the listen-o-scope is not available in stores & you may or may not appreciate hearing what your family is in fact saying to you, not limited to such utterances as,”mama, when are you going to make lunch” & “jenniey, it took me thirty minutes to make that thing and you are going to spend the rest of the day blogging about it?”
in other words, use the listen-o-scope at your own damn risk.
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Gods Gods dog dog Gods.
as in:
Gods [which] Gods follow follow Gods.
wherein follow = dog
Dogs dogs dog dog dogs.
[Dogs (which) dogs chase chase dogs.]
or:
Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo, buffalo Buffalo buffalo.
[New York bison (which) New York bison bully, bully New York bison.]
baby flies from jenniey tallman on Vimeo.
A movie exploring the cycle of life with a plasticine covered baby, flies, and flight, made by 8-year-old Oakley and me.
baby also swims.
with a snorkel.
and craft supplies.
i had fun writing this, drawing this, and getting this published.
the thing in sharon’s bedroom at the rumpus.net
i have a blog. i totally forgot.
i am kidding. i just have been busy. with school and reading and writing and cleaning and being pissed about the weather.
i’ll be back soon. i promise. i bet you miss me, huh?
here is a little something i’ve been working on, from the time i got a book in the mail and it was all destroyed by the post office.
.
radio cedar head from jenniey tallman on Vimeo.
cedar, age 5, dancing to lotus flower with thom yorke in the living room.
cedar saw a few seconds of the first video from radiohead’s new album, the king of limbs, and started dancing. i asked him if he wouldn’t mind if i recorded him. cedar, being cedar, was more than happy to oblige.
when this v*ct*r*a’s s*cr*t catalogue showed up at our house, the boys experienced a number of things:
i pulled it from his little grip and dumped it in the recycling bin while oak protested in a rather ridiculous way. mama, give me back my butts! i told him to go upstairs and brush his teeth. while he was gone, i retrieved the catalogue from the bin and started flipping through it. and then i got the scissors.
when oak came back downstairs i handed him the catalogue. mama, you love me! he yelled, clutching it to his chest.
yeah, yeah. i said, and told him we were going to cut it up. i clipped out a girl’s cleavage and handed it to him. see?
so, we got some paper and some glue and got to it.
I am concerned with theft in writing. But I am not concerned with someone writing LIKE me or even taking something I’ve written and rewriting it. No. I could not possibly care less about that.
What concerns me is that the things in my dreams will approach me, demanding recognition:
I am the man who tried to eat your face. I demand credit.
I am the dream of carrots. Tell my story.
Or my influences will recognize the rhythms of their music in my words:
I am Poison Oak. You wrote your entire novel listening to me. I am your novel.
I am Superstition. You owe me your pride.
Or perhaps the people of whom I speak will desire their due:
I am your suicidal friend.
I am your sister, your mother, your son.
I steal from squirrels, weather, food, and crayons every time I sit down to write. It is my wretched secret.
I have no talent: I steal everything I think.
