in the wet

 

in the stars, in the cards

 

Dear Days Remaining in the Year,

I have a song for you, for today.  Aselestine.  

If there were more time, I'd write to tell you how I am feeling, but the days left are so few, it feels silly to bother.  I am trying to write this mountain of greeting cards, and there is nothing really to say about all this darkness and hate.  For years I have been thinking we will get to a place, a place in the future, where we will look back and say, Whoo boy!  What a terrible time that was!  It's so great to be here and think back on that time; like a fading nightmare.  A place you leave and it just gets smaller and smaller in your rear view mirror.  But thinking on the future feels indulgent and foolish.

There is one thing, I guess, that feels worth the saying:  I am sorry for the times I hurt you.

no doubt

 

Jack Stauffacher

Dear Letters,

I think I may have mentioned this book before; may have entreated you to read it already.  I know I gave one of you a copy of it.  I still hope you will take a look at the conceptually fascinating Alphabetical Diaries.

It's not just that it doesn't fit into our expectations of narrative; it defies all this continual page turning.  I was startled mightily by it, because when I am tearing up and painting over and gluing down the shreds and fragments of my own journals, I think that my silly words are a narrow little existence; I think that no one felt like this, no one one filled 100, 500, 1000 pages with their aching self doubt and their limitless self loathing.  But that would not be true, it seems, from reading Sheila Heti's Alphabetical Diaries.  

It felt so good to me to know that someone else wanted to try to contain themselves, to try to improve, to reform, to rehabilitate.

Here, for today, an ABC song about singers, When Smokey Sings.  The thing I like best about this song, is the little musical reference to ABC's really big song, Be Near Me.  Of, course, I also love that 'she threw back the ring.' 

cranberries

 

Dear Season of Sauce,

Your song for today!  Spread it on liberally!  More cranberries!

Oooh.

 

Dear What Can the Matter Be,

I have a book I feel you should read- only, it is devastating.  I don't use that word much to describe books and tales, but it is warranted, here.  I could tell you more, but you know, it might be nicer for you to be enchanted in your own way; plus-what, I am now very busy acquiring all the other Rachel Cusk books, so I don't really have the time to sit and chat!

PS  Okay, that might not be enough to convince you, alright; even after all these books, all this time, you still don't quite believe that I wouldn't send you someplace you shouldn't be; okay:  here is another description:  This book sees you.  Yes, you.  And you, and me.

PPS  Okay, you want a taste, okay: no, you won't get it from me!  You must go and forge your own beautiful, specific relationship with these 255 pages!  And anyway, why not just judge it by its beautiful cover?

PPPS  Okay, one more thing: it all happens in a day, just as our beloved Mrs Dalloway.  And if that isn't enough?!  The endorsement, the recognition, the cover, the similarity?  Well, you just cannot be satisfied today, I guess.

it plays a little melody

 

A pocket calculator.   Another pocket calculator.

Dear Grantor of Wishes,

What I want, O Enobled One, is a learned little pocket sized person to have with me at all times, to consult with on terms like "chiasmus."  A portable being who could unpack for me, the meaning, in the literary sense.  Not the foul block of text generated by our Robot Overlords that I must train my eyes to shut out when I see the degenerating* phrase:  AI Overview.  And not even, the kinder, much more useful sterile dictionary description, because I see, that chiasmus, chiasma, has a meaning used in genetics as well as in literature.  It means, Alice, in part, the little crossed section in the center of say the letter x.  Now, as a space**, an interstice, well, it's terribly evocative, but that still doesn't let me know what it might mean for a translator to talk about the formal preference of chiasmus found in Borges.  

And well, damnmit, Jim, I want to know!

Beyond this desire, for defining specificity, the contextual knowledge of a word, I want this little pocket being to be gentle, kind, but never condescending.  I want to it beckon me, with an excited little hand gesture, and say:  "Looky here!  It is this, the text refers to, to this concept, and that is only really the beginning, because the text might also share some of the context of its life in another field, and you must also want to know who uses a term like this, and when, and also, why.  So grab a cup of tea and I'll get a little bit of scrap paper and pencil and we can make a diagram of all the arms this word has, all the roads that lead in and out from it."

*  "At this use of 'degenerating,'" my little pocket person would say, "the writer suggests that the AI is both degenerating itself and the things it overviews, and also that it degenerates the user, or reader of the AI Overview, hence the writer's rush to avoid reading the Overview.  A concept like this invites us, as readers, to wonder if writing, if words, become less potent with overuse, over reading.  This could be a question, in the writers' mind, of efficacy.  Tangentially, we know, from other pieces this writer has given us, that the writer believes that one measure of a story's value is the number of times it is retold, referenced, or read."

** In a church, the transept's "crossing."  Certainly a liminal area.

slow fade

 

 A nice essay on effacement with a beautiful series of photographs.

Dear Contemporaries,

Ah, you must remember this!  They barely played this on the radio back when it came out, and I loved it!  I had also forgotten about it entirely.  It's all a big wheel, though, so let's enjoy it again and not fret about what is lost or missing:  it is your song for today!

the song I want to write

 

Dear Yall,

Well, here it is, another song I wanted to have written.  It's perfect.  You can say what you want:  it's too small, too spare, too self-conscious, too precious.  It's absurd, it's dorky, its proportions are as awkward as a can, as dumpy as a housedress.  I love it.  I won't not!

message from a friend

 

Sigrid Nunez

Dear Readers,

I know, you already have a stack of books, and you don't want it to get so tall it endangers you.  Still.  And yet.  

Let's say this, you have a stack, but you want a good book, a book for right now, a book to help you imagine yourself expanding enough to survive even this tragedy we are living.  Or, well, maybe I am claiming too much; how can I be sure you will find this book helpful?  Let me try again:

This year I have read over 70 books- I didn't expect to love this one; I thought, I might like it, I thought it might entertain.  I had never heard of the author (which is pretty much how it goes for me- no matter how many books I read, I still haven't heard of this book, or that book, or the book you just read!), but I looked at her picture on the internet, and I knew, I knew in an instant that I wanted to read a thing this person had written.  Even if it was about a big dog; and well, you know, me and dogs, we have a kind of complicated relationship ever since one knocked me down when I was 4 or 5 and broke my tooth on the sidewalk.  

Let me set the record straight, it isn't just about a big dog.  (Also, and if you have read any dog lit, you may be worrying, the dog does not die.)  It is also about Big Life.  I am looking for instructions for how to live Big Life, and this book, The Friend, is a good guide.  I think you will enjoy it, should you add it to your stack!  

I have to run now, because I need to go and get all the other Sigrid Nunez books!

there's this guy

 

Stay, Nancy Dwyer, 1987.

Dear More,

Make way for more amazingness!  Your song for today is one I don't recall hearing- but, you know, I have forgotten lots of really good stuff.  This is one for playing loud, and you should know that I heard it from a guy on Instagram; a guy who sits there and enchants you with his feeling for music.  Here at Radio Dodo, you will get less enchantment, but you will also get the whole song, and Ms Ellison will enchant you in any case.

on special

 

Dear Radio Dodo Listener,

A few weeks ago, my favorite DJ played your song for today: An incomparable lament, filled with hope and longing, futility and yearning:  The Losing End.  As a bonus, you get this original version, too!  And on special today only: The Meat Puppets!

where it's at

 

Minhwa (Korean Folk Painting)

Dear Hours and Days,

It has been a long time, 5 years, I think anyway, for my medicine to work.  Ah, maybe it has been many more years than even that?  The mind is very hard to change.  I don't mean the part of your mind that chooses which ice cream to get- I mean the part that seems to be hewn of bone, immoveable, unplastic.  Yes, science tells us the brain is all kinds of mutable, but, I am speaking of the learned things, the mind that is your conscience.  The mind that tells you when it thinks you are good and when it thinks you are bad and the mind that spends two hours analyzing if you asked her about the funeral gently enough or if you should have said nothing.  That mind, the authority part of your mind.  Ah, it's so rambling and vague, isn't it?  

What I mean, I think, is that I set about looking for a different foundation, a different sort of tool for coping-  you might call it acceptance, you might call it anything you like, actually.  But it felt like an open wound, irritated constantly, throbbing at night, and unresponsive to salves or balms.  It isn't, no it isn't gone, it is less.  Noticeably less.  Why?  It's hard to say, but I think it is because of wonder.  I have spent a good amount of time working to wonder.  To encourage wonder.  I don't mean answers, I mean questions.

Questions like these:

Why do I grind my teeth when they say that?  Where does my idea of 'right' come from?  What do I think my duty is?  Who told me it was my duty?  Who told me to be quiet?  Who told me to be nice?  Who told me to smooth things flat?  Why do I jump in there to try to make it less awkward?

A leopard can, I think, change its spots, a little anyway.

Skate Day 2700

 

These skates!

Dear Y'all,

Time to mark the days again.  To celebrate, I think I might get myself a subscription to Roller Rag.  What, though, will you do to mark this day?  You know what I think you should do, but, if you don't want to skate, I still love you anyways!

golden years

 

not forgotten

 

Dear Blog,

I haven't forgotten you- I had nothing nice to say, though, so I didn't say it.  In the silence, between my last letter and now, I hope you felt loved & wanted.

Today, I have missed the moment to 'style' my hair by forcing it into certain shapes with pinchy little clips, and so it is running wild, curling all crazy this way and that.  I am not going to wet it again and start over, though; no, I am going to take a tip from Melani Sanders and say: we do not care about our hair sticking out.  

I want to offer you another thing that we haven't spoken of in a while, A Word a Day.  It's always such a treat- today it is a tart treat. While this, from Christina Tosi's Bake Club, is a sweet treat and a third fabulous thing that is absolutely free for you to enjoy or ignore, depending on how you feel.

a film and a book

 

Dear Viewer,

I hope you have already read The Lover; I hadn't, and I always thought I would, it's just that a lot of years have passed since I first came across it- like, 35 or 40 years!  It's embarrassing, but I know you won't judge me, and I won't judge you, either; but I hope you do read it, I hope you read it in the next 30 days, let alone years, but whenever you get to it, you will want more from Marguerite Duras.  And so.  Let me offer you something that doesn't need you to turn the pages, but will give you some Marguerite Duras:  Hiroshima Mon Amour; your film assignment for this month!

PS  Now; not now, later, when you have read The Lover, or watched the film, you might want to read this, too.

a fall tune

 

The Dove, Pablo Picasso, 1949.

Dear Radio Dodo Listener,

What's new, you ask?  Lots of stuff, I guess.  It never seems quite worth the telling, all the new stuff.  I feel often tired from playing my same role in the pantomime, and it makes me feel like writing to you is just more of the same.  But I do think of you, and I want to send you some little token, something good.  Let it be Peace Piece, you song for today.

pool, bakery

 

Sunday

 

Dear Days,

Sunday is the best radio night on my public radio station.  The first show is Global Spin, which has, yes, World Music-  And if want to be a citizen of the World, you will want to listen to World Music!  Then comes the best show, Speak Low:  which is all kinds of good including French pop music.  It's a terrific two hours of radio.  Lastly, comes Citizen Sound, which is also good, sometimes even great.  The show is varied; I think interns run it, at 11 pm on Sunday eve, and I don't often listen past midnight.  This song, your song of the day, was played on the middle show, Speak Low, one recent Sunday.  It is great, no question; but if for some reason you are too old or too young to recognize that circular staircasing sample is coming from, it is from here, another peerless song.

the big wheel