Julia Vinograd, considered Berkeley’s unofficial poet laureate and known to many as the “Bubble Lady,” died Wednesday after struggling. LISTENING TO THE RADIO. I am listening to the radio. I am not listening to the radio. I am listening to the silence in my room behind the radio. I am the radio. JULIA VINOGRAD was born a native of Taurus w/Pisces rising in the coal and corn bread heart of West Virginia, in She writes, “I left school to pursue a.
|Published (Last):||27 November 2009|
|PDF File Size:||17.39 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||2.3 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
She wrote 50 volumes of poetry, much of which is about Berkeley. One thing in this photograph is misleading. It’s raining between the worlds. And you can’t look away. Handle With Care Author: Her father, Jerome Vinograd, worked as a biochemist for Shell Oil and then taught biochemistry at the California Institute of Technology.
The Daily Californian covers the city of Berkeley and the campus in unparalleled detail, all while training the future of the journalism industry. Julia Vinograd is survived by her sister, Deborah Vinograd. You vinogra the ocean and us and get angry when the waitress doesn’t know you’re god. It laughs dismissingly at everything that isn’t perfect. Like all the sad housewives sure their neighbors’ marriages were happy, watching afternoon soaps in empty houses with the blinds pulled down.
She received a BA. Vinograr is well known as “The Bubble Lady” to the Telegraph Avenue community of Berkeley, Californiaa moniker she gained from blowing bubbles at the People’s Park demonstrations in Heyday Books,xv, pp. Views Read Edit View history. The other photo shows Moe with his back to the camera, facing the john. In the poem she read me out loud she writes this:.
I think I’ll take the vinorad home and put it in my bookcase.
When the blood hit the street it fizzed gold. Capable of “making the rags dance and the dust turn to flame”. What can I say to prove I’m more than mud? I met jlia guy who helped put you in rubber restraints, he liked your poems.
Julia Vinograd Berkeley’s veteran street poet writes of displacement from what was long her home, and of other experiences. She has levers and lovers but finally chrome stands alone. American Friends Service Committee. I don’t belong here, it was all a mistake, this isn’t my real home. The food and coffee were terrible, she says. I want Berkeley’s no-smoking ordinance to go up in cigar smoke at Moe’s memorial, they can reinstate the silly thing afterwards, if they have to. She lived right on Telegraph, the artery that bled so profusely in May, You’re natural as an earthquake and ivnograd always late.
In her jjulia, Vinograd published 68 poetry books, along with two CDs and a tape, according to Isaacson. July 4, at 3: I want to see Moe pissing all over that April fool Death that fools everyone. Retrieved December 7, Were we all crazy? I know this too — she probably could only exist in Berkeley. But this 19 year old punkette had nothing else. Julia Vinograd I stand by my window at night And look out. I saw her just the other day, first time in ages.
You and Bruce talk about poetry like you’d both just invented fire and didn’t know what it could do yet. My son is coming home.
You stand by your window at night and look out. I want all cigars to have Moe’s face on the gilt band. You’re vinograv marshmallow monster. They’re not sure which world they should forget. She took the dogcollar off her soft neck and tried to talk me into the trade by saying she thought it came from an actual dog.
I can hear the ghosts mowing their own graves.
Julia Vinograd Poems, from Berkeley Daze, by Rychard Denner
It’s young, it’s got a fake I. She speaks of a suburban childhood with polka dot wallpaper in her room, and a vow she made to herself that once she had her own place it would not be boring. TV TV calls to the oldest childhood fantasy: She describes two rookie cops who asked her what she was doing. Those were interesting times to say the least. She is the Dea ex Machina and baby vacuum cleaners nibble power from her fingers, their bags bulging like bullfrogs’ throats.
Once, she was at a demonstration, and the negative energy between the protesters and police lay thick in the air.
I am not listening to the radio. They pause occasionally as the wind pauses in case they give offense: