Author: tiphane

Tech Opinion: The Future of the Kindle and Book Reading

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few years ago, I left the world of technology to study English Literature, read more fiction, and write.  I got rid of the old Sears TV with its rabbit ear antenna, and after moving to Berkeley, no longer saw the need to shop in the electronics stores.  This year, I tried to update myself with an iPod, but found that I actually liked to hear what was going on around me on the street and on BART.  So I don’t really qualify as a technologist, if the prerequisite is to also be a consumer of technology.  There are plenty of guys who will talk to you about the latest and greatest this and that, and to prove their point they’ll grab a device hanging on their belt. I buy books, and take pleasure in finding them at a used bookstore or among remainder stacks of unsold first editions.  I think I qualify as a scavenger of sorts, letting items cross my path rather than running after them.  I think that’s why I prefer the local, …

Even though I have a boyfriend — a draft

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Exploring ideas and directions for the novel project… “Even though I have a boyfriend,” he said, “you can kiss me now.” The invitation, as strange, dangerous, and illicit as it sounded, could only be accepted.  I acknowledged it first by a discreet kiss on the cheek, on his left side, my right side.  Our arms soon followed, and like an airplane on its approach to landing, my nose guided my lips to that mysteriously sensitive area under the ear, where they dwelled for a while, tickling the thin layer of skin, muscle, and nerve.  With an unconscious decision to move on, again led by a nose excited by the softness of a fair skin on which only the suggestion of a beard manifested a pleasant resistance, the lips found each other and locked in.  It felt as if they had been measured for each other. “Oh, if only…” my head started to reason, raising the alarm that the moment was about to end.  I tried to ignore it, tried to think of a mantra as …

It’s just an old sweater

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It’s just an old sweater of yours That I found In memories of our common past. Little did I know you would appear in a plastic box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d return it to you Wrapped in a cut paper grocery bag Write your name and the last address I have for you Take it to the post office, take a number, Ask for nothing special See it thrown in a bin full of other packages Should I include a letter? What would it say? I saw you receiving an unwanted package and a letter maybe, Throwing this sweater in a bin for Goodwill With all things from me, the past, this town. Your scent having long left the soft wool, Chased away by mothballs, I washed it in cold water and delicately Dried it flat and for a few days It lay near the back door The object of my curiosity, softer to the touch of my passing hand Until each of the threads caressed my arms and my …

A Work of Art

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I’ve started working on this project again, after nearly two years.  I think my attitude towards it has changed, and I’m more comfortable with it.  One important detail is that I got excited reading the drafts, posing the hard question: which draft will I take, or should I just rewrite these anyway?  How do I deal with the complexity of a novel, writing chapters not in order, filling blank chapters that I may not be as excited about as others… So today I decided to turn off the Internet and the phone (that was easy, if you know my aversion to the phone), and work. Here’s an excerpt, just a paragraph really.  The story is about a painting of a young man after an encounter, and how the painter falls in love with his art and his subject. He woke up at ten past ten, the hands of his alarm clock spread in panic. He had to open his shop at eleven, and he was sure there would be a customer waiting at the door …

Syrupy Substance and A Trace of Garbage

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Syrupy Substance A spot of sweet glue ready for osmosis touched the back cover of my book as it was placed on the table. My finger wiped off the offending matter, enrolling the help of others to dissolve the sweetness (note to self: must wash hands), ordering the diffusion of an all-out warning about a rogue sweet spot, innocent-looking like a drop of water that won’t dry, waiting, perhaps forever, for the coming of an ant. A Trace of Garbage The garbage bag had a hole in it, and the ants followed the path it made from the dumpster back to the building, into the elevator, through the corridor, into the apartment and the kitchen where it all started, or ended. It was an epic story of antesque proportions, telling of unhealthy snacks, empty calories, nutshells, and plain old dust. A forensic ant-analyst concluded a trace of a vacuum cleaner bag had led to a fruitless day of cleaning and dusting, the myth of Sisyphus repeating itself as intended.

R.I.P. Ardavan Davaran

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One of my favorite teachers, Ardavan Davaran, died this week. I had seen him one day this year on my way to the grocery store, and I remember thinking I’d wave at him had he not been deeply engaged in conversation at the restaurant where he sat. Had I been him, I would have simply walked through the low bushes separating me from the restaurant window, and knocked with a big grin. He was my first teacher in the M.A. program at NDNU, where I showed up completely unsure of my abilities. After all, I spoke English with an accent, the excuse I proffered when he asked me to read a poem in class. “I’m an English professor with an accent,” he told me. I read, and he congratulated me. Later, I wrote and he congratulated me. When I wrote for the magazine, The Bohemian, he said my story was fantastic.  One night after class, I joined him at Ausiello’s, the local tavern across the train station, and made it a personal tradition to wait …

Christmas Morning

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In every major town of France and most of Europe, the pharmacists take turns at staying open all night and on holidays.  In a similar way, Berkeley Espresso is the de facto café on guard on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I discovered that this morning, as I looked out the window this morning of Christmas, the street at its quietest, but the purple neon sign lit, and the only possible destination of walkers. Not one minute after I arrived, a long line of people formed behind me, as if I had attracted them like a magnet on my short wandering.  Perhaps we were all mysteriously synchronized, but for a minute I didn’t know whether to take my coffee to go, because a couple had entered and decided to reserve the counter stools for their own sense of security.  Fortunately, the man grabbed a table as soon as its current occupant showed signs of liberating it, and I could continue my plan of sitting in a corner of the counter to write this. This café …

Puzzle (revised November 20, 2008)

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There he is, dead, alone Silent and undisturbed And you think that’s how he wanted to leave it. You look above for signs of an angel Taking away his soul As in the image in catechism And you see the image of an angel Cleaning the slate of your soul Showing indelible cracks From your fall Causing eternal pain Causing unmanly tears always retained. Your head bounces on an aluminum locker Spins about unsaid words and questions, Fragments of life locked in forever, Mysteries unsolved Wanting of Faith and Honor. You venture the back of an index finger On his one-day beard Remembering lips prohibited long ago From the freshly shaven cheek Reserved for the good housewife Now watching your gesture And deeper you withdraw Into the heap of puzzle pieces That will never come together To complete your picture.

Departure (a revision of “Ashore”)

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The deserted pier floats away In silence And the town shrinks behind Soon a model in a museum Then blurred impasto Destined to decorate memories and The traveling theater of your dreams. For now there is only doubt In the silence of your mind For even the seagulls have left. You navigate on seas now calm then rough Counseled by ghosts and gods Against pirates jealous of your light purse Guided by the stars Confused by the clouds Siphoned by currents You reach A new port, outside your map Charming you with strange music To set foot on dry land Behind you the horizon Absorbed your history and silenced the voices of the past So far away now That you take a new name.

Autumn

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I didn’t see a fallen tree today Or the sun’s trajectory But leaves dropped at the first rain Sunk under wet air On the sidewalk Where my soles warned of slippage Paused and watched Each new drop at the end of a long journey On denuded branches Like a snail following a trace Drawn by the ineluctable force Of gravity To dive, once more, and collide With the fallen leaf Releasing on impact a whiff Bouncing back to my nostril Suddenly aware of the new autumn.