I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
Austin Kleon spent countless commutes to and from work staring at local newspapers. And then something changed. Words started swimming on the page, certain ones standing out like lily pads on a pond. Eventually, he grabbed a permanent marker.
The remarkable words were strung together into lines, stanzas, and ideas different from whatever they originally expressed. The rest of them were blacked out.
Here are some tips for getting started on newspaper blackout poetry, plus samples of my work. (You’ll notice I whipped out my best Carmen Miranda look for the occasion).
Newspaper Blackout Poetry from Amanda Green on Vimeo.
Yeah, so I don’t know if I even need to comment.
But if anyone was ever typecast as the slightly off guy someone will settle for who represents the webmail provider someone will settle for, I guess this is the shining example.
We should love each other’s bloggers? Each other’s blogs?
I recently read the Tonic post, “Five Ways to Help Your Favorite Bloggers,” and it’s right on.
Here’s the gist: Blogging is hard sometimes.
It’s solitary. It involves looking at a computer screen. It may or may not be hot, because your favorite blogger is too cheap to turn on the shoddy air conditioner in her NYC home office.
I’ve been reading some poetry again, and this morning I woke up needing to write some. It was as natural as the need to empty my bladder or eat food before I got dressed.
I tried to explain a dream I keep having in this poem called “Tiny Desks, Big Hearts.”
B. and I dated in March, and our relationship went in like a lamb, out like a lion. Overall, it was gentle. There were lots of movies, plates of seafood, strolls downtown arm-in-arm.
But something was off. And when I found out what it was - after waiting for B. to be ready to tell me what I’d started to figure out - I ended things. He’s the sweetest guy. Smart. Adorable. But he was emotionally distant and unable to trust me, and I can’t be with a person who can’t trust me.
When I told B. I couldn’t see him anymore, I was shocked at how upset he was. Tears. Bargaining. Then resignation.
You know something good has happened when someone other than your mom is reaching out to see if you’re dead, survived only by one neglected blog.
Here’s an email from Kazzy in Australia, whom I’m imagining is like a more Crocodile Dundee version of The Fonz:
Six days and no blog, just wondering if you are on holidays or something big is happening for you? I’m not a Tweeter, so don’t keep up with you there. I await a post.
My response:
Alright, this is the last tribute to “Play Me, I’m Yours.” I still had extra footage from when I met Paul Sahner last week. If nothing else, he now has more proof of his talent. Paul’s mom, you’re very welcome.
Also, would you just look at those New Yorkers all being so nice? We’re really not so bad.
In Tune with Paul Sahner from Amanda Green on Vimeo.
(from a Russian book called Princess Rosa and Her Friend, Poop from the Toilet)
Yes, I think poop is funny. Don’t you?
Here’s my #2 excerpt from Sarah Silverman’s memoir The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee:
Today’s the last day of the “Play Me, I’m Yours” installation in NYC. For the last two weeks, 60 public pianos have been open from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. throughout the five boroughs. The musical instruments are stationed in parks, on streets, and even on the Coney Island boardwalk.
It’s magical.
Last week, I met up with Paul Sahner in Central Park. He and I had been following each other online for awhile. A piano near Cleopatra’s Needle finally brought us together. Well, us and a handful of other New York strangers who may not have met otherwise.
People were really polite about taking turns at the community piano. The most Paul’s ever played at once was an indulgent half-hour. That day, he kept looking around to make sure no one was getting impatient.
