Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Josh reports...
...on a presentation by Stephanie Strickland that seems similar to what she showed us at the Poetry Project last week. I picked up ZONE ZERO at the Boog event the week before, but have yet to sit down with it or the accompanying CD.
Been meaning to write about that, and Anne's reading that night too, but have been flustricken and so can only manage sentences like "Urrrrrrrrrmmmmmnn" for the last couple of days.
So later maybe.
Been meaning to write about that, and Anne's reading that night too, but have been flustricken and so can only manage sentences like "Urrrrrrrrrmmmmmnn" for the last couple of days.
So later maybe.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Every time I close my eyes
I see Chinatown baubles.
(Why isn't every time like anytime, at least sometimes?)
**
My lips are sunburned.
(Why isn't every time like anytime, at least sometimes?)
**
My lips are sunburned.
OK then
Doesn't anybody else ever giggle when something is not funny? Like when a situation is uncomfortable, embarrassing, horrifying, or simply overwhelming in such a way that a more articulate response is impossible (and would be inadequate anyway)?
If we were cats, laughter would be our vocabulary of purring but also of squeaks and wails. Those more specific, communicative meows we'd save for requesting food or reporting on mice.
Poor laughter. So misunderstood.
If we were cats, laughter would be our vocabulary of purring but also of squeaks and wails. Those more specific, communicative meows we'd save for requesting food or reporting on mice.
Poor laughter. So misunderstood.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
On quality
I have no qualms with anyone using quality as a noun. But OMG it bugs me as an adjective generically meaning, well, "high-quality." As in "quality poems" or "quality publications."
There. A meaningless little rant. I feel so bloggy.
There. A meaningless little rant. I feel so bloggy.
Command performance
This morning I woke up and said: "It's 6:30." But I looked at the clock and it was only 6:28.
But then S said, "You were talking. In your sleep. Again."
I remember what I was dreaming. I'd been robocalled by something like Poemfone (but not that), and mechanically prompted to read a poem--any poem--on the spot. I quickly grabbed a book, which turned out to be a pamphlet, by Ron Padgett. I happened to be at my mom's house in Texas, which is always full of sisters and nieces and nephews and so I went in search of a quiet room. All the while the recording was rolling, but I was verbally stalling, explaining I was finding someplace quiet. I tried the room I sleep in (I've never lived in that house) but it was still loud because it's off the living room where the tv was on. So then I went into the bathroom down the hall, and locked the door, and sat on the edge of the tub, and looked down at the pamphlet and the poem by Ron Padgett appeared sort of blurry, but I could make it out somewhat, so I began to read it, and then the lights flickered and faded and then I thought well I'll hold it up to the window the moon is out, and then I tried again. The whole time the recording has been running. And when I looked at it again the words were clear but the poem had changed, had sort of spread itself out across a grid of grey boxes, but I cleared my throat a bit and began to read.
So that must have been what I was saying in my sleep.
But then S said, "You were talking. In your sleep. Again."
I remember what I was dreaming. I'd been robocalled by something like Poemfone (but not that), and mechanically prompted to read a poem--any poem--on the spot. I quickly grabbed a book, which turned out to be a pamphlet, by Ron Padgett. I happened to be at my mom's house in Texas, which is always full of sisters and nieces and nephews and so I went in search of a quiet room. All the while the recording was rolling, but I was verbally stalling, explaining I was finding someplace quiet. I tried the room I sleep in (I've never lived in that house) but it was still loud because it's off the living room where the tv was on. So then I went into the bathroom down the hall, and locked the door, and sat on the edge of the tub, and looked down at the pamphlet and the poem by Ron Padgett appeared sort of blurry, but I could make it out somewhat, so I began to read it, and then the lights flickered and faded and then I thought well I'll hold it up to the window the moon is out, and then I tried again. The whole time the recording has been running. And when I looked at it again the words were clear but the poem had changed, had sort of spread itself out across a grid of grey boxes, but I cleared my throat a bit and began to read.
So that must have been what I was saying in my sleep.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Deja verde
Right now I'm making a pot of Jim Fobel's Chili Verde, except I am veganizing it. I was googling to see if there was a link to the recipe online (because my cookbook is down in the FREEZING basement and I don't want to go get it, though I basically remember how it goes), and the results came up with a post from my own blog--an entry for February 6, 2005. I made it that day too, and it was also Super Bowl Sunday. Freaky!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
