cascading from the casement windows.
it takes
three hearts
to breathe.

and it reminded me of a morning, once
in the heart of Grand Central station
when I passed a woman
busking in the cradle of marble,
and I could not understand

how you, my lark, so effortlessly sing
while we, with our broken bags
silence everything but our phones.

Four.

The room still breathes with the smoke of you.
of fresh laundry or the book you left open,
your water-lilly hands, the agents of unfolding
struck as a match against the skeleton of night.

these days we are the preferred members of our own private darkness
shy birds, unfeathering ourselves
for blind strangers with binoculars
perched on the neighborhood trees.

in this world where there is so much hunger
we would like very much to sleep,
but forget how.

NV 2010-2011

(long in the making, I just found it on my desktop)

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Your Own Personal Lullaby

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How not to leave your laptop lying around…

Thanks to my cat, Sweet Lazarus just got a whole new ending:

Command Z Command Z Command Z…

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The Way You Move Ain’t Fair, You Know

A photo journey through these last few months:

That's a violin.

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Melrose (Songs That Wouldn’t Let Me Sleep)

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AC in the DC: turn it up

If this shirt ever gets printed, it is going in my closet in a heartbeat.

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They didn’t teach me about this in Modal Counterpoint…

Dear JetBlue,

Just because I can read musical notation doesn’t mean you can ask me to check into tomorrow’s flight in musical notation.

Staff paper and some bar lines would help though.

Sincerely,
Nina Vyedin

P.S. The movable clef at the bottom of the page was a nice touch:

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There’s a record playing somewhere down the hall

That’s it, I’ve made up my mind: I’m getting dressed up and going out. If by getting dressed up you mean getting out of my bathrobe, and by going out you mean to Borders to work on my harmony homework. It may lack the customary glamor, but it’s still a Thursday evening on the town. Who cares about the party when you’re the party? That’s what I say.

It’s spring break but it’s been more like a spring Martinu marathon with opera workshop coming up, so I’ve been spending many glorious hours holed up in my state-of-the-art recording studio/rehearsal space (which also doubles as the master bathroom; but that’s clearly not its primary purpose), singing French arias to various personal care products while holding a travel-sized bottle of Listerine. It’s supposed to be a rose. We do our best.

I find in classical music the same retreat as I do in recording: you take something challenging and you break it down and breathe it and live and sleep with it until you have achieved a whole new level of mastery, a pinnacle of perfection. Of course, nobody else cares. The world will go on turning despite the fact that you’ve now got all your glockenspiel hits perfectly aligned; wars will continue to be waged and your favorite celebrities will still get still wasted without giving the slightest dang about your aria. But you feel, for a moment, that one small part of this crazy world has been made to work as it should–as if one piece of this great puzzle has been solved, and by you. And you’re just a little stronger, a little more in tune because of it, which explains why you’re willing to go do it all over again when the time comes.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the legendary, dare I say epic spring break of 2010. I’ve been volunteering the rest of my time running errands in the city, driving the little ’99 Corolla down 280 North while slowly discovering the soundtrack of my life (namely, this album that I bought for three dollars at a Mountain View used book store, track 5, on repeat*), trying to teach myself to live smaller, to worry less about the road and where it’s taking me and to feel more of the sun creeping up against my left arm, and the season opening up all around us.

(See, this is what happens when you own Walden on audiotape. It comes up in your iTunes shuffle with alarming frequency, usually followed by RENT or Aaron Carter.)

Oh California, you’ve been too good to me.

Welcome to my lair.

(*In fact, you can download a bunch of free awesome live recordings of this band, courtesy of Daytrotter. What would I do without Daytrotter? Oh, that’s right, cry.)

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E-M: making computers smarter one post at a time

Found this article on my kitchen table. Thanks, Economist. Always nice to know I’m bringing civilization another step closer to being taken over by the machines.

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at least it wasn’t Ke$ha. yet.

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Post-it Quotes

“The problem is not that there is too much music in the world, but that there is too little of the world in music”

–Mat Callahan, in his absolutely brilliant commentary on the state of the music industry.

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Obama promised mad reform up in this b*tch

I’ve always known that music and politics were connected, but this is taking it to a whole new (motherf*cking) level.

(For those unaware of the Insane Clown Posse, you can familiarize yourself with this video. It might help to remember that they were once signed to this Disney record label. Yep. Just like Miley!)

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Ah finally, a musical instrument you can eat!

Just saw the Avett Brothers on Ace of Cakes. And yep, there was Banjo Cake involved. Banjo Cake. I think I’m in love with a food item.

(Photo from David Mayfield’s Twitter, via the Avett Brothers’ forum.)

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Post-it Quotes

“If the Phillies win, I’m never eating cheese steak again”
–overheard at the Acropolis Diner

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Protected: Mixed Nuts and Pasta Salad: A Photodiary

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RSTGYTAM…yes, it’s back.

(RSTGYTAM=”Ridiculous Shit to Get You Through A Monday”). Been a while since I’ve done one of these.

While googling the lyrics to…well, I better not say to protect my musical reputation…I chanced upon the following pop up window. It read: “I have slept with over 17 girls in 6 weeks using this technique.” “This technique” being a series of lectures and videos telling guys who are “socially awkward” how to make themselves more appealing to girls. Now, I’m not one to fall for consumer scams, but I’m flattered that the scammers see us women not only as valuable objects, on par with free purple Macbooks and $10,000 prize giveaways, but also as something to be tampered with only by those in possession of a secret technique once developed by the ancient ninja yogi masters. Please Webster, lay down the definitions. Clearly, seducing us is a delicate art form that may only be mastered by careful study of the fine print of the Black Book of Seduction.

Hear that boys? You better shape up. You can learn more about it at www.becomeaplayer.com.

No, really.

Despite my father’s constant denial of my status as an educated human being due the the fact that I have yet to finish reading The Three Musketeers (okay, French guys, horses, monarchy…I think I get the gist), I spent a great deal of my childhood reading and have become familiar with a fair number of books. Thanks to my twelfth-grade English teacher, I have also gotten through my share of obscure European novels that follow odd philosophical trends no one else seems to know about, which automatically make me sound smarter because that’s what happens when you bring up the words “phenomenology” and “penultimate” in class. However, never in my entire literary lifetime have I run across something as deeply disturbing, and yet so enticing, as this. I simply must read it. It sounds absolutely brilliant.

Last but not least, a link off one of my Facebook friends’ profiles, a Google list of one-hit wonders of the ’60s and ’70s. Not gonna tell you how many hours I spent on here. Too many.

Happy Monday,

N

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Post-it Quotes

“This song’s called ‘Fuck This Place, Let it Go Up In Flames’”
~guy at open mic, Red Rock Cafe

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Photosynthesis

Photosynthesis
(for Kelsey Forest)

When we became wildflowers,
we spent our afternoons on a hill–
young leaves searching skyward,
buds seeking sun, waiting for blossoming.
And though we could have opened up
as roses in our red dresses, alone in towers of thorn and hip,
we chose instead to bloom in the key of violet,
which they say
is the unforgettable color of sadness.

Hearing this, some will insist
that the prospect of flowers, strewn
across hills and afternoons
depends solely on the language of bees—
of would be’s and maybies and probably won’t be’s.
I say, however, that leaves,
falling carelessly with each passing season,
leave secret scars on the bodies of trees.
Far better to be a flower: we shoot
our own roots down, our own stems upward.
We strain to grasp both soil and sky with little hands.

So don’t wither, darling, over lost petals
and perennial things. Fill instead
your crown with shades of jade,
sating the palisades of your skin as you
break down the sweetness
of life drawn from pigments strange, within veins pulsating warm,
developing in dusky rooms the complexity
of your own dark reactions,
releasing with each new breath the harvest
of the light
that is you.

NV 5/09

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Protected: On the tales of Morpheus the metronome, advice to opera singers, house keys, hot chocolate, and the incredible adventures of rain.

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Post-it-Quotes

“You need not find a cure for everything that makes you weak.”–PostSecret

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