Untitled (3/15/10)

(I very need to work on titles... Well, its 2am and I'm late and nothing else is suitable to post. This is angry, but all feelings are valid and in 'feminist memoir' today we talked about women needing to make space for their anger. Consider this that. I'm gonna pretend that this is brave...)

It should be me seducing you
when nights start getting late.

Batting my eyelashes, giggling some,
making you sit and wait.

They say it's us who drive men mad,
but I know this is wrong.

You make me crazy when you smile,
when I watch you sing a song.

Seduction is a silly thing
and though it ought be me,

I find I have no patience now
to guide you towards what you can't see.

And since it makes me nauseous
to watch you turn away

I think I'll leave and won't return.
And even if you never say

I'll imagine you'll be disappointed
in my disappearing act.

Instead of picturing you with her
I'll pretend you want me back.

It won't matter either way though,
what you say or do.

It's clear to me you're dangerous
so my armor's fully on, I'm through.

Through with flirting, through with coy,
through with highs and lows.

Through with guessing games and bullshit.
Through with giving in to throws

of passion. Through with giving you
my heart you never worked to get.

Through with letting you break it.
Fuck your smile. I'm over it.

Drunk as Drunk (Pablo Neruda)

(This man is brilliant. From another of his beautiful works: "Love is so short. Forgetting is so long." Yea, thats genius. I like the metaphor of being drunk w/ love, probably because I like gettting drunk and I like falling in love. Gorgeous imagery, he's a master of romantic mental images...)

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Canto 1: The Inferno (Dante)

(This isn't my favorite, but I lent my hardcopy out so this is what I could find online. Read the whole things. It's so imaginative, and an unbelievable feat. The man created a compendium of the entire human experience, allegorically, in verse. UNREAL. It's a great journey, complete with a hero, and sidekick, and a girl. Maybe a photo also.. my favorite is the circle for the lustful, the giants, and of course, the betrayers on ice...)




Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Ah me! how hard a thing iit is to say
What was this forest, savage, rough, and stern,
Which in the very thought renews the fear.
So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat, which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there.
I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.
But after I had reached a mountain's foot,
At that point where the valley terminated,
Which has with consternation pierced my heart,
Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders,
Vested already with that planet's rays
Which leadeth others right by every road.
Then was the fear a little quieted
That in my heart's lake had endured throughout
The night, which I had passed so piteously.
And even as he, who, with distressful breath,
Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,
Turns to the water perilous and gazes;
So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,
Turn itself back to re-behold the pass
Which never yet a living person left.

Untitled (3/26/10)

(This is dedicated to Claire. Inspired by complicated situations, memoirs about water and tragedy, and sleepovers. Once again, things I'm scared to say out loud to the the person that needs to hear them the most... Oh, and I'll post Dante tomorrow)

Something tenuous lives here,
in a deep and watery ventricle
of the heart. It's a thread
connecting me and you.
It must be thin and sturdy rope,
woven to resist the pull of tides,
rough against my fingerpads.
I strum it like a guitar string,
hoping you'll already know the melody.
I know it's already crowded down here
with our oceanic baggage.
I'm not afraid of conch shells
and coral and old photographs and broken jewelry.
No, I'm not afraid of any of that
lost and forgotten treasure
at the bottom of the sea. It was cherished once.
It should be easier to build something
from something that already has
a strong frame. A foundation.
But I'm standing with a brick in one hand,
and mortar in the other,
and I realize I've never built anything
and that bricks are out of place
20,000 leagues under the sea.
So I'll hold my breath and watch
the air bubbles float up,
and when I feel a vibration
wave back over our rope,
I'll kick strongly off the ocean floor,
and meet you at the surface.

Circle 9: Caina (Spring 2007)

(So this is from the worst moments in my life. It's interesting to think about why people hurt the ones they love. Its a safe move, but still drama and exciting... Anyway, Circle 9 is a Dante reference, the lowest circle of hell, reserved for betrayers. Caina is where betrayers of kin end up. I wish I believed in hell, and how logical the eternal punishments are. The Inferno might be the best poem ever. Maybe I'll post some of that. Ok, here's to learning from people who fuck you over...)

Do you think she meant to hurt me?
I must say, I think she did.
Betrayals are never truly accidental.
Somehow most duplicities become exhilarations
Bleak flutters from destroying trust that’s ripened over time.
Tangible pull towards that sound… it’s a crack!
The heart of a fool who’ll do anything for you,
Speechless when grasping the damage you’ve sowed.

Truly, I’d never have left her to cry.

So, mostly for the thrill of it
she stole from me a treasure, which
I’d only just begun to understand.
She sought him out, and with a spiteful heart,
decided she would love him.
(And then she was gone with no explanation,
which everyone knows is the same as a lie.)

Later she told me it all was inevitable.
But I must confess I’d resisted the knowing
that shameful abandonment of nurturing ardor
ends up the predestined, unavoidable end.

My Mouth Hovers Across Your Breast (Adrienne Rich)

(I just got back from Bikram and my body feels delish. So here's a sexy one. Consider who is speaking. Does it matter that the narrator's gender is ambiguous? Do you feel like you can tell? And how about if you consider her description of love. Can it be non-sexual? Should it be? Let it linger...)

My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter

Implosions- Adrienne Rick

(This is brilliant. She is great, I'll be posting more of her. Probably tomorrow. And I think I'm gonna give you some of what I've been slaving over all spring break. But just check out the alliteration and movement here. It's dynamic.)

The world's
not wanton
only wild and wavering

I wanted to choose words that even you
would have to be changed by

Take the word
of my pulse, loving and ordinary
Send out your signals, hoist
your dark scribbled flags
but take
my hand

All wars are useless to the dead

My hands are knotted in the rope
and I cannot sound the bell

My hands are frozen to the switch
and I cannot throw it

The foot is in the wheel

When it's finished and we're lying
in a stubble of blistered flowers
eyes gaping, mouths staring
dusted with crushed arterial blues

I'll have done nothing
even for you?

Inspired by Dr Drew (2/11/10)

(So I have an addictive personality. I want the things I want all the time, in bulk. Obviously, this isn't always a good idea. So emerges this emo creation, slightly meladramatic, but I think we've all felt this is some capacity...)

It would be easier
if I were addicted to some sort
of liquid or powder. But you,
a breathing moving thing.
I can't get my hands around you
and fling you over the fire escape
and onto the even numbered street.
Eighth day, eighth year,
then that eighth month.
I thought maybe it would take
8 steps to get past you, over and around you.
Instead I take 2 steps forward
and fall 1 step back
(your song in my head, a flash
of your eye color, that yellow dress
I wore.) and it happens
so fast, before I can catch
a steady breath.
It's too hard to add and subtract
in the same moment
and so I've lost count
of where I should be.
I was always better with words.
And so I'll say
that you are like a magnet.
A magnet that pulls at me,
and it must be the metal
that I've embedded in my skin,
all those colors and words and lessons.
Those lessons that are supposed to
remind me of strength,
and with you they work against me!
And I suck into your body
only to wake up dazed and hung over,
convinced this whole thing was my fault.

Alphabet (3/12/10)

(Silly exercise. But kind of fun. Get it?)

Alacrity is a word I once knew,
but have forgotten.
Come to think of it, there are
dozens of definitions I've lost,
enough to be disconcerting.
Frankly though, I love language. It
gets me off, all those words
hovering in the space between people,
infused with combustible power and potential. They sparkle like
jewels, illuminating tensions and fantasies,
kind and cruel and concealing. And revealing.
Lest we forget, words can start wars,
make love, or
neither. Or everything in between. They
open, literally
part the lips, or they close
quite forcefully, like a door.
Really, how can you know them all to
say, in a dynamic way, what you feel?
This is my obsession, to
utilize a multitude of words
very effectively. Expressedly.
Without effort, with verve.
Xceptionally, if possible.
You see, it's become a matter of life and death.
Zeal is paramount.

Reflections on Throop St (3/19/10)

(These are the notes I took when I visited the house my Grandmother lived in, on Long Island. I'm writing a whole piece that requires research on her life in New York, which I never asked her about. It was a strange moment. Shout out to the kids who so generously took the time to drive me there. I feel like a detective, or a ghost whisperer, or a jigsaw puzzle piecer...)

Red shutters. The paint looks fresh-ish, but since the pictures are black and white who can tell. There's a porch and bench that weren't there. Additional. New.

The neighborhood feels quiet and safe, just what first generation Americans would want. It's miles away from the city. Wide streets, lawns with scratchy grass. They didn't have a dog here yet, so it was more about appearances. The next logical step. A roof that covered just your space, and not dozens of other apartments. Something that was yours. There is a garage, but I don't know if they had a car. It's small. Maybe one bedroom. Four kids here. Maybe they rode bikes. Was anyone old enough? Did she make my pillowcases on this island, the other, or was that all much later?

The shift from the city is extensive. From here to Delaware was probably easier. Of course it wasn't easy moving pregnant. How do you make love in a one bedroom house with four kids under the age of 10? It's nice here. Maybe what she always wanted.

Ghosts here. Ghosts of what I never didn't remember. It's lingering, but mostly its faded and quiet now. I'll ever really get the answers I want.

Danger Zone (2/1/10)

(This started being about one thing and then I kinda went into unconscious mode and it turned into something else. Didn't plan that, which is sort of weird. It feels like i didn't write it, like it was already there and just like spewed out of me onto the page. Whatever the case, I like the images that ended up here. It's cool when words have a life of their own...)

It won't be ok
until all pangs subside,
and good days aren't interrupted
with shortness of breath
and a brainwash of memories.
Memories I dropped, weighted with an anchor of guilt,
into the East River.
But memories aren't like metals.
Their mass doesn't respond well to gravity
and sink politely down to the sand.
They seem to fly without wings,
forever defying ten meters per second squared.
Then again, when they return
to the front of your brain
it is with a quickness and force
that can only be described as magnetic.
So maybe they are more metallic than I thought.
They can also cut into my breastbone
like a knife,
and shine like new with a little polish.
And they can certainly be precious.
Precious, dangerous, sparkly little drip drops.
Averse to weight and dark corners
but not spontaneity or cruelty.
The only way to blunt their sharp edges
is time. Which can grind them
down into something that fits
comfortably in your palm,
lightly resting there without drawing blood.
When they return without drawing blood,
I can sigh in relief, slip them into my pocket,
and this part will be finished.

Like Riding a Bike (3/7/10)

(I can't decide how physical love is. Is it like riding a bike, something the body remembers? Sorry about the epic Wizard of Oz allusion, I'm really into that metaphor lately. Probably because it's queer, and because I keep making bad decisions...)

They say falling in love
is like riding a bike.
And i ride Sparkle Pony all the time!
(my glass-bead-covered bike
from Brooklyn, we audaciously
hit it off instantly,
and then i bought her a new bell.)
But I'm not so convinced
I'll remember this other process.
That idea implies familiarity
with things like balance,
and forward momentum.
It speaks of muscle memory
and learning from first bruises.
I have a short fuse
on my memory. Lessons that should be
filed neatly tend to combust. Poof.

I can't imagine that my body
is capable of holding within it
this much knowledge.
Because muscle memory
doesn't explain how to sit still
with someone and grieve, or how to be silent.
It doesn't explain being apart,
how to miss someone.
It doesn't explain dreams,
or lies. (I forget how to lie often,
but sometimes remember
at just the right moment.)
And if your problem is walls,
your body will not help you
bust through, because they are built with
more and greater and newer bolsters each time.
You can never un-do these the same way twice.

I'd like to reach back and recall
that moment where, somehow,
with the distinct taint of magic,
gravity overtakes your skin cells
and inner blockades and pupils and pulse
and your body slows, sinks, falls.

But this is such and illusive miracle.
I'm afraid the yellow brick road
will only appear so often,
and if I forget the way
no powerful woman or loving sidekick
or unique shoes or man behind the curtain
will be written in the script
to usher me back.
I might end up alone in
that hot air balloon,
directionless and windblown,
and tired of travel.

Cab to the China Bus (3/12/10)

(So I'm incapable of posting from outside NYC... new rule. Anyway, I'm back, and we're back on track. This is inspired by a Frost poem I've seen on the 6 train. I'm into stanzas and structure lately. Happy spring, its stupid beautiful out...)

The way the rain
mist'd down on me,
in Times Square
at 8:03

A.M., the sky
looked gray and deep.
The lights shone bright
(seemed mine to keep.)

Such a contrast,
Mist and light.
The water soft
and falling slight.

Now spring's just here,
it's not so cold.
The warmth has got me
feeling bold.

On this gray day
I'm up and out,
catching a bus
to roam about.

But it's all too clear
I love neon.
It won't be long,
the time I'm gone.

Jack Keroac's 30 Essentials

(Yesterday got away from me. Here is the most epic list ever. This is def 2 days worth of stuff. #4 is maybe the most important. Get outta your head and fall in love with spring...)

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You're a Genius all the time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Maya Angelou)

(Another beautiful classic. If you are in a cage, hum whistle and belt it out, we'll all be free one day. If you're creating your own cage, tilt your head back and sing it out, and learn to love flight...)

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Phenomenal Woman (Maya Angelou)

(It's International Women's Day. If you are a woman, read this poem out loud and believe its true. If you are a man, take a sec to appreciate how wonderful and helpful and lifesaving the women in your life have been. Women are legit phenomenal...)

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing of my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Untitled Novel (Fall 2009)

(Some prose. To hopefully wet your appetite for the rest of this novel which I've only barely started and really need to write more of. You can guess whats in the jars if you want, I'll give you a prize...)

Keeping these things for people is not hard. They don’t often try to escape once you’ve got the lid on tight, though some do not want to be preserved. I have learned to be hyper aware of my body in space. I’ve also memorized the dimensions of this place exactly, meaning I could close my eyes all day and never trip or bump into anything. Being surrounded by breakable things makes this absolutely imperative. If the glass breaks it can cut right through what it once protected, which at the very least gets exposed and thus contaminated by the very room its in. Uncontaminated, they are quite beautiful. They are pretty slippery once you’ve extracted them, somewhat less liquidy than jello but by no means water. They have no real mass, and are remarkably unaffected by gravity. They are easily recognized by their color. Angry ones are red, sorrowful ones a deep blue or purple. Jealousy adds a green tint, while the funny or awkward tend towards yellows and oranges. The truer it is, that is the less tainted by emotions, the closer it seems to the color of water. If it is also joyful, it seems to always be catching the light. What I mean is, it sparkles.

The Return of Sunlight (the demise of down) *TODAY*

(Can't tell you what the first warm day here will do for your life. It's a collective feeling of 'YYYYAAAAAYYYYY!!!!!!'. This combined with a day/night full of great people had me sweating bliss and breathing smiles. This is cheesy, and no you're not shocked that its a love poem for NY, but I had to share...)

It started in the park
with the marble arch.
There was an upright piano
next to the fountain,
where a man in a fedora
and scarf and no jacket
played Beatles songs. He didn't sing.
The sun was like an old friend
that we were all reigniting
a love affair with.
I walked uptown on 5th then 6th,
watching everyone internally frolic.
The only place with remnants of winter
is Central Park, where hole-y patches of snow
still lay over the grass.
They look silly and anachronistic.
Here there is commerce and fashion
and the Plaza, and its all so beautiful
but its the other park that feeds my bliss.
This island is Bohemia in my heart,
and the first spring day I'm in love all over.

The Blessing (James Wright)

(This is Tommy's favorite poem of the moment. He is here and we are celebrating his successful job interview. So this is dedicated to him, enjoy)

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

The Second Coming (William Butler Yeats)

(I like the violence of this. Can't deal w/ my stuff today so enjoy Yeats, pronounced Yates which is always annoying...)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Another Prose Poem (Late Summer 2007)

(Here is another prose poem. Not an oxymoron, more like a pleasant contradiction thats easy to swallow...)

Someone told me once that time freezes when you receive news you've been dreading.
Wrong.
Instead a chisel appears to start breaking your surface, banging away until it finds the sweet spot where the crack spreads and you shatter to the floor. Everything around you promptly shatters to reveal a scene beneath it that is more dull and less in focus that a mere moment ago. The lack of clarity is fear you've been carrying around, finally making its debut, physically manifesting just in time to fuck your day up.

Hopefully you thought ahead enough to get a quick breath in before breaking, otherwise the breaths feel as jagged as the shapes you've become on the floor.

Questioning (Feb 2nd, 2010)

(So this is a 2nd draft. It's coming out of a women's storytelling class, about what love is and how people think about themselves as individuals and as people with history and as participants in loving (or other kinds of) relationships. It's a moment of frustration. I often wonder why the stakes are so high, when we let love...)

I am a cliche,
also a study in contradictions.
Who could love me?

I don't sleep.
I survive on just coffee with soy.
Who could know?

I need to stay moving,
rest and waiting freak me out.
Who wants to keep up?

I'm alive when I'm spontaneous,
depressed when I'm bored.
Who can deal?

I day dream, almost hourly,
about love-fueled revolutions.
Who could stomach it?

I sing out loud
on the subway. And dance.
No one would tolerate it.

I cry in the shower.
I melt in the steam.
No one cares.

I like to cook and hoolihoop
and abbreviate and fuck and read
and walk and take shots
and theorize and pretend to work
and listen and laugh.
So what. No one relates.

I am easy to please
and hard to understand.
Whose willing to navigate complexities
for the sake of a kiss?

Untitled (March-ish 07)

(Sweet loss of self emo poem written at a really shitty time. I started it in my head sitting in my high school parking lot late one night, where I'd gone to smoke and try to find something that, obviously, was long gone. Losing your childhood happens to everyone, but its a really disconcerting moment, and it's different for everyone. It's weird when you know things will never be the same...)

I came back tonight
and no one was here, although
it all looks exactly the same.
I thought when I left I'd taken away
a bundle of people whose
smiles I'd memorized
and laughter I owned.
When I thought of a legacy, I thought of
a small silver ring,
and how we'd always think parallel thoughts.

It seems like I miscalculated, and
somewhere along the way
silence became what I managed to keep.
Tonight it was a heavy silence, burdensome
amidst the starless, humid air.
But I'd be lying to say that it was always so heavy,
and sometimes the quiet
is pleasantly ironic lain over my city streets.

And now the planet has grown so warm
that the air is too thick to see through
and even the stars can't be seen,
at least not how they once were.

At least I learned while I was here.
Of course they left out the important lessons,
like how to say goodbye
and what to wear when you grow up
and to remember not to be surprised
when unchangeable things change.
And how not to lose socks.

My fingertips smell like smoke which
is usually romantic but tonight
is oppressive and out of place
on my kitchen floor,
where I have sat to take a deep breath
and think about what to eat.
I already know I don't want anything.

Except to stay and go at once,
and invent a device
that will render things permanent.