Yo. I've been posting blogs here on MySpace for a while and it's been okay.

Sometimes though, a person's got to make a change. So I'm moving "life in oleg" the blog to Wordpress. I've been on Wordpress with my other blog for a few months now and I like the interface much better than this one (I don't lose my posts there because of "unexpected errors" there, for example).

If you want to keep following "life in oleg" hop on over to http://lifeinoleg.wordpress.com. You can subscribe to it using the little orange icon to the left. That's the link to my RSS feed. If that means nothing to you, holla, I'll explain.

I may post stuff here too, but they'll only be copies from the other blog. I guess that's it for this blog. 81 posts is not a bad run I think.

Here are the final stats:

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	Today	Week	Total
Posts	0	0	81
Comments	0	0	259
Views	0	0	3785
Kudos	0	0	91

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Oleg out.

Went out to do the Argentine Tango in downtown tonight. Did a little tango-ing. Then went down to California Plaza on Patricia's request to see a band she was desperatly trying to see, Ojos de Brujo.

They were AMAZING! So much energy, so much electricity. I barely understood any of the words, they're from Barcelona. But the show and the whole experience made up for it. One of the best concerts I've seen. Whew!

In other news, I am so tired. Stupid me hiked 22 miles yesterday, went to work today, then went to dance. I barely walked into the house. It's so nice to be sitting down. :O)

Check this out:

Spectacles: How Pop Culture Views Librarians

I like it mucho.

Actually, I've been doing a lot of poetry related stuff lately:

1) Did three poetry programs at the library for kids from Hollywood high school.

2) Was invited to read "Second Hand" at a graduation ceremony this past Friday. That was fun.

3) Been writing a lot. Preparing more spoken word poems.

4) Got selected to be published in Westwind (the UCLA undergraduate literary journal), in the print edition, and won the Vice Provost's prize for best contribution in poetry, with a monetary award of three hundred dollars :O)

Okay, so it's only a list of four, but it seems like poetry's been on my mind a lot lately.

If anybody reading this knows any good open mics in the LA area I'd love to come out to listen and do a piece or two. Likewise, anybody want some kind of poetry program to happen, holla. Likewise, if you just want to talk about poetry, holla.

Good day to all!

These days, father's day and mother's day both translate to parent appreciation day for me. This poem is dedicated to my parents. I read it to them yesterday during our father's day dinner. Here it is:

Second Hand

All my youth, I wore second-hand clothes

with second-hand toys that were broken and old

we bought lots of things from the second-hand store

and food stamps for groceries were not unheard

of course were were given second-hand looks

as we read our second hand library books

when we went to our parents with a matchbox car

one ninety nine, mostly no from the start

we didn't feel poor, everything was alright

though our mother was at work many days and most nights,

and our father woke at four-thirty, white shirt, real clean

drives cab one-ninety, experience the whole scene;

understand the hard work, sacrificing their dreams

for our lives, every seed sown from what seems,

like impossible means, strong-willed, unbreakable hearts,

our lives flow from these unshakable parts...and us:

Grew up in a room that held many fist fights – see

the marks on the door where I measured his height

my brother measured me too / the streets grew with us

Romaine and Stanley felt our second-hand sneakers.

Playing we passed time, in our second-hand yard

alley by the garbage bins, concrete real hard

later we just hung out on the steps or in the streets

didn't have no guns, so just shot the breeze

Coming up from second hand, graduated college

money in the bank from this first-hand knowledge

support from the fam, showed us how to love

You need the first hand, second hand to give someone a hug

maybe I felt different from the kids on the TV,

but second-hand childhood: No, not me -

Immigrant dreams are not hopes, but plans:

No more hand-me-downs – reach up with both hands.

- Oleg Kagan (06/2007)

lifeinoleg@gmail.com

Finished reading Immortality by Milan Kundera recently. I wrote a small review of it and posted it on Amazon. Here it is:

Graceful Philosophy, Mild Plot (3 stars, though I think 2.5 would be better).

I picked up "Immortality", which had been resting on my shelf for quite some time, with good expectations. Having read "Farewell Waltz" and "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," I knew what to expect from Milan Kundera in terms of style, and "Immortality" brought plenty of what was expected. With that said, I found "Immortality" a mediocre read; despite the elegance of the author's unique voice (one of my favorite aspects of Kundera's writing), I felt that, at times, he was too indulgent; his lengthy meditations on "life" after death, which comprised the middle sections of the book were potent at their introduction, but soon became stale. He simply blew the same note too often.

That being said, Kundera was not without his beautiful phrases; I was not enthused about Goethe's plot, so it was these singular images that kept me reading.

It is true, I may be biased by my age (22), but I felt the author's unweaving of Ruben's plot tedious. Sex and aging are universal themes; many have added their take, and Kundera's was not significantly different from the norm.

Having finished "Immortality" several hours ago, the maelstrom of themes and plots are still bubbling around in my head. Maybe it will be different when they settle down. Still, I do not think my rating will reach above 3.5, or below 2.5 (more likely the latter), nor will the opinions given in this review change much. Perhaps my expectations for this novel were too high, after all, an author cannot deliver hits every time around. And though "Immortality" is not an out-an-out flop, its lyrical gems and philosophical ingenuity cannot balance its self-indulgence and uneven plots. Sadly, I must call it a miss. Recommended only to die-hard Kundera fans.

from: Cox & Forkum: August 18th 2003

As always, this stuff is never really finished. But I figured, I worked on it some today, and I'd be confident enough to read it to people, so here it is:

The Regular Forces

The regular forces conceive me and lose me;
the boiler room hash-cloud gasp, breath.

Do I tread it straight & fall away, tossing loosely
or tear away like a loose-leaf, trembling death?
With whip-of-the-eyes-up, do I scream on the streets
to the homeless wreck-of-a-slob asking for change.
Damn the house deeds, brick(bygodforsaken)brick over cement sheets?

who inspects my diameter, the lank range,
water lapping the gunwale, border collie strum
in the tunnel echoing averages, the passages;

...the regular forces beat me like a flower drum
still, I neglect to lunge, whole-me, at the ravages:

What halts the bleeding lyre
but a candle burn to the thigh.
Even though I hold the fire
it'll never spark from the air of a sigh.

So I've got some poetry on a queue, but it still needs a bit of editing.

While you wait, check out the books I'm planning on reading next. I've already started "Immortality" by Milan Kundera(the bottom one). Throw in some more non-fiction when I get the urge and "Making Peace" by Adam Curle which is still at the library and we're "read"y.



Good Day.

Me! Mr. B.A. in English have an English question that I never seemed to be taughted:

What is the difference between then and than. Don't link me anywhere...You explain it!

--
Came from the park a little while ago...Had a nice workout.
-->click B-A! for my other blog.

Only two:

sluice -- an artificial channel for conducting water, often fitted with a gate (sluice gate) at the upper end for regulating the flow. (http://www.dictionary.com, def #1)

related in etymology to "exclude" (in this case, water)

--

Somnambule-->somnambulist-->somnambulism -- sleepwalking

how it breaks down: somn(us) sleep + ambul(are) to walk

--> I just noticed that I have poet written up there in the header. I really haven't posted much poetry lately. Well, I have a new poem in progress. I'll post it when it's done (or at least in the late stages). Hopefully soon.

For your enjoyment. Here is a nerd:



Here's a website to read about nerds(it's where I stole the pic from): Nerd Corner

Yes. Me, an uninhibited lover of reading (I'll read naked!) has quit a book. A sin they scream, blasephemy, tar-and-feather him, hang him! Friends, Romans...Countrymen...

I admit it and submit myself to whatever punishment you render necessary (I'll even read Ox-Bow Incident over again, which is, as those who have read it know, worse then death). But please before the mob siezes me I would like to explain. After all, knowing the consequences I did not quit reading The Gift by "one of the twentieth century's master prose stylists..." Vladimir Nabokov for naught. I am an intellectual person (I wear glasses) and I, unlike most snotty (I do have a slight cold) intellectuals, am not afraid to admit that I find Nabokov's "master" prose style tedious. Hell, it's a pain-in-the-ass to read;

Now that I'm out of school I have realized that I don't have to subject  myself to reading texts that I don't find entertaining or at least interesting. Certainly some books take time and effort to appreciate, The Gift is probably one of those books, I aknowledge that wholeheartedly. Furthermore, there were sections of the novel that I found moving; there were beautiful moments both in word choice and plotline. The problem is that around those moments is heavy, ringing, dark-neon onanistics (the tense of this word is my invention, I believe). Nabokov was smart, genius maybe, an expert in literature for sure --his writing reflects that, from the word choice, which requires frequent dictionary searches even for me, and I'm a college graduate :O)

Sometimes it is as if he has mutual masturbation sessions with his favorite dictionary and the outcome goes into the novel. This is good for short-term pleasure, which can be had by reading his short stories of which their are plenty. But when it comes to reading a novel, it's easy to get irritated by the frequent interruptions. I know, I know, ignorance is a fault in me...That however, does not encourage me to read The Gift any more. Hence this apologia.

And I gave Mr. Nabokov a chance! I said, my friend, I will read your critically-acclaimed novel till page fifty. I had to force myself, since I didn't really enjoy the novel from page 1. So I did. Read to page 50 and decided, okay I'll continue. I was fooled because at around page 48 the story became lucid enough for a poignent memory to be related...Not for long. That is why I sit at page 89 unenthused; the prospect of having to slog through this so-called Gift till page 360 sounds unexciting. Grim, actually.

Years ago(I say that with some candor as I don't have many years to a-go back to) I read Lolita, at that point I wrote the following:

"Several things about the book I found irritable were Nabokov's constant use of French. Sure, it could lend some atmosphere to the book and deepen Humbert's character but damn it! I don't understand French! Another thing I found irritable about Lolita was Nabokov's rapid-fire imagery. By this I mean the paragraphs that had a succession of moments changing every sentence; as if every sentence was its own thought. At first I found this bearable...But upon reading line after line of it, it became too much and my mind started wondering. The place and things didn't have any connection with me, or in fact, each other, so they were overwhelmingly unsuccessful in pushing my eyes down the page."

This description of what I found irritable in 2004 very well cover it for The Gift although the French is Russian, which I understand and speak fluently, but the transliteration sucked and the titles they often mention, (classics of Russian Literature) I shamefully share that I have not read their majority.

So, these are some reasons I chose to take my reading of The Gift behind the barn. You may proceed to do with me what you will. I won't resist...Just please, don't force me to read any more Nabokov for a long long time. Thank you for listening. I humbly await your judgement.


p.s. - If you haven't already, go check out my new blog I need all the support I (and you) can muster. It's intersting and unusual(not really unusual), inspiration, intertaining, ixciting, and all the other i's I can think of, or crudely manufacture. Oh...and it's funny...In today's post, I jump out the window.

p.s.s. - Wounded opens this Friday...Tickets to opening night are already sold out. But Saturday still has seats available. I'd say check it out anytime you can. Ask me for the discount code...Check out the trailer on my profile...Albert, the guy next to the e in my profile pic is in the show. I really want everyone to come see the show...In fact, if you bring ten of your friends, I will finish reading The Gift, that's how dedicated to Wounded I am.