Cody Joins the Blogosphere. Time Stops. Volcanoes Pause.

I am suspicious of all things bloggy, zine-y or artist-centric. Sue me. The artist is the last person I trust, and daggummit, you should give anyone sporting a paintbrush a wide goddamn berth. They don't know nothing, least ways about their own. (Maureen has been watching the so-bad-it's-actually-bad True Blood during our evening downtimes and I think the patois is rubbing off.) My scribblings in Paris have been largely very narrowly targeted (JeffG I'm looking at you) and would bore the tar out of most of you. (My sweet, sweet grandmother used to say "the tar out of..." and only as of late did I realize how utterly vulgar that phrase is.)

Got to go to the French Open. Real highlight. I've always wanted to attend a major, and I actually got to sit Centre Court and watch Sharapova play coy with some poor girl from Kazakhstan (Shvedova).

My goal: less tightly wound. I present a quick sketch of a poem.

(Also: See the following for one of most flattering things to ever happen to moi. Click all four links. Superb.)

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hD3XOJXI8W8

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6QQQBkAF4o

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIg3mB9-s7I

http://www.facebook.com/l/;http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXwCa1jUPJ4



Sketches

Primeur du Marais
(Early product of the marsh)


These are awkward moments, the price not lust
but watching the waiter go straight from serving

your beer to getting into the back seat of a car
with dark windows. Is he coming back?

You're most likely on your own.
That's how it is.

No obscure painting will illuminate this scene.
No museum you've ever been to whose

name changes with the currents of arte du monde.
This century has started three times now,

paused at least once, can't figure out
its August from its ass, but what are we going to do?

The fabric hasn't shrunk so much as the threads
have a new relationship to the shirt you used to wear.

I'm pretty sure that's not where our camera points
but where it comes from. We're not the window

anymore when we jump, we're out of the fucking picture.
The garden below

turns out to be a box of artichokes
and we're lucky to land in the bananas.