Lamentation for the Semicolon

  Poor semicolon; Dr. Johnson ushered in the golden age for it, and after that it was all downhill. It's a very Ciceronian piece of punctuation; a method of concomitance that allows the speaker to continue on without stopping; the perfect punctuation for a speech, or a long digression. There's no need for conjunctions with Semicolon, but the hoi polloi refuse to understand that; they think that you can just use a comma instead -- and in many instances, you can.  But using Semicolon is more than just a sign that you went to college. Here's a grade school maxim: if a period is a red light, then Semicolon is a yellow light, and the comma is a green light.
      We love the comma. The comma shares the place of lamentable semicolon, in part because it's easier. When they see a ; they aren't really sure what to do. You can use the , for everything nowadays. Watch: I went to the bodega to get some beer, they were out of 40's. That comma takes the place of Semicolon. Why wouldn't I use Semicolon ? Oh, but it's so pretentious. It's like using the word convalesce, when I could just say healing, or getting better. I want to resurrect it. Semicolon has intrinsic value for linking phrases of differing content, and it isn't as abrubt as the dash. The dash is effective and is now often the favorite over Semicolon.  Don't get me wrong, I love the dash, but it's choppy, and Semicolon allows for relative fluidity, even if it does involve a slight pause. The Semicolon; now there's a piece of punctuation.
    Here's a nice example: “And as it was borne in on him that he would never see her again, that it was all over, that she was irrevocably lost, he felt his whole being torn apart; his tears, which had been gathering all day, overflowed.” Here, the commas serve as modifying clauses. Semicolon signals a break from, and entry into a new clause that supports the meaning of the sentence with plot furtherance  -- we are told after all the commas, a new piece of information, that he cried. The commas are steps in a sentence; Semicolon is a landing.
      I really want to start using more parentheses. They are nice because when you insert a clause into a sentence by bordering it with dashes, the emphasis can disorient the reader and he may have to reread it, which may or may not be a good thing.  This post postmodernist part of the blog will have more commas and parentheses and fewer dashes and Semicolons.
      This reduction of English grammar, I don't know exactly what I think about it. On one hand, it's nice because it's becoming simpler, which allows the lay to enjoy it. Not that I'm writing for the lay, believe me, I want this to be read in college classrooms one day. But I believe that Hemingway, for example, was so successful because his prose was simple, like the Bible. In a way it's him I have to thank for throwing the first fistful of dirt on Semicolon's coffin. It's the interpretation that gives meaning anyway, so why cloud my writing with excessive punctuation? Use it occasionally, and when I do, it becomes important for its relativity. 

Chakra Daze

There was a creative mood for us. In the 60's they went to Woodstock and listened to Bob Dylan, danced in the nude. Henry Miller played piano and jammed out with his friends. We do the same things, but differently.
    I remember one afternoon, when the artistic vibrations of a weekend grounded in open festival art were resonant. Sarah, Anthony's girlfriend came over while Anthony and Gio and Chris were selling art at the subway stop. We gardened and built up an appetite playing catch with her softball and her soft leather mitt. When we went to the store and bought food, we felt so exuberant – there was such abundance with a ripe canteloupe, prosciutto, red tomatoes, black bean hummus, a rosemary baguette, lemonade, gouda, and corn chips. We prepared a gorgeous spread and when everyone arrived, we fed leisurely, like a court of aristocrats, or European peasants. This feeling was the kind that inspired happiness and contentment.
    Full, I put on a pot of coffee and we rolled cigarettes, thick and conic, with a little bit of tobacco that dangled out the end to make it easy to light and looked like crazy hair. We stood on the deck, feeling the breeze, and talked about Yoga. Gio told us about how when he was younger, he was diagnosed with ADD. They put him on Ritalin, you know how kids sleep when they're on Ritalin? They jerk their heads and twitch. His mother didn't feel comfortable with that at all, with her little boy already on drugs. Drugs create dependence, especially when they're prescribed. When you switch from one to the other, it's easy to want to commit suicide. Someone told her about yoga. When she put him in a class, and he found his center, she eventually was able to quiet him simply by saying “Gio, ohm.” And he balanced. This was when Gio was just thinking about opening up a yoga studio on the roof of his loft, asking for suggested donations only – 7 dollars, which was perfect because no one has exactly 7 dollars, so they'll be tempted to either tip up or down based on whichever bill they have, and can feel good about it either way.
    He led us in the yard, which had just accepted a light rain, and was moist. The clouds were unfolding, curling and spinning in wisps, the leaves of the trees were buzzing. We did the motions, pulling the flesh away from our sitting bones, downward dog, hinyasa, warrior one, he demonstrated crow, where you put your knees on your elbows. Afterwards, we felt balanced, and everyone left, peeling off like layers, going where they needed to.

Mega Laundromat

In the laundromat I always have the most intimate experiences with children (no homo). Today a young Hispanic boy jumped onto a wobbly end table next to two red seats. The table was at the same level as the chairs and was connected by a black bar underneath. He treated the seats like an obstacle course or a hopscotch square, planting one foot on each then jumping onto the floor. He looked at me. I jolted my eyebrows in affected awe. He smiled; he was pleased.

He wore black Jordan III's, orange and brown boardshorts, and had his hair in that subtle fauxhawk that's popular right now, so that it was a little longer in back and hung down in a short spike on his neck. His two front teeth were missing. He was 5, I could tell.

I sat down after using the restroom and opened my book. He was running around, playing on the floor. I wanted to tell him as I saw his forearms rest on the ground, "Get up - it's dirty!"Clearly he did not understand the concept of a dirty ground, that you shouldn't play on it. His tall heavyset sister tried dragging him up. He was stubborn and yelled.

The matron slowly walked over - thick calves, hair in a bun on the crown of her head, a small purse slung across her body. She had big brown eyes and a frowning sullen mouth. She shook her head. The boy stopped, the sister let go. He knew what was coming. The mother took his ear. She walked with him in tow. He looked at me ashamedly, embarrassed, and as he moved his head the pain set in, he mouthed ow, but he didn't say anything to save some pride.

Oh, how I remember the ear tweak! It was a mild pain that lingered. And how degrading it was. I sat with my naked feet on my slip ons, unabashed, and was glad to be an adult.

Yes Poetry (and Prose)

 A poem that I wrote while in New Orleans a month ago is online in the latest issue of Yes, Poetry. Based out of New York, this collection has poets from all over the world, and is my first publication.

In the meanwhile, I’ve been working fiendishly on my book, Hot Love on the Wing. Its dualities are continually expanding and concretizing, and I’ve had some important revelations recently.  Remember that it is a kunstleroman, so this excerpt involves the narrator dealing with his critics:

If I weren’t a writer, then I would write a book later. But ever since that day in first grade when I realized that being a reader is only half of the equation, that if you can’t write you’re just as powerless as not knowing how to read, I knew what I had to do; even if it was an unconscious stirring in my soul, it was there.

And then when I was eight, finding an old journal entry, my first, and being delighted at my ability to record the past accurately. I remember sitting on the floor cross legged, holding a single sheet of looseleaf paper that was wrinkled and scrawled over in pencil, and being ensnared in the power of my history, standing up and being inspired to write again, and eventually come back to it in another few years and have a repetition of that delightful feeling we recognize as aging, learning.

 In actuality, I could have been disgusted at how poor my writing style was, how inaccurate were the events, and how naïve I was as a mere six year old to attempt to write. You see, I don’t really know. The first way was nicer, it could have been true. But then again, it was so long ago that to remember exactly how I felt at the time is impossible. To try to give it to you, I glorified it the way I would glorify my youth if I wrote a coming of age story as an old man. It’s nice and sweet, sure, makes for good reading, but when you come down to it, it’s the dualities that are worth exploring. My feelings of how I wrote it or read it are untenable, and honestly isn’t it more fun to wonder? To make your own decision based on how well you know me, or rather how well you don’t know me? So my true goal is to allow you to understand my psychology, so that you can see how I might have interpreted my history, whether it was 20 years ago, or last night. We’re in it together, trying to find our way through the recesses of my memory, and interpret the light shining through the corridors as an exit, or maybe as a way to get lost deeper in the labyrinth. And who knows? Maybe we want to get lost. As long as we’re not alone, right?