Year of the Amateur
By Cathy Park Hong
Recall the frontier when the business
of memory booms, when broadbands uncoil
and clouds swell with sticky portals, amassing
to a monsoon of live-streams.
Burn your chattel to keep the cloud afloat
so its tears can freeze to snow.
The voice flatlines in this season of pulp:
The artist makes miniature churches out of drain pulp,
The Indonesian rainforest is pulped,
the last illuminated gold leaves are pulped so we
gather and watch an otter nom nom
sweet urchin to a pulp.
We laugh softly.
My first day back from traveling did not go as planned. I got up, gathered the first load of laundry, headed downstairs with the basket, turned on the washing machine...and nothing. After unplugging, tripping the circuit, etc., I concluded that it was not magically going to start and screamed loudly enough to scare the basement spiders, then called the place that fixed the dryer the last time it went on the fritz. To my delight they are still quick and not too expensive, and by early afternoon I had a working washing machine. Guess what I spent the rest of the afternoon doing?
It's not all frustrating, I got to take a walk in the gorgeous woods in the gorgeous weather and got to watch the Smash premiere again. And in more important news, my brother-in-law is out of the hospital where he spent the weekend after a very bad reaction to medication, so we are all very relieved about that. I have not gotten photos from New York and Connecticut sorted out, but here are a couple from the Bat Mitzvah, where there was both a mall-type photo booth and a green screen so people could get their photos put on magazine covers, standing with celebrities, and in scenic places like this: