Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Knick-Knacks from Grandma's House

by Kevin Mosby


The Knick-Knacks:

"Live Bright" Motivational Pillow

Miniature Pinscher Welcome Sign

Big Stuffed American Cock

Fancy Wooden Owl

My Name in Floam on Box Wrapped with Cars 3 Wrapping Paper

Drag-Him-Down-The-Aisle Wedding Cake Topper

Peppermint Patty & Ceramic Miss Piggy Mug

Ceramic Owl Plate with Raisins

Pink "I Am Grey" Elephant Tape Dispenser

Plastic Moose

Plastic Blue Flower in Coke Bottle

Captive for the Sheikh's Pleasure and Other Novels

Stranded with the Navy Seal
"Relax" Seashell Sign

Fancy Marble Elephant with Werther's Original Caramels


I have a good grandma (had two: one died). Both grandmas are/were voracious collectors of knick-knacks.

Dead Grandma collected trinkets from Disneyland, the mall, dollar stores, yard sales.

Alive Grandma collects bric-a-brac from Istanbul, Paraguay, chic antique stores, something called a bazaar, places where they serve you tea while you’re browsing.

Sometimes I wonder which grandma I am. I think I am Dead Grandma. 


None of the objects in this cabinet ever inhabited either grandma’s house, but they would all have fit very well in Dead Grandma’s house. Dead Grandma would have particularly loved Ceramic Miss Piggy Mug and Drag-Him-To-The-Aisle Wedding Topper and Plastic Dollhouse Toilet (no close-up provided, but can be found near the feet of Big Stuffed American Cock above), which she would have placed on a shelf in the kitchen because it made her think of the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat.’ Dead Grandma liked kitsch but she didn’t know it. I doubt she ever heard the word ‘kitsch.’ Or maybe someone used the word in conversation with her but she quickly changed the subject so her ignorance of the term did not have the potential to reveal itself. I don’t think Dead Grandma read at all (maybe the TV Guide) but if she had been a reader she would have read books like Stranded with the Navy Seal. Here’s the synopsis: “Working on a cruise ship was supposed to be the perfect distraction for chef Cady Crenshaw. Instead, it made her the perfect target. Abducted and thrown overboard into foreign waters, she has only one shot at survival…and it comes at the hands of an irresistible ally.”

Alive Grandma would consider all of these knick-knacks ‘crap’ and ‘dust collectors’ except maybe for Big Stuffed American Cock, which she might place high atop her elegant walnut hutch because she would likely consider it ‘tasteful Americana kitsch’ and she is a very proud American (‘land of the free’) so she likes to show off her national pride on a regular basis. [I’ve promised to give Big Stuffed American Cock to a Canadian friend ironically but now I am wondering if I should not renege and instead give it to Alive Grandma unironically.] She would certainly consider Plastic Moose a ‘plaything for little children’ and she would not be caught dead with Captive for the Sheikh’s Pleasure, although she might not mind being found dead with The Christmas Wish by Nora Roberts (under “Cowboys Are My Weakness” Sign near Big Stuffed American Cock) because given the title it can be assumed that God has at least a peripheral role in the romance, surely.


Dead Grandma has been ash nearly twenty years. I wish we kept grandma in a plain urn or even just a little wooden box in her old curio, now resting in my parents’ dining room. Instead the curio contains various paperweights, a mug I got at a Hawaiian luau that’s shaped like a carved tiki, a ceramic replica of the Las Vegas skyline, and a tiny Thomas Kinkade portrait of a calm blue river abutting a thatched-roof cottage in winter.

And instead of living what would have been her Golden Years in her favorite curio, Dead Grandma is in a box in a cold and ornate mausoleum that she would have detested. But at least the sunlight shines bright on her each morning as she overlooks the San Francisco Bay.

Grandpa threw away all Dead Grandma’s ‘crap’ shortly after she died. He’s a very tidy man and didn’t want the dust collectors around anymore. But then he promptly married a woman called New Grandma who had plenty of her own ‘crap’ so I think he was probably just making room. Now Grandpa and New Grandma have a lot of the same old crap that Dead Grandma would have had, including a very nice portrait of Mickey Mouse holding a little child’s hand. It hangs in the dining room near the good china.


I’ve had to furnish and decorate several apartments in recent years as I’ve moved from place to place learning various things and not. When I put objects in places at my new residence — knick-knacks and trinkets and baubles and other clutter — I think of Dead Grandma’s home, every piece of beautiful crap in its place.

Dead Grandma always wanted me to do ‘real good’ in school though she never graduated the 8th grade. I had to quit a Critical Theory class in college because the professor had the same first name as Dead Grandma and I thought that she would be quite offended that she had to share a name with such a fancy lady. Now I overcompensate by
1. enjoying Big Macs,
2. shopping at WalMart,
3. not correcting people on their grammar,
4. going to antique stores to buy vintage plastic dollhouse toilets,
5. cracking my knuckles loudly and unapologetically in public,
6. pissing outside at concert venues when the bathroom line is too long,
7. watching sitcoms that star Kevin James,
8. using a fork when I eat Japanese food,
9. only shopping at Whole Foods when I’m desperate and it’s the only store around,
10. reading one crime novel for every two fancy books I read.

But sometimes when I have guests over I remove Ceramic Miss Piggy Mug from my shelf and replace it with Book by Barthes, which I had been using to prop up a side table.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

On Reading and Memory


Friends, family, people I’ve loved have always noted my recall ability. Some find it strange, others impressive—interesting—even neurotic. I’ve always had a great memory. I don’t know if it’s all that special. It’s been, to me, born of a repetitive quality I have: to read and reread things for weeks, months at a time; or to remember and re-remember recent and old experiences I’ve had.

During the mornings, I wonder, sometimes, what other people’s morning routines are—if, as soon as they wake up, they check the news, go on social media, roll over and kiss their partner. For me, memory is the thing I always do in the morning. I always go back to the things I’ve been reading, taking in the words for the second, third, fourth time. Or some days I just go out and walk, and think about experiences I can’t forget.

In this cabinet are both of these things: poems I’ve read and reread over and over, and turned into a found poem. And photos from my life: of experiences I always think about.

Doing both of these things—reading and remembering—feels like seeing someone you love after a period of time away, and there’s that small, churning anxiousness you have, wondering what has changed since the last time you saw them. I can’t say that revisiting writing or remembering your life is exactly the same as seeing the person you love; but it feels a lot like it. And so, perhaps, memory is a lot like love.

Poems used: “A Short Story of Falling” by Alice Oswald, “White Dog” by Carl Phillips, “Entrance” by Rainer Maria Rilke, “Essay on Craft” by Ocean Vuong, “To the Dead” by Frank Bidart, “Still Fallng for Her” by Sharon Olds, “Writing ‘Ellen West’” by Frank Bidart, “Didactic Elegy” by Ben Lerner, “Untitled” by Eileen Myles, “Her Birthday as Ashes in Seawater” by Sharon Olds, “Rain Coming In” by John Ashbery, “Custom” by Carl Phillips

A Love Story for Memory

It is the story of falling
to flow green and momentary

If only I could find lifting
rain to release her into:

This is nothing like wanting, losing
Oh, yes, released: I’d understand her better.

She wouldn’t come back, as if
our home was the last home before

the threshold, before the lifting sky.
And no one else could come. Yes

I’d build a cage of eyes, fingers, a throat
—god, I’d be done. I’d be human

I hope I existed—the intricately
dreamed structure that displeases,

disappoints you. This is not wisdom,
or self-pity. Falling for her is

the glimpses of, moments
alone, pen & vocabulary, at the table
I picture her at the edge of a ship
listening to hear anything

Music, rocks falling, my own flesh

Who is she, that thing inside me that has
stored so much—obsessed with my

journey & progress till I reach at last:
my body (hiding, adored, stupid).

She has so thoroughly told me
to feel because I felt. I didn’t

want to but she wanted it lifted
from my mind, the thousand

myriad voices in my head
she incarnated like pajamas without
a body moving down the stairs, collapsing

As towers collapse, this
is the image, repeated, producing anxiety

but she remembers the image, like
works of art the experience is sad

but reveals: hope. But hope
(like a gaze) is the act of violence

not aware of its violence. When I think
about that mess, I think of us, pulled

to the irreducible nothing—
Nothing to grieve, nothing to fear.

Natives of this place made of blood
hair, teeth, meat.

Her and me apart like someone
on this great planet and the truth.

We hang on, in our own infamy
Humility—it’s all we can do.

But this home, to be from and
have people ask about is not

Mere memory. Its love is dramatic,
as it should be. I look for memory

Everywhere, because it is everywhere
to be found. I know, I know better,

And should;—but I call it sacrifice:

the way you look at this poem
so that you can set it free. 

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Raquel Gutiérrez // Las Rajaduras de Chavela Vargas: An Annotated Altar.

Las Rajaduras de Chavela Vargas: An Annotated Altar.

por Raquel Gutiérrez 

I was a newly minted butch in 2003, the first thing having arrived in New York was to head to the lesbian salon I had found in an ad in the bag of GO! magazine and promptly asked to have my hair cut really short. It was September in New York and I felt so far away from the México of my Los Angeles, California. I was a pretty awesome nationalist failure but in a new semester in the destabilizing endeavor in the mind-melding field of performance studies I was retracting into some semblance of puro avowal. I wanted to play in Aztlán like it was mama’s apron strings but couldn’t because critical theory. And I was game to discipline myself in a new space. Still that year I remember Café Tacuba playing the bandshell at Prospect Park and getting a postcard that Chavela Vargas was making her debut at 83 years-old at Carnegie Hall.
     Ay, chingao, I better get tickets! I said to no one in particular especially since I had no Chicanx friends in New York. I splurged the way graduate students are known to do and went in for 2nd row. And arriving it felt like Chavela wasn’t the only Mexican making their debut at Carnegie Hall. The prestigious concert hall was decked out in Mexicanxs. I sat at my privileged seat and looked around what felt like a holy domed cathedral (bc Catholicism…bc brown) and saw the Mexican flags—the easy gesture to signal que estabamos en casa. Not to be outdone, there were a couple of concert attendees that had brought in their Costa Rican flags, too, to help buoy their voices in claiming Chavela as their original. This I could relate to since my Salvadoran mother gave birth to a daughter in Los Angeles who came with a Mexican heart. For me feelings outweigh national affiliations.
     Then the lights flicker and I turn my attention to Salma Hayek and Eliot Goldenthal (the star of and the composer who scored the film, Frida) who introduce the artist to her public.
     Chavela no canta, es una canción gushed Hayek offering her tribute in a Spanish that wouldn’t need translating that evening.
     And it begins and it is transcendent. Chavela skulks to the microphone stand in her signature red and black zarape, arms raised to embrace her public starving for the kind of cathartic release that can only come at the stone-hardened tongue of Mexico’s finest interlocutor of seething heartbreak.
     And then it happens. The earth opens up and I am summonsed by the incantatory growl: Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona, picante pero sabroso. A performative utterance that hails me to strive towards an ontological apex—to become that brown butch that makes your mouth water. Dangerously hot, but so goddamn delicious.
     Chavela, flanked by two guitarruistas, has a mysterious bottle at her feet. One has to assume it is the tequila that has been part of her lore and downfall. But nary does she ever sip from it because as you learn in Chavela, the new documentary by Catherine Gund, Daresha Kyi, and Carla Gutiérrez, Chavela wouldn’t have been able to have performed at Carnegie Hall if she hadn’t quit drinking in the early 90s. It was in the early 90s that Jesusa Rodríguez and Liliana Felipe invited Chavela to stage her comeback at El Hábito, the cabaret space the two women ran. I always heard about this artistic rebirth from the anecdotal registers that came with being in performance studies grad program (and Diana Taylor dropping this bit of factual lore in the comment section of my Facebook homenaje to Chavela when she passed away in the late summer of 2012).
     This is my memory activated after watching Chavela. One of the many aspects of Chavela Vargas’ various transgressions that I take as a cautionary mode for a longer-lasting butch life. I have never drunk as hard as Chavela did—mostly because I haven’t made friends with anyone resembling the preternaturally gifted composer José Alfredo Jiménez, (a significant friendship and artistic collaboration with Jiménez, composer of the songs she made not just famous but managed to sear into the collective memory of anyone who has ever coupled tequila to heartbreak). I don’t know anyone that wants to binge-drink on Friday and end said binge by Wednesday. But I understand where that self-soothing impulse comes from and that as artists we hold space for one another when those impulses arise. And only within a kinship peopled by other artists who are often similarly discarded by families of origin do those impulses become indulged.
     Era muy sola. She says of her painful childhood in Costa Rica.
     Una niña rara. She was a masculine girl. The daughter of parents too concerned with what people thought; a traditional people burdened by a rebellious daughter. Her parents split up and left no word of their whereabout when they abandoned young Isabel with her aunt and uncle. Gloria Anzaldua calls these psychic injuries a “rajadura”—a hard split and it’s one I can almost innately inhabit as I was often asked to not come by the house whenever family from El Salvador was visiting. I learned the art of a solo Christmas early in my adulthood, opting to do an “orphan Thanksgiving” instead of coming home for the holidays.
     The priest upon seeing Isabel Vargas approach the church barred her entry. Her parents would hide her when guests visited treating her no less than a rabid dog.
     Is all of this what it is to be a brown butch in painful, socially constricted chrysalis? It feels so uncanny to see her life unfurl, an identification with her pain that can’t help but tumble out of me.

Her body           a vessel filling with rage
she had endured in her native country.           focused             leaving as soon as she could.
           Mexico City in the mid-1930s harnessed            rage         a musicality
that had never been seen before then.
           Con ojos de noches Havana, a Costa Rican national with a Mexican soul,
                      she belonged to all of the Ámericas
           In México she was raised in the land of men. Here in what persists despite the treaty,
           for me that instruction becomes caution.

Monday, October 23, 2017

Ice Cubes


     In the places where I work, ice forms on its own, without our handiwork.  Whole rivers freeze up in the winter.  I learned to drive on ice when a lover took me out onto a frozen lake, warned me where the thin places were, and put the wheel in my hands. In the ice fields of Southeast Alaska, snowpack collects, compacts, recrystallizes into “firn,” and then into glacial ice which—dense and plastic under its own weight—bends slowly downhill, cheesegrating mountains apart as it moves. Glacial ice is sometimes the bluest blue you’ll ever see—swallowing all the other colors in the light spectrum and scattering back blue like turquoise stones, blue like sapphires, blue like evening sky.  But mostly, it is filthy. It carries mountain dust, boulders.  Standing in the crackle and drip of an ice cave feels like standing in a galaxy.  Suspended rocks spread out behind the slick walls of ice like so many suspended stars.  It is remarkable, and unmarketable.  But ice—slow-frozen and wild-harvested or manufactured for consumption—fascinates me in its allure.  Which types of ice are sellable, and which evade easy packaging?  This is the subject of my Tiny Cabinet this week: an exploration of melt, value, fetishism, and intangibility.

1.          In the lung-chilling darkness of Alaskan midwinter, an ice sculptor raises a chainsaw at the feet of a reclining goddess.  He moves lumpily, weighed down with bulky clothing and slowed by the frozen sheet of ground underfoot.  Even in the perpetual Alaskan night, the goddess shines.  Her belly, her fine strands of wind-caught hair, a scissor-tailed bird defying gravity at the tip of her outstretched arm—all these catch and scatter the sparkle of streetlights. The sculptor and his team have spent six marathon days carving her out of dense blocks of ice lifted from a groomed pond near Fairbanks.   The pond is dredged every summer to prevent algae growth and bubbles; in the winter, it is scraped free of insulating snow to facilitate deeper freezing.  On harvest day, the blocks are cut free and plucked up by forklifts.  The ice is so clear that a newspaper can be read through it as through glass; it’s so pure that ice carvers around the world call Fairbanks ice the “Arctic Diamond.”  It is, they say, the best ice in the world. 

2.          A glacier might take 2 years to compress ice out of packed snow, yet the frozen water we make in minutes is chemically identical to the ice we harvest.  In other spheres, we’ve done a good job manufacturing look-alikes and derivations of nature. Willow bark containing salicylic acid—a powerful pain reliever—is synthesized in labs now as acetylsalicylic acid.  Almost as good as the original, except that it can cause internal bleeding.  We’ve largely traded the wandering chemical pathways of rubber from trees for the tidy chemical organization of synthetic rubber, made from petroleum.  Although the two look and feel alike, their insides share little in common.  But ice?  Lay an iceberg and an ice cube sheared off, side by side, and you’ll find their chemical structure to be the same.  They hover at the same temperatures, they share the same physical and electrical properties, the same viscosity and heat of fusion—even the same density.  Ice crystals from glaciers are slightly larger than ice-box crystals, and so a chunk of wild-harvested ice might last a little longer in your drink, but beyond that?  We have manufactured frozen perfection.  Our freezers may as well be microcosmic ice ages; our cocktails adrift with sea ice, to scale.

Inside an ice cave on the Root Glacier, AK (photo by Hannah Hindley)

3.          Still, a sculptor might argue that not all ice is made alike, nor can it be contained neatly in a freezer box. Where does object end and element begin? “A pencil thin piece of ice can hold an astounding amount of weight, even in shear,” says a friend of mine who carves ice in the winters on the banks of the Nizina River. “But the slightest tap or vibration (or even just a rapid change in temperature) can cause it to fail.”  He admires how ice breaks mountains in half, how it serves as the single most erosive force on our planet and how, with just a slight rise of thermometer, it can disappear entirely. It is mighty and ephemeral, resilient and breakable, just like the ice goddess that is no more. He describes the “atomic energy” ice holds, the way it serves as a vessel for light.  The way, when carved, it gives off a “ghostly hum,” or a “shhhhhhhhhhavig” as chisels set it purring, or the “glassy tinkling” of chips falling away. The ice, he confides, “feels truly alive.”

"Diamond Dust- A Voyage into the Kingdom of Ice and Snow" from Armands Pundurs on Vimeo.

4.               In conditions below -40°, “diamond dust” forms: drifts of airborn ice powder that whorl like storm systems across the landscape.  When we admire a person’s diamond jewelry, we call it “ice.”  One of the oldest terms for “grading” diamonds serves as a reference to ice: a diamond of the highest quality is a “diamond of the first water.”  The matchless “Arctic Diamond” ice from Fairbanks shines like a clear gem.  Diamonds and ice both share similar cubic crystalline structure. They are both strong enough to carve through rock.  At their most beautiful, they are the product of outrageous time and pressure.  They are translucent, chiseled cages for light. Both are shipped across oceans, marketed at extraordinary prices, served glittering in the bottoms of effervescent cocktails, sliced from their resting places and carted across continents.
Ice, though, can break between our fingers, can ghost like a trapped animal set free.
            “Embracing impermanence,” says my ice-carving friend, “is obviously implicit.” 
Diamonds are forever.  Ice melts. For the first time in human history, ships are successfully transiting the Northwest Passage, which Francisco de Eliza and Franklin and Cook and Vancouver all sought so hard to find and travel.  Arctic ice pack has diminished enough that the passage is navigable now for regular marine shipping.  Cargo vessels ply the waters and bigger and bigger cruise ships are offloading tourists among the sea birds and Inuit of the far north.  Extinction tourism in action.
     On the far side of the world, a Norwegian startup is preparing to chunk ice off of a receding glacier (the nice, clean blue kind) to airmail to clients in Dubai, Los Angeles, Tokyo, carbon footprint be damned. “Our product is 100 percent natural, more than a thousand years old, and very luxurious."
     Last week, I drove with friends through the night desert to an ice bar in Phoenix.  We were given parkas (extra charge to upgrade to faux fur) and plastic cups full of beer and were shuttled through an airlock painted with supersized penguins. Inside, dual projectors cast approximations of the Aurora across thick walls of ice chiseled to look like mountains. Benches and shuffleboard tables made of ice glittered under the blue lighting in the room.  An ice luge shaped like a seal perched on a bar carved entirely out of ice. Walruses, bears, and penguins sparkled at the edges of the bar, blockier and more primitive than the grand ice carvings of Fairbanks, but this was the desert, after all. 
 Research at an ice bar in Scottsdale, AZ with Maddie Norris

I spoke with a manager who wore an orange puffy coat and waxed wistful about bigger ice bars in places like Las Vegas, where “you’re not even allowed to take pictures—you’ve got to pay $50 to see the inside for yourself.  But I hear it’s really stunning, those ice sculptures.”  I learned from her that an individual wall in the room here cost about $10,000 to carve.  “We keep it cold, so it usually lasts around five months,” she said, and then: “Sir!  Sir! You’re going to have to leave,” as a dude on the other side of the room attempted to climb atop a polar bear made of very expensive-looking ice. 
     As ice becomes rarer, we fetishize it.  Witness the disappearing Arctic. Taste time in your glass.  Ride a polar bear.  When it melts, we can always make more.