from the rushes

poems to read before you die, again.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 15:21:00 +0000

One of my earliest entries on this blog was to list some poems that had impacted me in my life, and that I felt everyone should read before they die. I would like to add to that list of around 18 poems now. I'm becoming aware that many of these poems are simply "what I'm sort of into right now," but I already know that most of these will stand the test of time and stay my favorites.

1. tender buttons by Gertrude Stein

2. litany in which certain things are crossed out by Richard Siken

3. trilogy by H.D.

4. facing it by Yusef Komunyakaa

5. childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies by Edna St Vincent Millay

6. cigarettes, whisky, and wild wild women by Anne Sexton

7. traveling through the dark by William Stafford

8. edge by Sylvia Plath

9. one art by Elizabeth Bishop

10. the courage that my mother had by Edna St Vincent Millay

iris moulton interview

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 17:33:00 +0000

my interview on kansas blotter.

click here

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 15:24:00 +0000

Many amazing Kansas writers are being interviewed on writer Ben Cartwright's blog/project Kansasblotter.

In the interest of full disclosure: many of these writers are my friends, and so is Ben. Maybe that isn't so much full disclosure, as bragging rights.

Speaking of bragging rights, I may make an appearance on the site someday!

Beauty by BH Fairchild

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 12:54:00 +0000

Beauty
B.H. Fairchild

Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful. . .
-James Wright, "Autumn Begins in Martin's Ferry, Ohio"

I.
We are at the Bargello in Florence, and she says,
what are you thinking? and I say, beauty, thinking
of how very far we are now from the machine shop
and the dry fields of Kansas, the treeless horizons
of slate skies and the muted passions of roughnecks
and scrabble farmers drunk and romantic enough
to weep more or less silently at the darkened end
of the bar out of, what else, loneliness, meaning
the ache of thwarted desire, of, in a word, beauty,
or rather its absence, and it occurs to me again
that no male member of my family has ever used
this word in my hearing or anyone else's except
in reference, perhaps, to a new pickup or dead deer.
This insight, this backward vision, first came to me
as a young man as some weirdness of the air waves
slipped through the static of our new Motorola
with a discussion of beauty between Robert Penn Warren
and Paul Weiss at Yale College. We were in Kansas
eating barbecue-flavored potato chips and waiting
for Father Knows Best to float up through the snow
of rural TV in 1963. I felt transported, stunned.
Here are two grown men discussing "beauty"
seriously and with dignity as if they and the topic
were as normal as normal topics of discussion
between men such as soybean prices or why
the commodities market was a sucker's game
or Oklahoma football or Gimpy Neiderland
almost dying from his hemorrhoid operation.
They were discussing beauty and tossing around
allusions to Plato and Aristotle and someone
named Pater, and they might be homosexuals.
That would be a natural conclusion, of course,
since here were two grown men talking about "beauty"
instead of scratching their crotches and cursing
the goddamned government trying to run everybody's
business. Not a beautiful thing, that. The government.
Not beautiful, though a man would not use that word.
One time my Uncle Ross from California called my mom's
Sunday dinner centerpiece "lovely" and my father
left the room, clearly troubled by the word "lovely"
coupled probably with the very idea of California
and the fact that my Uncle Ross liked to tap-dance.
The light from the venetian blinds, the autumn,
silver Kansas light laving the table that Sunday,
is what I recall now because it was beautiful,
though I of course would not have said so then, beautiful,
as so many moments forgotten but later remembered
come back to us in slants and pools and uprisings of light,
beautiful in itself, but more beautiful mingled
with memory, the light leaning across my mother's
carefully set table, across the empty chair
beside my Uncle Ross, the light filtering down
from the green plastic slats in the roof of the machine shop
where I worked with my father so many afternoons,
standing or crouched in pools of light and sweat with men
who knew the true meaning of labor and money and other
hard, true things and did not, did not ever, use the word, beauty.

II.
Late November, shadows gather in the shop's north end,
and I'm watching Bobby Sudduth do piece work on the Hobbs.
He fouls another cut, motherfucker, fucking bitch machine,
and starts over, sloppy, slow, about two joints away
from being fired, but he just doesn't give a shit.
He sets the bit again, white wrists flashing in the lamplight
and showing botched, blurred tattoos, both from a night
in Tijuana, and continues his sexual autobiography,
that's right, fucked my own sister, and I'll tell you, bud,
it wasn't bad. Later, in the Phillipines, the clap:
as far as I'm concerned, any man who hasn't had V.D.
just isn't a man. I walk away, knowing I have just heard
the dumbest remark ever uttered by man or animal.
The air around me hums in a dark metallic bass,
light spilling like grails of milk as someone opens
the mammoth shop door. A shrill, sullen truculence
blows in like dust devils, the hot wind nagging
my blousy overalls, and in the sideyard the winch truck
backfires and stalls. The sky yellows. Barn sparrows cry
in the rafters. That afternoon in Dallas Kennedy is shot.

Two weeks later sitting around on rotary tables
and traveling blocks whose bearings litter the shop floor
like huge eggs, we close our lunch boxes and lean back
with cigarettes and watch smoke and dust motes rise and drift
into sunlight. All of us have seen the newscasts,
photographs from Life, have sat there in our cavernous rooms,
assassinations and crowds flickering over our faces,
some of us have even dreamed it, sleeping through
the TV's drone and flutter, seen her arm reaching
across the lank body, black suits rushing in like moths,
and the long snake of the motorcade come to rest,
then the announcer's voice as we wake astonished in the dark.
We think of it now, staring at the tin ceiling like a giant screen,
what a strange goddamned country, as Bobby Sudduth
arches a wadded Fritos bag at the time clock and says,
Oswald, from that far, you got to admit, that shot was a beauty.

III.
The following summer. A black Corvette gleams like a slice
of onyx in the sideyard, driven there by two young men
who look like Marlon Brando and mention Hollywood
when Bobby asks where they're from. The foreman, my father,
has hired them because we're backed up with work, both shop
and yard strewn with rig parts, flat-bed haulers rumbling
in each day lugging damaged drawworks, and we are desperate.
The noise is awful, a gang of roughnecks from a rig
on down-time shouting orders, our floor hands knee-deep
in the drawwork's gears heating the frozen sleeves and bushings
with cutting torches until they can be hammered loose.
The iron shell bangs back like a drum-head. Looking
for some peace, I walk onto the pipe rack for a quick smoke,
and this is the way it begins for me, this memory,
this strangest of all memories of the shop and the men
who worked there, because the silence has come upon me
like the shadow of cranes flying overhead as they would
each autumn, like the quiet and imperceptible turning
of a season, the shop has grown suddenly still here
in the middle of the workday, and I turn to look
through the tall doors where the machinist stand now
with their backs to me, the lathes whining down together,
and in the shop's center I see them standing in a square
of light, the two men from California, as the welders
lift their black masks, looking up, and I see their faces first,
the expressions of children at a zoo, perhaps,
or after a first snow, as the two men stand naked,
their clothes in little piles on the floor as if they
are about to go swimming, and I recall how fragile
and pale their bodies seemed against the iron and steel
of the drill presses and milling machines and lathes.
I did not know the word, exhibitionist, then, and so
for a moment it seemed only a problem of memory,
that they had forgotten somehow where they were,
that this was not the locker room after the game,
that they were not taking a shower, that this was not
the appropriate place, and they would then remember,
and suddenly embarrassed, begin shyly to dress again.
But they did not, and in memory they stand frozen
and poised as two models in a drawing class,
of whom the finished sketch might be said, though not by me
nor any man I knew, to be beautiful, they stand there
forever, with the time clock ticking behind them,
time running on but not moving, like the white tunnel
of silence between the snap of the ball and the thunderclap
of shoulder pads that never seems to come and then
there it is, and I hear a quick intake of breath
on my right behind the Hobbs and it is Bobby Sudduth
with what I think now was not just anger but a kind
of terror on his face, an animal wildness
in the eyes and the jaw tight, making ropes in his neck
while in a long blur with his left hand raised and gripping
an iron file he is moving toward the men who wait
attentive and motionless as deer trembling in a clearing,
and instantly there is my father between Bobby
and the men as if he were waking them after a long sleep,
reaching out to touch the shoulder of the blonde one
as he says in a voice almost terrible in its gentleness,
its discretion, you boys will have to leave now.
He takes one look at Bobby who is shrinking back
into the shadows of the Hobbs, then walks quickly back
to his office at the front of the shop, and soon
the black Corvette with the orange California plates
is squealing onto Highway 54 heading west into the sun.

IV.
So there they are, as I will always remember them,
the men who were once fullbacks or tackles or guards
in their three-point stances knuckling into the mud,
hungry for highschool glory and the pride of their fathers,
eager to gallop terribly against each other's bodies,
each man in his body looking out now at the nakedness
of a body like his, men who each autumn had followed
their fathers into the pheasant-rich fields of Kansas
and as boys had climbed down from the Allis-Chalmers
after plowing their first straight furrow, licking the dirt
from their lips, the hand of the father resting lightly
upon their shoulder, men who in the oven-warm winter
kitchens of Baptist households saw after a bath the body
of the father and felt diminished by it, who that same
winter in the abandoned schoolyard felt the odd intimacy
of their fist against the larger boy's cheekbone
but kept hitting, ferociously, and walked away
feeling for the first time the strength, the abundance,
of their own bodies. And I imagine the men
that evening after the strangest day of their lives,
after they have left the shop without speaking
and made the long drive home alone in their pickups,
I see them in their little white frame houses on the edge
of town adrift in the long silence of the evening turning
finally to their wives, touching without speaking the hair
which she has learned to let fall about her shoulders
at this hour of the night, lifting the white nightgown
from her body as she in turn unbuttons his work shirt
heavy with the sweat and grease of the day's labor until
they stand naked before each other and begin to touch
in a slow choreography of familiar gestures their bodies,
she touching his chest, his hand brushing her breasts,
and he does not say the word "beautiful" because
he cannot and never has, and she does not say it
because it would embarrass him or any other man
she has ever known, though it is precisely the word
I am thinking now as I stand before Donatello's David
with my wife touching my sleeve, what are you thinking?
and I think of the letter from my father years ago
describing the death of Bobby Sudduth, a single shot
from a twelve-gauge which he held against his chest,
the death of the heart, I suppose, a kind of terrible beauty,
as someone said of the death of Hart Crane, though that is
surely a perverse use of the word, and I was stunned then,
thinking of the damage men will visit upon their bodies,
what are you thinking? she asks again, and so I begin
to tell her about a strange afternoon in Kansas,
about something I have never spoken of, and we walk
to a window where the shifting light spreads a sheen
along the casement, and looking out, we see the city
blazing like miles of uncut wheat, the farthest buildings
taken in their turn, and the great dome, the way
the metal roof of the machine shop, I tell her,
would break into flame late on an autumn day, with such beauty.

short girl, tall grass.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:22:00 +0000

one lovely day in early autumn a girl and some friends ventured into the kansas prairie.

this prairie is known as the flint hills of kansas.

that girl is me, by the way.

i loved this white horse.

it is standing in front of a large limestone barn, dating back to homestead days. of yonder.

inside the barn were many wonders.

including a chance to become rangers, and point to wildflowers, and wave to friends.

and homestead tools.

i'm not sure if the tools are originals, but the cobwebs may be.

here is a guide to kansas birds.

what this guide doesn't tell you is many of these birds aren't just kansas birds.

birds don't pay attention to state lines. the killdeer, for example, just looks for waterlines.

that could mean a salt lake city swimming pool.

or not.

we almost hit one with our car the other day.

in the second row from the bottom, second from the left, is a scissor tailed fly catcher.

i have set a personal goal of seeing one while i live in here.

(it hasn't happened yet).

but the flint hills don't happen in a barn.

the flint hills are outside these doors.

(also outside these doors is that mystical white horse).

and the farm house.

and... a church?

no.

the woman who lived here was so afraid of kansas weather that she wanted every safety precaution possible at all times.

this is, quite possibly, the world's most secure outhouse.

told you...

anyway.

welcome to the prairie!

this is the nation (of the united states of america)'s last remaining 4% of untouched tallgrass prairie land.

and here's judd, learning all about it.

and here, lest we forget, is a mystical white horse.

... just existing in a prairie...

... but we couldn't let that distract us.

we had a 2 hour hike to accomplish.

and too many cool bugs to see.

so many cool bugs.

if i learned one thing on this hike, and i probably did, it's that there are an uncountable amount of variations of crickets.

here i am.

probably standing still so the crickets won't eat me.

rolling hills, shallow pond, and eternal, unchanging horizon.

wildflowers still in bloom.

"the flint hills-- hike for hours, and see where you're going, and see where you've been"

at least we weren't doing it in a handcart.

i kept picturing that.

we were planning on walking for a few miles, turning back to the car, heading back, and hitting a bar or two.

hard to imagine setting out in a weird reverse wheelbarrow with everything you owned, not knowing where you were going, but walking anyway.

just to leave.

it's easy to picture that somewhere like here, though.

it felt untouched.

our reward for our efforts: peanut butter and jelly on a hill.

in a big pasture.

oops.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 23:31:00 +0000

note from cristie:

camera cord. not camera chord. this was a typo--well, spelling mistake. no intense double meaning.

wtf? i am supposed to be correcting these mistakes in freshman 101 papers, not making them!

thanks cristie. how embarrassing...

how to leave a city.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 17:49:00 +0000

the first step is to find the places you have loved, and say goodbye.

this may include canyons, and mountain streams....

or the Virgin Mary Tree downtown....

where you've continually gone through the years, to reach out and touch something larger than yourself, even if that something is just a tree...

or, perhaps, the best (burnyourfaceoff) thai food this side of thailand.

leaving a city can mean leaving people.

well: leaving a city means leaving people.

the best way to do this is to cushion the blow with food. hallie made her famous japanese meat balls, part pork part fake meat, lots of delicious.

i made a mediterranean pasta salad. lots of tomato, feta, and vinegar.

there is no deciphering the future. there is barely deciphering the present.

but we try, and here Corey reads my cards for the journey ahead, and tells me that the lovers must keep all channels of communication open at all times, and even when they think they're talking they might not be, and that this is going to be more work to keep the love alive than just loving.

but, of course. right?

still, though, it's something to remember. so i try. we try.

he also told me i will be balancing two kinds of work for the next few years, and that this will be my biggest task. he said this without knowing i will be balancing my work as a GTA with my work as a writer, and even adding in that i'm also supposed to be a student. this, so far, has been my biggest task.

There is a sense, somehow, of urgency in all of this. perhaps there is just a sense of urgency in "youth," but i'm getting the sense it never goes away. every morning i wake up with a new fork in the road: should i have cereal or fruit? should i submit to this journal or that journal, or no journal? should i call home, or write home, or neither? should i tell him, or her, this, or that? do this homework, or that? go running or no? and there is a feeling of finality in it all.

"Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out...." --Synecdoche, New York

Or.

Life is never destroyed. It is just altered, becomes something else, and from whatever point we land, from whatever decision we made, we just build, rebuild, move on or stay still to breathe. it may never be what we envisioned, it probably won't be. but it's what we have, and we made it.

there's no such thing as another day like today: the idea that there are 7 repeating days is much more manageable than that we get a set number of hundreds, and none will be the same.

Or.

it's reassuring. every day is new.

friends will gather wherever there is food, warm light, music, and even alcohol.

so many of our friends we have known for what seems like forever. they have known many selves of me. others i have known for what seems like days or weeks.

our love and laughter heats the room, and we move outside to the deck. we keep eating, smoking, and talking long into the morning. at 2am we sneak away to swim and kiss.

this is what we've been waiting for.

the car is packed, and it moves heavily out of the house.

i was up before the sun today. but we moved slowly, to the sounds of She's Leaving Home by the Beatles we drank our coffee and shifted our things around.

we moved into the light to say our goodbyes, and take our pictures.

my sister and i, on the morning i left:

the three women of the house, with our morning hair, tears in our eyes, and no turning back.

my mother and i, the morning i left home, for real, for the first time:

and then it happened. before i knew it we were on the open road. here we are, moving through prong-horned wyoming. there was a pull of turning back-- like i'd forgotten something back home, or perhaps, wishing i'd forgotten something. another chance to say goodbye. but we kept driving.

i still haven't shaken that feeling all the way.

strawbeary enjoyed the view of passing semis and hills flattening into prairie.

but safety first.

we watched our own shadow move away from us.

"jesus, i trust in you!" proclaimed an eastern colorado field.

the wind stood still.

"Jesus heals and restores; pornography destroys!" Kansas warned. these signs seemed to be sprinkled between the "adult" stores. there is a market to keep both sides happy.

and still, that string that lead back to home hadn't been severed.

months later i still feel it--somedays like an anchor, and somedays like a balloon.

i have had what feels like many homes, fleeting though they've been, and now endure missing many places at once: granada, spain; cadiz, kentucky; paris, france; carbondale, illinois; and now, salt lake city, utah.

i always return to the poem, One Art: I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

i may move far, and fast, and maybe from here on out, often.

but i'm getting a sense that there will always be these ties that bind.

everything changes, everything stays the same.

but I will always know where home is.

And it's never, really, that far away.

"You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens one day and it's gone. You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it, you know. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place." -- Garden State

life taking shape, part I

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 15:35:00 +0000

Lawrence, Kansas, is about a 16 hour drive from Salt Lake City, Utah. Judd and I went to sleep really late the night before we left, after packing the car, bathing and showering, and talking late into the night. My sister had instructed my mom to push play on the CD player after the morning was pretty well under way, and She's Leaving Home by The Beatles blared. I was walking down the stairs to the car to throw in a bag right when the line "she goes downstairs..." was being sung... I may always remember that.

StrawBeary stayed pretty close to me the entire drive. She was a nice little pillow for my knee against the door, and we practiced passenger safety for a lot of the long drive:

She even got to sit up and watch the view-- usually, a whole lotta beautiful nothing. Cabin fever is a funny thing.

It took awhile to notice, and it's even now still easy to forget: this place is flat, and for a long time, in all directions:

We arrived at our new home at about 1 in the afternoon (after one night spent in Colby, Kansas). Judd carried me over the threshold, opened all of the boxes with his knife, and then set to work trying to blow up the air mattress. I was a bit of a tasmanian devil unpacking everything.

And when I walked into the bedroom, Judd had the bed made up beautifully.

Move-in day, in the sunshine, in our dining room:

Our pantry door, my apron collection, depression-era swan bowl with tomatoes and lemons.

Framed picture of Hallie braiding my hair, then me braiding Hallie's hair (found in a box of photos that were deemed to have not turned out well enough to frame or put in an album!); pewter bird s&p shakers from a flea market in paducah, kentucky; owl trivet from frosty darling in SLC.

Our stove... the paper towel reads "home sweet home."

We're settling in nicely here-- it has been about a month and a half-- and are getting to know our neighborhood, town, and routine pretty well. This is Hector, our neighbors' cat. He tries to come in to our place a lot, and loves to hop all over our stairs and banister, and the furniture (what little there's been) as we move it in:

One of our favorite things to do is go to the early morning Farmer's Market. It's usually in combination with cruising garage sales, which we also love, and need. As a result of the garage sale cruising, we've managed to find a few pieces of furniture here and there to put here or there.

Here's Judd exiting our lovely front door, Farmer's Market bag in tow:

The Market on Saturday mornings can get quite hoppin. On this particular Saturday we arrived about 30 minutes before closing. This left us finding some pretty great deals. I bet we got about a pound of bright and fresh cherry tomatoes for about $4.

And, of course, this bouquet. I'm not sure what kind of flowers these are, but up close they look like tiny velvet brains. I love them, and they were some of my favorite things: dirt cheap and beautiful:

Here they are in action, along with most of our tomatoes for the day (on our farmer's table coffee table):

Our formica table is beloved, durable, practical, and pretty. It does have an uneven leg. We will, eventually, make it down to Ace for a stopper, but for now, Pulitzer Prize winner Mark Strand is going to have to bear some of the burden.

... And the same goes for our farm table coffee table (pictured with the flowers and tomatoes). I have always wanted a farm table, and envisioned one for this house. This is an antique farm table cut down to coffee table size... by an amateur. I'm not sure how it's this off, but until we make it to Ace, Extreme Fiction is holding it up.

I bought this bag in Mexico. There, it's sort of a typical grocery bag. Here, it's our produce bag! It looks great with a baguette sticking out one end... and on this closet door.

This is the table where Judd's record player will eventually go...

... with old Bobby Dylan, and a bandana from Hallie's tour...

where do you keep your Q-tips? Just asking, because we keep them in this vintage creamer from San Francisco...

And I think even the back of our toilet is lovely. We have the little bun-bun cotton ball holder from Etsy, a bright-blue candle in white porcelain (with a perched bird) from Anthropologie, and potpourri made from the roses of the gardens of my grandma, her sister, and... her mother? I forgot the specifics...

My work space is in the dining room. Judd's will be in the living room... we're waiting for the perfect desk. This bookshelf is in the dining room, and on it are poetry books and my school books. On top of it: a music box from china town in San Fran, a little mini treasure chest, a photo/letter from Jonathan Safran Foer (I wrote to him pretty soon after the release of his first book), and a rocking horse bank (this used to belong to my best friend Greg, and I begged him to save it for me instead of getting rid of it-- their housekeeper got rid of it, and I came upon it in a second-hand store).

This is the bookshelf in the living room. On it: a photo of Judd's grandfather fishing, a photo of my maternal grandparents on their wedding day, and a photo of my maternal grandfather's mother with all of her quilts.

Someday we will own a couch. Or, at least, enough chairs to host a party. And someday our art will arrive from SLC...

And, the bedroom.

We bought this vanity at a garage sale, and the man was nice enough to deliver it to our house, AND carry it in. What a deal!

This part is mostly mine...

So.. mostly my jewelry... though Judd does put his necklaces and wallet on here...

These necklaces get a lot of wear: real butterfly encased in plastic, real leaf in gold, and a cloisonne necklace with a peacock....

And here, a bird pin I bought in Venice, and a bird pin my mother bought when she was about my age, and living in St. Louis.

Framed is a Christmas card Judd gave me last year. In front of it are two swans from my maternal grandmother's swan collection. Below the gold lotus candle holder are vintage hankies.

And my piggy bank! Mostly coins right now, and it hasn't been fed in awhile. Postcards from the used book store are accumulating on top of the dresser, especially as I fall more and more in love with.... the dresser is from a yard sale. We got two bookcases free with its purchase, and once we cleaned the bugs out, I thought it was quite beautiful...

Ah, the air mattress. We slept on it this entire time we've been here, up until a week ago. The seaming gradually began to pop out, making it impossible for our sheets to fit over it. It became more life-raft shaped than air mattress, and we eventually slept in the middle with the sheets piled there. It endured two holes and countless repairs. But it wasn't, actually, half bad. (note the moving-box side tables?)

Well, our bed has arrived. And it is made, and made well, and very comfortable.

I think we'll survive that transition.

.... to be continued...

no one gets out alive, but maybe we can stay forever.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:09:00 +0000

many things have been occupying my time and my space lately. many of these things seem to not relate at all to each other, but that's often when the greatest synthesis seems to start to develop. in this case, perhaps not. i have been encountered with, and encountering: kansas wildlife, certain poets, true crime, mummies. these ideas seem to have been constantly bouncing off of each other in my head for days now, to the point where one thing reminds me of the other, even though they've nothing really at all to do with the other.

so, if you think this entry is disjointed, try living like this.

it's been raining a lot in kansas. i didn't take this photo, as i am not yet used to the midwestern rain enough to be out in it... and, though the camera chord has been located (in a basement in SLC), it is only just now on its way. original photography will resume here and on tomatosugar once it arrives. until now, a patchwork of borroweds.

i taught in jeans one day, and a fellow teacher friend of mine looked me up and down after and said "wow, jeans, bold, i can't do that yet." needless to say, i haven't done it again. well, maybe once, but always with an anthropologie top, blazer, and stern expression. the next day (post-jeans-encounter) i wore a pencil skirt, tshirt, and cardigan, and flats, but looked VERY teacher-y. it poured my entire walk to school. the same way it doesn't rain in the west like it does here, you don't get rained ON like you do here-- umbrellas somehow don't work. it's strange. so... i dressed up, and you coulda wrung me out. such a sad story...

i've managed to persuade judd to take me on an evening walk almost every night of the week since we arrived (weather permitting). on weekends we often go in the bright sunshine. this labor day weekend we set out for a used bookstore, and not moments from our door we encountered this:

a giant wasp. the female one (far right). it was fighting, and winning, and killing, a cicada. i struggled to find my cell phone to send a picture to hallie, all the while stepping gently near it, and suddenly it charged (never dropping the cicada, mind you) toward me. fast. it chased us away. we scampered off toward our bookstore.

oh, and when i say big:

i mean, rather quite f.ing large. this thing was huge. i looked it up, and they are called cicada killing wasps, or cicada killer wasps, or something of the sort (damn internet). the females sting and stun (often killing, but not always?) cicadas, then fly off with them to their nests (burrowed in dry grasses), and slice into them, and lay eggs in their abdomen so that when they hatch they have something to eat. charming.

action shot!

oh the terrors the midwest can bring.

or, as gertrude stein might say:

"There is no Mid. This west will not hold. Fold the center. Forget the fountain. Asparagus trees. Burn the temporary doors."

i actually have no idea what she would say, but i've been reading and rereading Tender Buttons and am growing a little obsessed with her...

and when i'm not reading Stein... or criticism on Stein (one of my classes = Modernist Women Poets)... and when I'm not making lesson plans....

to be honest, i've grown a bit obsessed with this whole garrido-dugard case. i mean... there is a pretty intense crime. not only is it horrific in all the ways a kidnapping/rape/manipulation/brainwashing/etc could possibly be, it also goes against the standard "rules" for almost every crime the case committed. First of all, the biggest one, was that the child wasn't found within the first 48 hours-- or, 48 days-- and was found. the next was that it was a stranger abduction, and the victim wasn't killed. the other thing i know i'm going to be watching for as this case progresses is the treatment of the wife: she sought out p.garrido while he was in prison for kidnapping/sexual assault. if i could make a prediction (what's the word for prediction for something that already happened-- like a reverse prediction?) it would be that he enlisted her to commit this crime, or a similar one, very early on in their relationship, and my second prediction (an actual prediction) is that she's going to play the gender/victim card to get out of any sort of conviction or accountability, or to get both drastically reduced. we seem to let that happen a lot-- women seem to not be so much convicted of crimes that they've committed so much of the time (look @ sexual assault of minor cases). but, lest we forget gertrude baniszewski, and her crime (for which she was convicted, but i'm using her to illustrate female capability of horrific acts). actually, i want to forget her. but anyway... that's been taking up a lot of my time...

what else.

ah yes, mummies.

this may require a brief explanation. i took a class as an undergrad pursuing my bachelors degree in anthropology called DEATH RITUALS AND MUMMIFICATION. it is probably my favorite class. while judd and i were on a road trip through utah i started talking about mummies, and realized that if i were to get a masters or phd in anthropology (which, at one point, i thought was possible), my focus would probably be on mummies. now that i'm getting a masters in poetry, i'm not sure i still can't focus that much less on mummies... time will tell though, what ends up happening with that.

so, at said bookstore (the evil wasps sped us along), i found 2 books. i can't really afford to buy anything except food right now, but these were pretty cool... the first book is called FACES OF THE PHARAOHS, and it outlines each major (and some very minor-- fetus, for example) mummies found in egypt, and shows not only details of the mummy, but also of the many sarcophagi associated with them, and a write up on who they were/may have been, and what was found with them, where they were found, their dates, etc. very lovely.

but ancient egypt, contrary to popular belief, is not where it is at with mummies. i really like the bog people of denmark. these people somehow ended up in peat bogs-- whether through accident, human sacrifice, or execution. when they first started turning up they were so well-preserved people began reporting murders to the proper authorities... but these bodies were thousands of years old... i bought a book on them too.

now, for some reason, i am very very drawn to the SIBERIAN ICE MAIDEN. this is a discovery from the pazyryk mountains, and i really like her because she was found in an elaborate warriors coffin designed with elk and other emblems, and buried with her bow and arrow. as you can see from this famous photo, she is covered in tattoos. women warriors in this tribe would cut off a breast to better draw back the arrow.

mummies can be found, whether naturally or artificially, or a combination, on almost every continent. the mummies of guanajuato, mexico, and the chinchorro mummies of south america are also worth obsessing over. for years.

just about now i would give anything for my DEATH RITUALS text book... but alas, to no avail. they were notes copied by my professor, and apparently it cannot be located by anyone in the department, and i don't have them anymore, and no one else in the history of the world who took the class seems to have them anymore.

in conclusion... i'm not sure if i should be worried about how things are colliding in my head, or excited, but... it's exhausting. i've also been narrating my own life to judd in high-pitched song.

.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 01:58:00 +0000

Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

— C.D. Wright

reflections on the first two weeks in lawrence, kansas.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 14:31:00 +0000

it has been officially two weeks today since our arrival in lawrence, kansas.

we loaded up my (tiny) chevy prism with everything we absolutely NEEDED, and some things we just wanted (like my depression-era pressed glass swan bowl) and hit the road. much of the drive was spent listening to local SLC bands like Band of Annuals, (ps we drove through Hays, Kansas, the hometown of brent, of BoA fame), David Williams, Glade, and Devil Whale, along with some bluegrass/folk/psychedelic/blues/etc mixes that judd made for the drive. i couldn't get enough of I WISH I WAS IN DIXIE LAND. it was a very lovely journey, actually: great soundtrack, nice company, and good views. i saw a lot of pronghorns in wyoming-- i stopped counting when i started seeing herds. we stopped in colby, kansas, to sleep, and from there it was about 4 or 5 hours to lawrence the next day.

now, i can't find my camera chord... in the interest of full disclosure i should mention that these photos are either not mine, or taken from our apartment-hunting trip back in june. when i get the camera chord, get ready for a tour of our new home, and our new town!

our home was built in the early-to-mid-1800s. that means that people who lived here before us were maybe in this home talking about, or hiding from, consequences of bleeding kansas. whoah.

some pretty cool things have happened since moving here, a lot of them bug-related. the midwest is very different from the west, in that they have a lot of bugs here, and that here bugs don't really mind their own business-- they are your neighbors, your tenants, your enemies, and your entertainment. within the first few days i had countless bites all over my legs, and am learning when it is appropriate to wear shorts (not on damp nights, for example, while standing still). but there have been a number of magical moments with insects, for example:

1. one night judd and i saw a tiny green flashing light, staying in the same spot, as we were walking to our car. it was a firefly caught in a spider's web, consistently flashing it's distress signal. it was, to me, very sad. by the time we came back from the video store, there was no more flashing, and we shone our cellphone lights to the web--a giant clear-yellow spider was meticulously wrapping it into a tiny sarcophagus. i could have stayed and watched it all night, but, you know, there are bugs out there.

2. on our way to a garage sale i noticed a bright green grasshopper on my side of the windshield. judd was driving, so i got to spend the whole ride watching the grasshopper clean its mismatched antennae, and its little feet, and watch its bizarre little mouth move. when we stopped it found a new home somewhere. but how often do you get to watch a bug from the other side of glass like that?

3. at another garage sale, when we were about to walk through the gates, i saw two huge bugs fall out of the trees. one had attacked the other, and drug it down to the ground. they were so big i thought they were birds. i stood and watched them wrestle for awhile, but it was in the middle of the street, so i eventually had to move.

4. I actually see insects here as roadkill. i mean, see them, without having to squint. they are not small.

(photo not mine, thank god)

moving on.

bunnies.

this was one of the major selling-points about attending University of Kansas: there are little brown bunnies everywhere. earlier in the year, when it was cooler, i was seeing them everywhere, but now that it's really heated up i only see them in the early morning (7 or so) or late at night (after dark). but man, they are so cute! unfortunately, they are more shy than the insects.

(photo not mine)

life here has, thus far, centered around writing (and school) and food. i hope nothing about that changes. we have attended a few farmer's markets, and at the first one i spent about $8.00 solely on tomatoes. but i bought a lot of cherry tomatoes-- different kinds of yellows and reds-- and some heirloom reds, and then something i'd never heard of: snow whites. we bought 5 or so of these. they aren't very big, but are delicate and sweet. we ate them sliced and plain.

(photo not mine)

so, while my life may be centered around the price of peaches and lillies @ any of the three weekly farmer's markets, or lesson plans, or writing or submitting pieces, believe it or not, that isn't the focus of all of lawrence. the university of kansas has what some people call a sports program, and have enjoyed what some might call "success."

driving in to lawrence, you see signs that say UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS, NATIONAL BASKETBALL CHAMPIONS 2008 or something. the photo above was not taken by me, because i wasn't here in 2008; it is of the celebration on the main street in lawrence after the win in 2008. but if i was there, i would probably be being crushed or elbowed by someone taller, or at home. i'm sure, though, now that i am here, i will be going to some sort of sporting event. it's just what one does when one is in a community, or something.

one of the greatest aspects of our house is that i can walk to school! i walk about 5-10 minutes (faster if you're taller) up a hill (yes, we live at the bottom of the only hill in kansas), and then i am on campus. the first thing i see is this tornado shelter:

no, it's a treehouse. i actually have no idea what it is, but i love it, and judd took this photo in june when we were visiting. when i came in april and did a campus tour i managed to miss it completely.

it sits directly across from what i think is the most beautiful building on campus, the Natural History Museum. this photo doesn't do it justice, but the moon is in it...

here is an inscription on a nearby building: WHOSO FINDETH WISDOM FINDETH LIFE.

and about a 5 minute walk from the tangle of branches/natural history museum is Wescoe, the humanities building, which houses the English Department and my office. yup, i have an office. i share it with 3 other people, but still, that's pretty neat.

this structure is most associated with KU; it's our eiffel tower. i am not sure what it is, but when judd and i came to visit the pond (forthcoming) one night, someone was playing bagpipes in it... or bagpipe music was being played from it... not sure.

and here is one of my favorite places, maybe my favorite place we have found so far. it's a little pond on the KU campus. i love this weeping willow tree.

and look, the tower is all lit up at night! the pond itself is covered in algae and who knows what else, and there are lily pads and bullfrogs in it. it's very creedence clearwater.

as you can tell, i thought it was pretty magical. sitting there it was really really dark, but i kept hearing the bullfrogs jump, and i really wanted to see one.

in the upper right corner of this one is a firefly. no frogs photographed, though.

there's judd, listenin to the creatures.

i think i'll like it here. the birds seem to like it just fine.

stay tuned. someday i'll find that camera chord, and then you'll see new furniture and the thrilling conclusion to how i've decorated my vanity! (and, check back to tomatosugar, because there are peaches @ the farmer's market, and i have plans)....

Amen Najen

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 21:21:00 +0000

in memoriam

August 3, 2004.

Amen Najen; the opening

and the closing of eyes forever

by Iris Moulton

And oh to the hands

reaching in doorways

not allowed to grip.

And oh to the hands

from one other side to

the other other and to

the mourners walking

steadily on.

To the rain and the

water and the rivers

leading home; to the

sun and the mirrors

and all the bleeding roads.

To the song of metal’s last breath

and a silent knowing slicing

chaos into peace.

To the pieces and the

pieces and the pieces and

the whole. To the

void finding slumber

behind screaming walls. To the

void making rain on the

front yards of America. To the

void talking fashion over

the shrieking urgency of

youth. To the void walking in

and out of pink-doored houses.

To the void dancing free

on empty-spotlight ballet

stages. To the void climbing

into empty beds for one

more always rest. To the after

and before speaking with one mouth.

For the ever. Listening.

II.

Birthmark continent and

pairs of feet walking

through summers on shaky

ground. Get-away-cars

charged and good to get

going running and ringing

suburban bells to wake

the sleeping. Half-naked

nights spent exposed and

half-waiting for some happening

to get to it.

And on the wall a clock is

throwing seconds away

while knowing too much. On

the wall a clock is ticking

rationed time away. On the

wall a clock is murdering

moments; color changes

grey and slowly turns to

ash in the corner of a

crowded room.

III.

The sunset is a thousand

colors of gold as her

head touches the

pillow. The sky is singing a thousand

blues when her eyes shut.

Dreams turn the color

of gone as she wakes

for the last time to last

for ever.

IV.

And oh her hands as they

reach through the doorway

greeted by the absence of

others. And oh the hands left

praying in doorways; solemn

pyramids that will not

guide those passing by.

Hands that won’t stop singing.

Fingers that won’t

touch, arms that won’t hold,

minds that will never know

the instant aging of a thousand

years in that second of

ultimate loneliness. A lifetime

lived complete in the time

it takes to mouth

“good-bye.”

Streets are dark and dry now. Eyes

are opening with your closing

and vows are speaking softly to wed

the sky. Join with something.

So desperate to commune we

can be found holding the

ground– belly down– and weeping.

So tongueless and hollow-cheeked

we speak in stunned silences [or]

memories are the only language left.

Mothers are standing in doorways.

Green ribbons are tied

like the holding of hands.

Green ribbons are tied

like the holding of hands through

doorways.

original poem c. Iris Moulton 2004

first appeared in where the echoes go

Mt Olivet

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 17:22:00 +0000

Mount Olivet
by Iris Moulton

Salt Lake City cemeteries
are crowded with deer. They come, wild
at first, to eat
the wreaths off our graves. I watch
like a safari from the safety of my car
as a fawn suckles. I have never seen this
in person before. With bulged, rodent eyes
the mother observes me. They move as a swarm, in
silent consensus.

I come to read and write. I walk
the marble aisles discerning the math
of tragedy; who was too young to go, husbands
who passed days after wives— perhaps clutching a tincan
dinner, longing.

Twice I have seen the proprietor bale hay
before a herd. Other times I imagine they just wait for us:
our green tents and clicking shoes, hollowed with hope that
our flowers are real.

Kansas City by Okkervil River

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 17:24:00 +0000

Kansas City

by Okkervil River

The river is deep and the river is wide, and the girl that I love is on the other side. She wants to move to Kansas City: "Move, pretty baby, where the sky is so blue." She's walking down Ellum, turning down Main, trying to find someone to sell her cocaine. She wants to move to Kansas City: "Move, pretty baby, where the sky is so blue." With a dayful of promises dead on her lips, Mark 15:34 tucked next to her hip, she wants to move to Kansas City: "Move, pretty baby, where the sky is so blue." I jumped in the water and started to drown. I thought of her walking and turned back around. I want to move to Kansas City, where the sky is so blue. With her pair of old wings that opened just once, she can walk on two feet now, she can go where she wants. She can move to Kansas City, where the sky is so blue. And I'll tell you one thing that you should never do - never let a woman tell you she loves you. She'll call you "baby," she'll look in your eye, then she'll get on that airplane and wave "bye bye bye bye bye bye, baby." And if I could believe what I want to believe, I'd hold you all close and take you with me, all of you to Kansas City, where the sky is so

new york (missing footage)

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 05:20:00 +0000

ok, i know this falls out of order, but i have tried emailing, uploading, and posting this video to various family members, but i think that this may be the best way to get it to everyone for now. this is wilsie clover and i playing while i was staying in brooklyn. one of my favorite "home" videos of all time.

the end of the line.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 05:01:00 +0000

to end our trip we hiked the PIONEER NAMES trail. there was a moment where, in the sand, there were bunny tracks crossing with lizard tracks crossing with bird foot prints. it was lovely.

the pioneer names trail marks where pioneers wrote their names in axle grease:

next it was on to the parowan gap petroglyphs. not only are there ancient rock carvings, a sort of meeting place where different tribes carved for generations, but there's also a sort of marker for the summer solstice to come through the rock.

i think the big one on this looks like a giant zipper:

and these were my favorite, the ram/antelope/big horn sheep:

after all of this, "finishing utah," we were noticeably smeepums, and headed home to salt lake city.

when I pass through the pearly gates will my gown be gold instead, or just a red clay robe, with red clay wings, and a red clay halo for my head.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 16:13:00 +0000

continuing on our journey, i found a mystery dead animal. i wasn't sure if it was a buffalo (because i am always filled with hope it will be the most magical thing), a cow, an elk, etc. but i got really close and it smelled really bad.

it was still wearing its creepy little life-shoes.

and from death to the cemetery.

and a little bun-bun.

the cemetery was beautiful, and well cared for.

i love these little lambs, usually reserved for children.

poor little bun-bun, soaked from the rain. he wanted to come in our car, and get warm and dry, and eat shredded wheat, but we had to say no (well, judd said no) because this was his home and it was going to be a long drive.

since it was so close to memorial day, flowers were slowly trickling in from local families.

and look, little cottontail!

the fog was really beginning to roll in as we drove through the winding hills.

we stopped at a beautiful mountain overlook, and this boot was the first thing i saw. it was left, just like this, on this rock. it was at once incredibly creepy and beautiful.

ghost tree! looming over the forest.

the rain was really coming down, but it sort of made it feel more beautiful, and special, since it's utah, and it's not supposed to rain that much (flash forward 6 weeks and it's still raining).

judd, looking at some sort of map or atlas or information guide thing. what a dork.

couple picture! (self-timer on the shotgun seat)

we pulled off after seeing a tiny sign saying there were anasazi ruins, and walked through a small museum full of artifacts. then we got to walk through a restored anasazi home, and community.

i learned all about the religious significance of this ladder, and room, but now i don't remember it...

no, the houses aren't melting, it's just really rainy.

the anasazi houses were leaking a little through the roofs, and the sunlight was trickling in beautifully.

couple picture (camera balanced in the adobe brick)

as we drove more windy road, i looked down, and it looked like there was a rushing green river where the trees were growing.

at a little pull off, there was an enormous raven type thing perched on the rock.

it hopped down, and started shaking the water from its feathers, and in this moment i noticed that the back of its neck was bright white! if it was a "white necked raven," or a "white necked crow" it was a very very long way from home. this blog is just me guessing at one bird after another...

here it is, being practically hand-fed by a tourist from a motor home. i couldn't bring myself to feed it, as much as i wanted to get close to it, because i couldn't stand the idea of it getting a little tummy ache.

we drove on.
we passed another cemetery down below.

and entered more redrock.

it was deceptively freezing outside.

but absolutely magical.

and, a little outdated.

judd and i both love the open road. it's like our baby in this weird little family.

and judd's other baby, of course, is the atlas.

here's judd @ the site of the mountain meadows massacre, trying to determine from his history book who road in from where and where what was supposed to have occurred...

and here i am on a fence.

there were two monuments. the first that we visited was the one provided by the LDS church. the wrought-iron fence surrounding the monument was absolutely beautiful against the sun, which came out for us by this point, and the grass, and the monument.

VOGUE + massacre site.

i was really hoping this was a mormon cricket. it was not. but that would have been so cool, to be at the mtn meadows site, surrounded by mormon crickets...

oy.

here's judd, explaining the history to some tourists.

here is the grave marker inside of the monument of the 29 or so bodies they were able to find and bury.

and the... delicately phrased?... plaque on the monument, provided by the LDS church.

here is the entire monument, as viewed through the wrought-iron gate i am obsessed with.

a view of the killing fields.

and the second monument, higher up on a hill, provided a list of everyone in the traveling party, including those killed and those who survived. there were also viewfinders pointed at where the ambush happened, and where the original grave was (i think).

overlooking the fields, able to place it better through the viewfinder, i couldn't help but notice there were several farm residences placed basically ON the site of the massacre now. that must be sort of strange...

flowers had been left at the monument, which we agreed was a lovely touch.

we pressed even further south, into snow canyon. hiking the weird little flat rocks, i carved a little message into the sand.

the combination of afternoon/southern utah left us hot hot hot, with no real change of clothes. i just rolled up my sweat pants to hike around.

couple in snow canyon!

i practically tripped over this amazing rock: you can see the indentation of ancient plant life.

to be continued....

good morning, no sunshine.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 23:48:00 +0000

we began our next day in Torrey, Utah, with a trip to the Capitol for breakfast.

coffee all around.

i got the rainbow trout + bagel + fruit. when in southern utah, order the trout. it isn't a colloquialism yet, but it will be.

it was raining, and really early in the morning, and Cowboy Ramble didn't start till later that night. Judd and I decided to set out exploring the capital reef area. others around us were going to play frisbee golf, do some drugs, and/or just lay around.

(if any cops are reading this, or someone else's parents, no one did drugs).

more rotted out stuff. imagine all the prom-pregnancies that happened in the back of this sweet ride....

this truck, for some reason, wouldn't start. good thing, cuz i woulda done stolen it.

we found something called the NIELSEN MILL. judd is a nielsen!

(his parents said: no relation. or at least: too far back to count).

i hope they aren't too related, because whoever insists on a lifeguard before someone goes swimming here can't have the strongest argument for a gene pool...

here's the mill. according to the sign, there's original equipment still inside.

it was pouring rain, but we were really having a blast.

good clean fun: ginger ale, water, and utah history!

next stop was a very very old settlement of Fruita. i think the rule in utah was whoever got here first had to have the stupidest town name...

we stopped into a mormon handicraft store, and purchased this gourmet tomato-peach chutney. it is going to soon have a starring role on my tomato sugar blog in an entry to do with grilled cheese and havarti....

ok... another really dorky moment. i don't know why i confess this stuff on an international scale...

... but i found a rock resembling an ancient-egyptian headrest, and demonstrated how it worked. i was an anthropology major, and damn if those 4 years aren't already paying off.

here's judd, getting in on the relaxation rock:

so we finally got up and got around to entering capital reef national park.

i couldn't believe it.

i think there really is something to not being ready to appreciate nature. i've been through redrock when i was little, and loved it, but just cuz it was cool and hot and i might see a lizard and i pretended i was a lost injun. now, looking around, i kept almost crying because of how weird this stuff is, and it makes me so so dizzy to think about.

like this rock. you can see the indents made my millions of years of rain (or, i guess, 6,000 depending on what book you read):

it's like the recent trips to dinosaur museums i've been taking:

when you're a little kid, everything is big to you; trucks, grownups, buildings, tables. and then you take a field trip to the dinosaur museum and you think, oh yeah, those are big too. then a couple of months ago i walked into a dinosaur museum and i though, wow, dinosaurs are REALLY big. i had no idea. seriously, adults, go look at a dinosaur right now (well, the bones). they were HUGE.

and, what?

nicknames i have for judd: red squirrel, red panda, ginger, gingie, ginger face...

probably my favorite picture from the trip.

a pioneer wall-- carvings of those who came before us. the ones above these had a lot more dates, but note under elmer huntsman: october 5 1883.

southern utah trip, day one.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 22:54:00 +0000

judd and i ventured to southern utah for cowboy ramble + magnolia electric company + band of annuals.

well, that was our excuse.

we mainly wanted to check out some serious utah history and natural landmarks. we thought it would be a beautiful way to say goodbye to this lovely state. and one of the best parts was that i didn't have to drive...

a few miles from scipio we spotted a dark cloud. turns out, it was a controlled burn. but it actually appeared to be not so much controlled as just burning.

we stopped @... scipio... stop... to satisfy some weird cravings, including chocolate donettes, cheetos, coke(ca cola, by the way), and salt and vinegar potato chips.

one of the most beautiful parts of traveling through rural areas are moments like these: (rust, overgrown farm equipment, abandoned or maybe not...)

our utah history started early with this seagull-infested field. i imagined them eating mormon crickets.

we arrived @ the venue for cowboy ramble, BOA, and the electric co (seriously, the photo below is the backdrop for the show). judd and i immediately set out into the outback to explore what turned out to be an enormous court for frisbee golf... but still... beautiful. aside from the markers for the frolf game, it did feel like we were in BLOOD MERIDIAN. i kept waiting to be beheaded.

this redrock, cormac mccarthy-esque backdrop was the perfect setting for haunting bluegrass and storms rolling in. during the concert i wanted to know how far back over the hills the music could be heard, but i didn't want to get eaten or scalped, so i didn't venture out.

people just leave this stuff around? what is this? is this a handcart?

whatever it was, i took about a million pictures.

ah, the moment has arrived. BOA live in the desert.

when it was time to sleep, we all returned to this little shantytown built next door to david williams's house, in the backyard of his dear friend (torrey, utah).

here's mine and judd's tent. i named it Little Foot, because i thought it looked like a dinosaur. i'm really glad he was an eagle scout... it was my job to kick away rocks... and supervise... oh, and say "good job."

other dead things i like.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 18:38:00 +0000

while on tour with the crate lung co-op we stopped in barnes and noble in austin texas, mainly to use their bathroom and wireless internet. we, of course, took some time to explore their graphic novels, poetry, and (extensive) literary magazine sections. i also stumbled upon the book SMALL DEATHS by Kate Breakey, and fell in love.

the book itself is quite large, and very heavy, which is why i didn't buy it at the time-- we were living out of a van, and carrying what we owned on our backs. i figured i could order it later online or find it in a store in SLC.

turns out, the book was put out on the University of Austin press, and wasn't in any bookstores here. i did find it on Amazon, finally, but will wait until i move to kansas since it's so damn heavy. (i don't just mean the subject matter... i mean it literally weighs a lot).

I fell in absolute love with the book because of the idea behind it, small deaths. Kate Breakey photographs the small deaths (be they of tiny animals, flowers, insects) that happen every day, all around us, and are easily passed over or forgotten, but are perhaps not any less significant. and, are even beautiful. one review i read said that these small deaths, finding the little animals and plants that had died, while she was growing up in australia, used to overwhelm her. i think a lot of us can relate to that, passing roadkill as children, or finding animals in the bushes. for one, it puts them in a state of stillness not common to wild animals, and allows us to approach and observe them in a state we're not used to. for another, it is death, and we are certainly not accustomed to that.

on the day that i made lilac and lavendar cupcakes (as featured on my food blog tomato sugar), i walked out of my door to pick the lilac. lying in my driveway was a beautiful bird.

birds tend to crash into my bedroom window quite often-- i'm not really sure why my bedroom. it doesn't get less traumatic for me, and i'm sure it's no real picnic for the bird. while i was in southern utah i was leafing through my mom's bird-book (that i intend to buy borrow or steal) BIRDS OF NORTH AMERICA, and i believe this is an oriole.

but, as with all cases of bird identification, i could be wrong. it's really really hard. there's a different bird for every slight change of feather color and arrangement. it's mainly an excuse, i think, for english/old world men for insert their last name onto something else.

dead things for money.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 19:45:00 +0000

the quickest way to my heart, whether it's food, clothing, conversation, or art, is dead things.

i love a good steak or burger. i love leather (pleather is just fine). my favorite class i ever took, probably, was DEATH RITUALS AND MUMMIFICATION. and, i admit it, as uncool as it is, i still like damien hirst. (i think that's the art-world equivalent of saying your favorite band is still 311, but... whatever, forgive me).

here is the piece that made me fall in love with him. it's called "THE PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY OF DEATH IN THE MIND OF SOMEONE LIVING" :

humans have this natural thing with sharks. we see them and we sort of panic. confession: i am still a little scared of sharks in the bathtub and swimming pools. and if i were to walk into a room where this shark were floating in a tank, i would probably jump. beyond that, it's obviously dead, and it's obviously no threat. thus, the (brilliant) title.

i was thrilled, several weeks ago, to find online another (english, which is weird) artist who works in the medium of death. she is a taxidermist/artist, and arranges her dead animals carefully, often juxtaposing them with beautiful household objects.

behold, polly morgan:

isn't this one just so sweet and magic:

delicious:

this reminds me of heroin, somehow:

one of my favorite things about polly, besides the vintage name and the fact that she pals around with jude law, is that she dresses exactly like me:

seriously polly. we are the last two hipsters art nerd weirdos in these boots. and tim gunn said we're not supposed to wear leggings anymore.

moving sale this weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 01:01:00 +0000

Cristie, John, Judd, and I are moving to Kansas and selling:

Great books, toys worth collecting, practically new lamps and tables, decorative pillows, sheets, gently used clothing, jewelry + accessories, kitchen items, christmas decor, craft items, assorted picture frames, and other things worth seeing and buying.

Also stop by our bake-sale table for cupcakes prepared by food-handlers-permit holders.

Considering I have been in overdraft for about 3 days, maybe you could actually do something about it.

SATURDAY JUNE 6TH AND SUNDAY JUNE 7TH
9:AM-3:PM
SLC AVENUES
564 4th Ave (between H and I street)

cabbage patch dolls from that alleged childhood that took place:

assorted picture frames donated by judd's mama:

lovely end tables donated by judd's mom:

paneled mirror:

we all have about a thousand books for sale:

please join us.

for sale, by writer

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Sat, 30 May 2009 04:06:00 +0000

where the echoes go

is my (first) collection of poetry.

it was published on PUSH! Publications in Salt Lake City, Utah, and other than what is in warehouses in various parts of the country, i appear to be in possession of the largest number of copies.

my point is, really, that you can purchase it from me on paypal. the paypal address to request a book: iris.moulton@gmail.com. with shipping the total comes to $14.50. just sayin. cuz... money would help me move and less books would help me move too.

i just sold one yesterday. it had been awhile, ESPECIALLY since selling to someone that i don't know incredibly well. it's normal that relatives and friends buy them, but NOT an aunt? wow.

oh, and it's an amazing book you will cherish forever. seriously. that came off sarcastic but it isn't.

pass the tomato sugar, please.

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Wed, 27 May 2009 17:28:00 +0000

visit tomato sugar, my brand new food blog,

to keep track of what i cook, what i eat, and

all my food related adventures.

enjoy.

Bury

noreply@blogger.com (Iris Moulton) — Mon, 18 May 2009 01:43:00 +0000

Bury

by Iris Moulton

I am from over there, the one you’ve read about.

In the heat

of spring and summer we lay artifacts to the ground: a clay pot

in which we carried the words of lovers, flint tools to hunt them

down. Winter will always bury this. We wait for the tomb

longer than the resurrection; knowing pulls our hours

like a hide. In the thaw

we will start again, harvest amongst the shards.

Snakes in the rushes come

to swallow whole the eggs of the killdeer

as she dances. We say watch where you step,

more to protect our dangers

from being chased too far. Someone has pulled a fawn from

the trail over there, broken, still spotted. Her eyes are wet bubbles against

air. I am glad we can still die out here; it’s why we came.

You, sister, have come to believe the jackrabbit

and hare are good luck, symbols of rebirth. You are

ready to lay a foundation, see the shape

of a strange new shelter. One night the sky was big

and its blackness made tiny globes around us. We were sitting

at a truck-stop and the bottle was cool against our hands. You said

There’s one but I couldn’t see it. I kept squinting but all

you could say was over there over there

The wood of our houses was painted

to look richer. My parents

wrote this but never wrote it down. Silkworms spun our funeral dresses

and baptismal gowns. Wasps with nests papered of

wanted posters. We once shot blindly against the hillside over there. Use every

part of the animal; our people emerged full-bellied and adorned.

The trees are skinny and sick, and can’t hide us.

Bury them where they fall, we will be guided by the sound of

boots on hollow ground, and this becomes the stone lined trail. Home.

We hunker over there in the hills, in gullies spotted

with cookfires. Wolves strip pearls off the fallen

for teeth. He, that most terrible instrument, Destroying Angel, made

of his own hair a wig for a typhoid widow. She was a grandmother of mine.

When she wore it the whisper

of his ghosts came through her eyes.

I must have been thinking of the usual things that night

lofted above sobriety, and our one street left where outlaws still strut

and pose. Below us lilac, cherry trees. Bird calls and lovers voices

blossom into the air. Wine stained lips and floors, someone

over there laughing at how young the world was getting without him.

It was, for me, the usual small sadnesses creeping through. How twilight draws the city closer as if to listen.

How many there were of us who had never spoken

but had been meeting each other such a long time. Your hand

nodding as if to sleep against my thigh. Stretched on different timelines

nothing and everything matter so much.

You are allowed a cot, a blanket, a chest with a broken lock.

It will come back. Spring leaves us wondering if winter is ever gone, or just

hiding on the mountain over there, waiting to tumble down if provoked.

It will be one white sheet for one abandoned

corpse. It will make for us one grave. We have been practicing

for generations to tremble from cold and not fear, to change

the color of snow with our enemies.

You may hold another’s hand through this, and it may be your own.

Take inventory of what is left and what is new

when it begins again.