Tony Sanders

Immolation Row by Tony Sanders

May 2, 1957 to February 11, 2015

Der·ri·ère

Having a lover was allowed while I lived at my mother's house.

On Wellbutrin I Only Dreamed of Sex,
illustration by Daniel Harris
in Country Without a Name,stories by Ann Bogle
forthcoming from Veery Imprints

Sketch of the new direction
of the second full-length
book of my short stories.

Kipling at Night



Gourds & pumpkins from MN Landscape Arboretum Apple House

Stoop in autumn

Neglected foods in service of beauty

Walk in to white chairs

On My Pantry Shelf

"The Bigots On My Bookshelf," Among Other Things, March 7, 2009, by Marlon James:

http://marlon-james.blogspot.com/2009/03/bigots-on-my-bookshelf.html

Bigot, definition, Ana Verse, May 28, 2007:

http://annbogle.blogspot.com/2007/05/bigot-def.html

big'ot, n. [O. Fr.; prob. from Sp. hombre de bigote, lit., man with a mustache (bigote, mustache, ult. from L. biga, span of horses), hence man of spirit, firm character, obstinate person.]
1. a person who holds blindly and intolerantly to a particular creed, opinion, etc.
2. a narrow-minded intolerant person.

big'ot-ry, n. [Fr. bigoterie, from bigot, a bigot, hypocrite.]
1. obstinate or blind attachment to a particular creed; unreasonable zeal in favor of a party, sect, or opinion; excessive prejudice; intolerance.

—from Webster's New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, deluxe 2nd ed.

Online Etymology Dictionary:

http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=bigot

1590s, "sanctimonious person, religious hypocrite," from French bigot (12c.), of unknown origin. Earliest French use of the word is as the name of a people apparently in southern Gaul, which led to the now-doubtful, on phonetic grounds, theory that the word comes from Visigothus. The typical use in Old French seems to have been as a derogatory nickname for Normans, the old theory (not universally accepted) being that it springs from their frequent use of the Germanic oath bi God. But OED dismisses in a three-exclamation-mark fury one fanciful version of the "by god" theory as "absurdly incongruous with facts." At the end, not much is left standing except Spanish bigote "mustache," which also has been proposed but not explained, and the chief virtue of which as a source seems to be there is no evidence for or against it.

In support of the "by God" theory, as a surname Bigott, Bygott are attested in Normandy and in England from the 11c., and French name etymology sources (e.g. Dauzat) explain it as a derogatory name applied by the French to the Normans and representing "by god." The English were known as goddamns 200 years later in Joan of Arc's France, and during World War I Americans serving in France were said to be known as les sommobiches (see also son of a bitch). But the sense development in bigot is difficult to explain. According to Donkin, the modern use first appears in French 16c. This and the earliest English sense, "religious hypocrite," especially a female one, might have been influenced by beguine and the words that cluster around it. Sense extended 1680s to other than religious opinions.

Online Oxford English Dictionary: 

http://www.oed.com/viewdictionaryentry/Entry/18890?p=emailAAScdPm9BJKhA&d=18890

The Keratin Experience

In a message dated 2/9/2013 8:20:26 A.M. Central Standard Time, ljt@com writes: A Message for You from [LJT]:

Ann, I think this coat is totally you!!  It's so cute, wish they had my size!

Check out the following NORDSTROM.com selection(s) hand-picked by [LJT]:

Item: Fleurette Duffle Coat with Genuine Fox Fur Collar

http://shop.nordstrom.com/S/3333569?origin=sendtofriend&cm_ven=OrderCorrespondence&cm_cat=TEXTNORD&cm_pla=FriendEmail&cm_ite=575747

Click on the link(s) above for more details on the above item(s).

 
Dear Lena (first reference at Ana Verse) or Lana (second reference about a year later, my mistake), not her real name or names, LJT:

I tried on a Fleurette coat in Aubergine at home (shipped from Nordstrom) and even called the company in New York before ordering, regarding size, and the woman who works there (or owns the company?) said the coats run "true to size."  I was between a size 8 and 10.  I ordered both ($795 full price, no fur or leather trim) and returned both to Nordstrom at MOA.  The wool is nice, but the cut ran short in the waist on me and felt a little baggy at the small of the back, regardless of size.  I am surprised by the prices of wool coats (suddenly, this year?), quite high.  [My Nina Ricci pretty brown Merino wool original car-length coat with sheared beaver collar cost $450 on sale from $900 at Lord & Taylor in Houston in 1995.  My L&T charge card survived the b'cy in 1997 with a zero balance but expired without a L&T store here.  Lisa Pottratz's mother illustrated fashion for L&T from home in the '70s.  There is more to say about fertility, naming, and diabetes.]  I am so glad I kept the charcoal wool UGG coat (shearling collar), $385 on sale [November 2012], with its great quality and fit.  I guess manufacturers want a lot for fox fur trim suddenly, too?  I bought two thick cotton knit hats last year at Hoigaard's with little fox tufts at the tips: about $49 each.

How is it going?  I got a new haircut at Metropolis Salon.  Here's a pic I took of myself (in the middle of some night, after two dozen attempts to capture a nice photo):

That was before I cut my hair further myself, in the front (on both sides) including  bangs.  I left the back almost entirely alone.  Keith charged $108 for the cut and style (including my $20 tip) and to remove the chemically-mysterious-yet-I-believe-related-to-the-Keratin-treatment BEEHIVE that formed on January 4-6, 2013.  I did not ask Kelly for a whole or partial refund for the treatment application of November 21, 2012.  I saw her a week ago, the second time I went to the salon one full hour late for a consultation.  She had told me on the phone she had never heard of a Keratin beehive.  [She said a change in medication might cause the hair to knot.  I ran out of coffee early in January and didn't drink coffee, except one cup, for several weeks.  I also lost weight, not dieting, upon leaving my long-term service companionship.  That wall to the East formed of iron along the CST line.]  Only I, and to a lesser extent, Ned, know the exact details of what I did with my hair, shampoo, conditioner, water, diet, geographical location(s), social circumstances, medication(s), coffee, beer, glass or two of wine at Christmas, etc., that took place then.  Medical records kept by the psychiatrist (M.D. by definition) and pharmacist could establish a detail or two as well.  Let's assume that my stable regimen did not go to my hair at the exact moment a beehive hairdo started to form.  I think Keith may have claimed to somebody or other at Metropolis [not to me (objective form of the pronoun required there)] that I had not washed my hair in seven weeks, not true if so.  I washed it every week and a half-to-twelve days (as usual) and brushed it every day.

I may try to write an essay about the Keratin experience [including a passage about the white woman (prostitute, Jeff Hansen said) whom he and I saw at Red Dragon in Minneapolis in 2011, whose "bun" stood about sixteen inches or so above her head.  I would not have known then how she might have achieved "that look," but I was impressed.  A physical fight with other ethnically-divided women ensued indoors and may have escalated outside, away from my witness]. I have no photo of my beehive (six inches at its tallest, measured from the top and back of my head).  I felt there was no way for me to get a photo of what the bun felt like to the touch—a permanent bun I could neaten with clips.  Worn "down," it looked ragged (damaged color and texture, both).  Fully written, it might be a 3,000-word story of hair sacrifice.

I tried but could not get a good shot of my hair as it looks today (February 9, 2013).  I look fine in the mirror and window reflection and haggard in digital Blackberry shots.  Richard Avedon has been quoted as having said or written, "The camera doesn't lie."  It Mayberry R.F.D. that Tina Brown lies, however, since evidence that Avedon said or wrote that line, printed in The New Yorker, alongside a photo of him some year before he died in 2004, is now not easy or impossible to locate via Google.  My photogeneity is uneven in digital and film photography, both.

More a little later, hope your February is melting slowly.

Love, Ann

P.S. With your permission, I would like to post this email as an entry at my weblog, Ana Verse, subject to my own minor editing.  I will not use your name or email address, if so.

"I'll get back to you" I'll interpret as a "yes."

~AMB 

A later version of this letter appears at Fictionaut:

http://fictionaut.com/stories/ann-bogle/the-keratin-experience

[I prepared this story post prior to LJT's response.  I sent it to her as an email 2/9/2013 4:44:57 P.M. Central Standard Time, and I know, by personal experience, that she checks her email rather infrequently.  Since today may be the only day I feel likely to fuss over this piece of writing, I called her, and she said, "Sure, honey."  I feel concerned by the charge of "self-plagiarism" leveled at Jonah Lehrer, a professional writer and journalist, by (named?) members in and of the mainstream press. For my purposes, I have practiced and believed that stating a dual-context (without identifying my email recipients by name) might be enough, and, to note, I do not expect writing or plagiarism, including of oneself, to be paid.]

Cock Rock at Maple

Posted November 1, 2007

Autumn Kilt: 2 weeks earlier

Posted November 1, 2007

Waylaid (1999)

Friday, March 23, 2007, 05:31:00 CDT:

Examples of fears I live with: You are a traveler. When I returned to my hometown, I started going to A.A. This was preprogrammed in me by a therapist who due to her religious background tried to require it of everyone in her clinical office who drank. I had been asked to go to a therapist due to “bipolar disorder,” something I was told I had though I didn’t have mood swings—rapid, horizontal thoughts followed by slow reactions. I had vertical liftoffs and low electrolytes. At its peak, I felt like a helium balloon that had stopped at the ceiling in my living room and drifted downward but did not deflate.

When you first learn of bipolar or other mental disorders, you are hit: The doctor believes you have a major mental illness for which there is no test or cure. Later, you realize more. Therapists make money, doctors do, pharmaceutical companies do. With one or two strikes against one and credits easily erased, could I—could anyone—emerge not-parked from that economic-underground-airport-tunnel system? Having friends helps, but what if you have low-balling, Hollywood-style friends? What if you or your friends have moved?

A.A. presupposes that newcomers to the group have done bad things to other people. They think it makes a better story instead of a worse one. On the whole, my life, as only I could have known it, defied drinking stereotypes. It had pleased me in remarkable ways. Once you agree to begin A.A., it is expected that you will stay amongst them for life. Here, except for pockets in the Midwest, people in general are TV-heads who rarely read except self-help and who show little appreciation for the arts.

There, meaning South, my drinking (mostly beer) was in the spirit of friendship. We went to an evening actor’s bar that was not violent and not a pick-up joint. Actors met there after rehearsal. There was a pool table, a jukebox, lit candles on small tables. No one had a car accident until once. Hardly anyone was stopped by police. I went there too often: That was what I had done. Worse, I didn’t know it might be lowbrow to go out more often than my friends or to go out alone. My friends didn’t know that my therapist disallowed boyfriends except hers. She expected me to desert my life for 12-Step rec rooms even before anyone had introduced cocaine. Celibacy was her idea of birth control, something we had had excellent instruction in as teenagers at the teen clinic where I had lived. I didn’t suspect her of these subtexts, but I felt vaguely defiant. I didn’t feel like watching TV after a day of grading papers and writing. In that mix of sports and religion, TV was what there was of virtue. I thought bars were nicer.

There were a few other “wrongs,” depending on how far A.A. wanted to take it. I had ever had sex without being married. Some of the A.A.s were having divorced “sober sex.” One of those, a self-regarding sex goddess and mother of two Asian-American children, had started dating a retired African-American football player while still married to her Chinese doctor husband. She had a friend in Hollywood, whose publicity photo she flashed at women’s dinners while urging sex on everyone. I believed her coaxing us was healthy, and she needed a team to keep her culturally challenging life as a single mom going; besides me, her team were single moms without teams. She was a realtor, who, like lawyers, made money at divorce. I was not a landowner. At first they pitied me for it. Later, they wanted to skewer me for it. Sex, as I realized not without embarrassment, was the privilege of divorced landholders. The group’s few marrieds slept in separate rooms.

Outside the story: my feminist approval of the realtor as a woman in business; my later sense of her pretense as Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct; my feelings of friendship for her and the other members of the group; my affair with a man whose wife had suggested it, who was herself, as I left out then, attracted to black men; his later decision to have children with a woman who was next in the group; my caretaking propensity for alcoholics, heightened after I left the meetings fully programmed; my failure to find other or paid work. (Writing is not work.)

The women, including me and except the sex goddess, had fallen to domestic violence. Those women were fat. Violence, including spiritual violence, was protected in the A.A. meeting. The men were universally passive about reports of it, and the women tried to be serene. I started to realize that the schisms between sex and sex and violence had contained hypocrisies related to being Catholic or to inter-religion, when I tried to leave. Without relapsing, I had a serious breakdown in my isolation. Many of my friends had been Catholic, and I had left myself little place to turn. My best friend, speaking long distance, called me a loser. She and her boyfriends—numerous and simultaneous—would be more successful and married. Her drinking would not lead to A.A.

When people demand a bad story, one with murders and suicides in it, ordinary sinners who had liked church as I had, might feel caught as under a lamp. I postulated that in our places, Jews and Catholics had been like the ink on the page, the words, the lines. Protestants had been like the spaces, the paper, the page. Protestants watched in the setting but not each other in the setting—we got to the point of staring straight ahead—quiet and forgetting to tell the story to our page. We were sheets. Some of us were trees that fell in the woods. We would tell the middle of the story, stories about purpose and the quiet in life, about age, about the long span between birth and death. They would tell stories about birth and death. They—?—would live well day to day, even happily, and had many friends, but nothing compared in pleasure to the day the switch came, a day to ditch friends.

My writing teacher wrote that the Holocaust (what I thought of) is not the only or not necessarily “the disaster” in Maurice Blanchot’s The Writing of the Disaster. I learned from attending A.A. that recovery from A.A. is never possible.

A woman feels burdened to spend an hour with her friend since they are not men. Now, to write that with all the artistic command of language I ever thought I’d had.

Appears in slightly different form July 8, 2011 and April 20, 2014 at Fictionaut

Saratoga

These hats are for sale!

Love Lids are cashmere and suitable for men, women, and children. One little girl slept in hers the night they made it!

Szymanowski at St. Mark's

Grey Nuns

Unplugged Hand

Olmsted Point at Yosemite

Sound Experiment (2)

1. At Ana Verse select the Gabcast recording of Swedish folkpoems. Play the first song, "Rida, rida ranka."

2. Play Leo Kottke's "Big Situation" (c) 1994 as the Swedish folkpoem "Varan Prost" begins.

3. When "Varan Prost" ends, play "Basal Distance." Let "Big Situation," "Ode to Coffee," and "Basal Distance" play simultaneously until "Basal Distance" concludes the experiment.

At the gate

Red door
Collected Chekhov
Publications
Collected Montaigne
Childhood silhouette
Grandfathers' photos
Nonfiction collection
White vinyl chair
Fireplace
Le Fanion urns
Surrealists by Man Ray cafeteria tray
Childhood books

Welcome

These females take no prisoners

Reading posts I've noticed that sometimes Women's Poetry Listserv members use the word "female" to designate "woman" and "females" for "women."  An adult female human being is a woman.  Woman is the generic.  Newspapers have ruled in style in favor of "woman" for decades.  I've noticed that many women avoid saying "woman" or "women" in favor of "gals," "ladies," "girls," "grrls."  Sometimes these women are poets.  Is it due to study in feminist poetics that the word "woman" is meaningful in a way they wish to avoid, that it suggests a profile or designates a philosophy they are seeking not to define?  It seems while concerns over "essentialism" have increased in feminist poetics, a return to "female" as a noun has also increased.

Simon heads to Great Mother Conference

Kipling Avenue