Japanese Poetry Is All About Hair

So just before Christmas I bought a book of Japanese love poems. I had this idea of using them to decorate a picture frame for my boyfriend. Unfortunately, I got the idea, like, two days before Christmas and so nothing ever came of it; my boyfriend had to settle for an unadorned picture frame. Lately though I've been reading through it. I really like the simplicity. I love the way small details express huge thoughts. I also love the way they're always talking about their crazy messy hair.

I have masses of hair that's a little bit wavy and cannot be controlled. My hair is in the middle of a guerrilla war against me. I'm not sure why as I've always been really nice to my hair. I think it's still mad that I let my friend Brittany cut it when I was four. Or there was the time that I got a bad cut and it was kind of a mullet while I was growing it out; I'm still upset about that one. Anyway, whatever the reason, I am constantly battling to keep my hair in place. You know those hair bands that have the rubber snaking around it? My hair is cunning enough to sneak out of that in like, ten minutes. So I like this poem because I identify completely:

Will he always love me?
I cannot read his heart.
This morning my thoughts
Are as disordered
As my black hair.
-Lady Horikawa

That is a disordered mind. If my thoughts were as disordered as my hair I'd be wearing, like, a shoe on my ear. Or something really stupid, like a toe ring. These next two were written by a husband and wife. I like that he remembers her uncontrollable hair fondly instead of complaining that it always gets in his mouth when they're making out. Or that he has to sweep his bathroom floor three times a week.

Bound up it always
Came undone.
Unbound it was so long.
Now that I have not
Been with you for days
Is your hair all done up?
-Mikata Shami

Everybody tells me
My hair is too long
I leave it
As you saw it last
Dishevelled by your hands.
-Lady Sono no Omi Ikura

I'm totes using this as an excuse the next time my hair looks a fright:

This morning I will not
Comb my hair.
It has lain
Pillowed on the hand of my lover.
-Kakinomoto No Hitomaro

Seriously, Read This Book

So, I just finished Proust Was A Neuroscientist by Jonah Lehrer, and I'm telling you, you have to read this book. It's all about artists who intuited the way the brain worked before science could explain it. And it's fascinating. Lehrer expertly analyzes the work of the writers, poets, painters, musicians, and chefs (yes, even chefs) and then explains fairly complex neuroscience in terms that even I can understand. So you read this book and you learn about art and science and totally get smarter.

Plus, Lehrer also helpfully provides you with all kinds of smart-sounding scientific anecdotes that you can whip out at parties. It'll go something like this: "Of course, the most daring experiment proving the plasticity of the brain was when Dr. Sur successfully rewired the mind of a ferret so that his retina was attached to his auditory cortex. The ferret could totally still see! And his auditory cortex reorganized itself to resemble a viual cortex." Other people at the party:"Oh my gosh, that is the smartest person I've ever met." "I totally dig that hot nerd vibe." "I just fell in love."

See? Read the book. It'll make strangers at parties love you.

Dorothy Parker Rocks My World

Dorothy Parker was once asked to use the word 'horticulture' in a sentence. Her response?

'You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.'

One more time with feeling...

I'm trying the blog thing again. No one cares probably, because I've never actually told anyone this blog exists.

Poem of the Week

This is currently my favorite poem. Robert Hayden was a poet of the post-Harlem Renaissance period. His parents, Ruth and Asa Sheffey, were unable to take care of him and separated soon after his birth. He was taken in by Sue Ellen Westerfield and William Hayden but maintained a relationship with his mother, who was a constant disappointment to him. The Haydens had a rather tempestuous relationship resulting in fights and abuse. Robert's traumatic childhood had a profound influence on his life and his work. Despite these difficulties, this poem pays tribute to the man who raised him.

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm,
he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

-Robert Hayden, 1962

Nightmares

Ok, I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but it seems apropos for Halloween. My newest obsession is Jezebel. It's awesome. You should seriously check it out. The posts are funny, and the commentors are all really smart and well-informed. But one of my favorite features is that occasionally there's a post I think no one else will relate to and then the comment section just goes crazy and I'm reassured for a few minutes that I'm not crazy. That sentence was rambling and incoherent so I'll give you an example.

Today there was a post on pregnancy nightmares. Pregnancy dreams are heart-stoppingly terrifying because they are ridiculously vivid and lifelike. A typical pregnancy dream goes like this: You are pregnant (usually pretty far along--like the third trimester) and you don't know how it happened or who the father is and you are in no way ready to have a baby and you don't want one anyway. And you are consumed with guilt and anxiety and you can't tell that you're dreaming. You wake up in a cold sweat clutching your stomach and freaking out about what you're going to do and how you can raise a child without killing it and then you realize it was just a dream and you literally breath a huge sigh of relief and try to go back to sleep. It is the worst dream you can ever have. Except maybe the dream where your teeth are rotting and start falling out (or just crumbling) and you can't afford dentures or veneers. That one always sends me running to the dentist in hopes that I just have a lot of cavities because I've googled what that dream means and it is nothing good. It will make you floss obsessively.

I've always thought I was the only person who ever had dreams like that. I've even mentioned them to friends and they always just act like I'm weird. But today on Jezebel--over 5000 page views and 131 comments left by people who have had the exact same dreams. So I'm not as screwed up as I fear. Or if I am that screwed up, at least I'm in good company.

The Ghost of Halloweens Past

Today is Halloween. For the past few years, I have waited with breath bated for the arrival of my favorite holiday. The weeks leading up to All Hallows Eve are a flurry of visits to fabric stores, thrift shops, makeup counters, and costume shops. Multiple costume ideas are considered and discarded. The final ensemble is honed through several consultations with my friends. Then the parties begin and it's nonstop for a week. The first night it takes us all hours to get ready, but by Halloween proper blending four lipsticks to create the perfect shade of red takes only a few seconds and the perfect hair is only minutes away. And for those few days everything is perfect--I'm young and fun and beautiful and my only worry is dancing in four inch heels. (Which, quite frankly, isn't very much of a worry: I rock four inch heels.)

Last year I had two costumes--Catwoman and Josie of Pussycat fame. This year I have none. I vaguely considered going as a librarian or Charlie Chaplin, but then the question followed, go where? And with whom? This year, I'm lost and rudderless and far from the friends I love to share this day with. So, I'm at home in cargo pants and a tshirt, writing a blog entry no one will read and waiting for trick or treaters to lay claim to the bowl of candy my mom left. But next year... next year I'm a fireman.