seriously . . .

. . . folks, it's vacation time. I don't think I have done a single thing that I haven't wanted to since I turned grades in. I've shopped. I've read. I've dreamt. Lots going on that I naturally won't blog about (I like remaining the enigma in certain situations, like life), but right now life is simply splendid. Going to see my best friend for the first time in about two years - which is too long of course. Way too long, but that is life. People move away.

I do have pics of the rats, but can't upload them on this computer just now (long story involving a messed up drive and irritation at calling HP's help desk, etc.).

Wolfie is sitting here on the couch next to me, which he knows he is not supposed to do, but really, we don't get to see each other much, so I cut him slack. Such a sweet dog. He doesn't know it yet, but I suspect there is a bath in his future.

Yeah, I know. I don't blog for a while then I do and I dish about dog baths. Fun stuff. I'm off until the new year, unless something earth shattering to report.

Merry Christmas!

packing. . .

. . . the menagerie to head out to Chatty tomorrow. It's eighty degrees outside. In December. Do I need to make the global warming reference? Do I? Huh? (Hello Mr. Bush! Talking to you.)

So, yes, I have acquired two new household residents. Pictures later today, if all goes well. I am so excited to share them with you. I finally found their names: Schooner and Mason. They've been going by The Boys, and I've had numerous requests by various parties to just name them already. They are amazingly cute, and excited to be living here. Such attitudes too.

Oh, did I mention they are rats? Rescues of course. I knew if I held out long enough I would find a rat that needed a home somewhere here in Wilmy. And then I found two. And they are so funny - this morning (and yes, you are going to be subjected to many tales of how-cute-are-the-rats), when I came downstairs they rush to the corner of the cage to greet me as usual, and Schooner kept pushing Mason's head away in his excitement. It was too precious. Seriously. Like first graders pushing each other out of the line to be the first to go to recess. Ah, The Boys!

Okay, back to packing. Can't wait to get to Chattanooga. The dogs! The dogs! I know it - I am giddy. It's disgusting. I am going now, before this gets out of control.

the car . . .

. . . drama continues. The freaking door. Always the door. I should have gone with my original plan, and had them remove the door instead of fixing it. Yes, it would have a bit chilly driving around, but here is a perfect example of how global warming could be working for me.

Going away for the weekend. Luckily, not with my stupid car.

Will possibly have pictures of the thing I was going to tell you about, but haven't yet, soon. Maybe early next week. We'll see. It all depends. On various factors having nothing to do with anything real or even imagined. I just like messing with you.

i should add. . .

. . . that I did something I will eventually blog about, but not just yet. Let's just say that no, I haven't lost my mind, and yes, it was a good decision. Crap. Will tell you shortly. (Definitely.)

so busy. . .

. . . that I haven't had a chance to blog. Or bathe. Or read for pleasure. Or shop for Christmas. Or clean.

Okay, kidding about the bathing thing.

Grading and listening to UNCTV and their pledge drive, which means the horrid crappy pledge pleas in between the programming. Whatever. Right now they are doing the Doo-Wop thing. How is it that I know every single one of these songs? It isn't like I have ever intentionally listened to Doo-Wop. But I love it. All of it. Great stuff.

Okay, back to the grind. And the coffee.

another one bites the dust. . .

. . . trent lott will be ending his political career. Wish I could say I was sorry. But I'm not. I'm giddy with joy and glee.

Not because of that sleazy politician. But because I got no sleep last night. Why am I always in such a decent mood when the insomnia hits? Anyone have any idea about that?

In the car this morning on my way to teach: Butthole Surfers, Pepper. Analyzed the lyrics for potential metaphor lesson. Yes, class, it is true. There is a lot to be learned from BS. But then the kicker song came on - you gotta give props to Southern Culture on the Skids. They are so lyrically superior. Walk Like a Camel. How can I get that in the classroom? There surely is a way. Give me a day or two. I'll figure it out.

Mood: good.

it seems . . .

. . . that no matter how much time I have to get things done, I am always three days and forty bucks behind. (The forty bucks is random - the three days feels about accurate.)

Despite many very lovely invitations to Thanksgiving dinner, and a good lead on where to find some tofurkey, I ended up spending the day grading (yes, grading) and cleaning (a break from the grading). There were also many phone calls made, and the purchase of a secondhand coffee table. I only wish I could explain fully the reason I needed to replace the old one. Let's just say it involved a crooked leg, a negligent screw, and gerbil piss. My great-grandmother also figures into the equation, but let's leave the dearly departed out of it.

It is past midnight, and I am wide awake in some sort of post-vacation bliss. Let's face the reality: I have to be up at 7, and I am in complete and utter denial over that fact.

Been reading Milan Kundera's The Curtain, An Essay in Seven Parts. The man is fucking brilliant. It depresses me. In the total and complete jealous way, kind of like how I am in awe of Salmon Rushdie and his slight issues with fatwas. Anyway, Kundera reminds me of Simic when Simic talks about poetics and how he eloquently manages to make such poignant statements of opinion. So, when Kundera writes about writing he is like Simic when Simic writes about writing. What can I say, folks? It's late.

so much . . .

. . . to blog about. I've been busy (obviously), but the break is here, and that means playing catch up. Starting with the blog. Okay, really, it started yesterday with a bout of shopping and cleaning and making cookies. My feminine domesticity shining through. It was so nice to not have to consider what the next day required me to do last night. So, here I am. Boring the socks off of you.

One of the things I saw yesterday near the university on S. College was the following sign on the Checkers billboard: There here! Yes, something about some sort of food I'd never eat, and I should add, never will. Checkers isn't exactly my idea of food anyway. (And if it's yours, well, not everyone is perfect.) It really took me a while to figure out what they were trying to communicate. I actually put quite a bit of thought into figuring this out. I do that with license plates too. Anyway, yeah, brain cells I'll never get back. And neither will you, reading this.

So my students found my poem about masturbation online. It was only a matter of time. And that's fine. But they also seemed to neglect the entire premise of cow killing that goes on in the poem too. Whatever. Let's focus on auto-eroticism in a poem that has a poleax. It's fine. Sure.

This past weekend I feel like I practically lived downtown. I am starting to get familiar with the layout, where things are that I've heard about via the news/newspaper/drunken stories from colleagues and/or students.

That's it for the moment. All I've got. I just realized I am in need of a nap. Yes, a nap. That's right. When one is in academia, and one has a schedule that is conducive to having a midday siesta, and also when one is on vacation from said academic schedule, one can have a nap.

the lake . . .

. . . was apparently not calling. Started raining in earnest the moment I pulled out my sneakers. Figures. Taking a break from grading. It seems to be a good day for reading and drinking tea. Buddha keeps telling me "hello" and then the conversation sort of ends there.

In poetical news, I think I may have written my first prose poem. Perhaps. I don't know. It's a revision from a rather verbose poem and it seemed it would work better as a prose poem. I added a lot. I am always so wary of the new things I try. It seems sort of odd with my personality that I am so stubborn on certain things and yet so liberal with others. Had a student bring in a Frost book of poems the other day, and I bet my disdain was clearly written in a flashing neon sign above my head. (Yes, I know. I am one of those poets who find more interest in Frost's morbid life than in his poetry. I reserve the right to change this opinion in the future, of course.)

I may change the poem back into lines. . . although perhaps not. I don't know. I think I am daunted at the idea of revising the poem again when in this form. I base so many of my revisions upon the line break. This will be more a rhythm/flow sort of deal. The train of thought. . .

Roughly three weeks left in the semester. Then I am set loose upon all those lovely books piled in three stacks on my dining room table. And writing. Ah, writing.

finalist for fiction . . .

. . . which is way awesome, since I still consider myself first and foremost a poet. But this contest is really neat, and North Carolina is a hotbed of literary talent. I have to say, I do love living here. So thanks to Jim Shepard, the guest judge, and congrats to the other finalists, winners, etc.

It is that time of the semester where the work feels a tad bit overwhelming. So much do to, so little time to do it in. I think I need a break (although I haven't actually done anything but read the paper so far this morning). I hear the lake calling my name. . .

a more polite rant. . .

. . . there is no way I can post my real rant. So just know, I am ranting. Totally pissed off. At something. Because of someone(s). Because something happened which affected something else and it makes me feel some sort of something.

Jesus.

So, there is my rant. Because my self preservation clicked in before I hit post. Because I want a future. Because apparently, you can shut a poet up. Because sometimes there are things worth it. Because sometimes there are not. Just know that I am pounding on the keyboard in a mix of fury and amusement. The amusement is a recent development. As of five seconds ago. I may keep my mouth shut on this one. I may not. If something is wrong, you should say something right?

SOMETHING!!!!

randomness. . .

. . . well, the Juice is back in court. It's almost like deja vu. Wait a minute! Yeah. Still guilty as hell. Still dumb as shit.

The dollar is as popular as Bush these days. This irks me. With the price of a barrel of oil soon to reach a trillion dollars per, I am curtailing my much desired wish to return to Europe this upcoming summer. I blame Bush. Why the heck not?

On a positive note, the poetry is really coming along quite nicely. I cannot believe how close to the end of the semester we are. The revising process is insane. Mostly for the fact that I am seeing ways to rework poems that I never would have considered before. A way to realign the thought process in my poems that in inherent, if not always mappable. Now it may be both. Very exciting stuff. Indeed.

Other very important news: Lucy, my somewhat reticent/evil cat, is starting to warm up to the whole having her side rubbed. Her head no longer spins around and she isn't spitting out green goo anymore. The eyes still flash red, but whatever. Working slowly toward the whole belly rub thing. Who says you can't 'train' cats? Hah! I have the scratches to prove you can.

epoch . . .

. . . so perhaps another important decision made. One I am still thinking about, but have been pondering for ages. A compromise of sorts. A step in some direction. One I'll divulge only if and when it occurs.

The weather is expected to turn today! I am very excited about this, although bemoaning waking up to a chilly house. But whatever. It will be winter soon! Winter at the beach isn't exactly the same thing as winter next to the mountains. And I will miss a great section of it when I go home for break. Perhaps it will snow this year in Chattanooga. That would be fantastic. I've never done the Ruby Falls thing, despite living so close. Perhaps this year would be a good one to check out the Christmas lights. Do the Illumination downtown if I am there in time. Already looking forward to going home!

it's approaching like a welcomed (unwelcomed) hairy beast. . .

. . . my birthday. Granted, it's in January, so don't send the gifts just yet. But I've been thinking about my own gift to myself (something I instituted around the time of adulthood when relatives no longer consider you cute enough to hand out cash or even cards). I must admit that my own gifts to myself are usually fairly satisfying. I cannot recall any of them at the moment, but I blame that on my advancing years.

I am thinking of getting a tattoo.

Yes! Finally! I have wanted one since about as long as I have wanted the nose ring. And that has worked out marvelously well. I am in the stage of still considering what I want. I am afraid that there may not be an artist capable of rendering an accurate account of my beloved cat (see pic below), so I may do something with words. Which is kinda funny, because I asked one of my classes the other day of the ones who had tattoos (four), whether they were words or pictures. All of them had images. I would want a word. With no accompanying numbers or embellishments. No cute fairy hanging on the Y. No half moon cradling the OETR. (Obviously I am considering the word POETRY. But do I do it in English or French? Hmmm.)

This could take up copious amounts of my time. A huge decision. So prepare yourself world (i.e. Mom). There may be a little extra something on the body next year.

my typing assistant . . .

ridiculous. . .

. . . is how I would describe my current ride. As in, no, my car wasn't stolen, but yes, it is still being cantankerous and more parts had to be ordered. So I have a rental. All so I could make it to class today to show my students the documentary, Baraka. (Which, incidentally, I came across at a Meacham party, courtesy of Ata. It is truly amazing. The baby chick part had them all horrified. I think it's one of the most beautiful parts. But then again, isn't terror a direct correlation to beauty?)

(Kunta Kinte on the iTunes right now.)

Anyway, back to the ride. A completely decked out brand new luxury SUV. That's all I'm saying. It is insane to drive. Bumps mean nothing. Places in the road where before I would leap joyfully up in the seat, I don't even notice. What is even crazier, is the whole "rich" feeling, one that I am not entirely sure I am comfortable with. I actually like my own car better now. Yeah, it's old. Yeah, it's falling apart. And no, it hasn't been washed in a few months. (But, we're in a drought people.) But all those quirks are just part of the car. I've had it for six years. It's outlasted every relationship I've ever had. I think it deserves some new stickers or something. Anyone direct me to a place in Wilmington where I could attain some of these?

the birds . . .

. . . are tearing up the freshly laid newspaper at the bottom of their cage. The gerbil is looking at me askance, because here I am, available to watch and make sure he doesn't get eaten, and I haven't let him out of his cage. The body shop has temporarily misplaced my car and the tech who was working on it. I am about to miss my window of opportunity to go walking around the lake, because soon I will be in that natural 'downtime' that occurs every day. May also possibly miss class again this afternoon.

But it's all good. Really. Surely. Halloween is tomorrow. I really dislike this holiday. My brother and I were talking about that yesterday. I don't eat candy, I like the idea of dressing up, but not really, and this is the anniversary of a death of a dog I absolutely adored and loved and miss terribly. She was hit by a car. I found her by the roadside, and carried her back to the house. It was a long walk, and she was very heavy. I put her in my brother's old room, in his bed. (Oops. Don't think I ever mentioned that to him. Oh well. He'll live.) Read her all sorts of his old childrens books and just cried. So yeah, Halloween sucks.

Hmm. Been twenty minutes and no word from the shop. My car is being joy-ridden down College Road. Whatever. Hope he enjoys it and remembers to put some gas in it when he brings it back. Which should be shortly once he finds out how shoddy the shocks are. Hah!

amid the pile . . .

. . . of rejection slips, a very lovely acceptance. The Red Clay Review will be publishing one of my poems in their inaugural Spring 2008 edition. Very exciting! Check them out.

oh, it's sooooo on, baby. . .

. . . that's right. My car and I are duking it out. I say OPEN! and it replies NO!

My key won't work. But the culprit is the door or locking mechanism or whatever. You may recall my earlier post and how I was crawling through the passenger side, yada yada yada. So now I am completely locked out. Better than being locked in, but whatever.

Had to cancel my classes, which really saddens me. Was looking forward to the stuff I had planned. And now, here I am, with hours at the dealership looming ahead of me (as soon as AAA comes to bail me out) and really bad television. Really bad. It's the tenet of all car dealership waiting rooms to provide you with the worst possible channels in the hope that you are sufficiently stupefied when they hand you the bill and you hand them your credit card. Nothing looks as bad after hours of daytime talk shows.

But it's okay. Really. I enjoy waiting. Do it well. Prefer it to be in airports, but you know. I can pretend.

girls vs women. . .

. . . taking a break in my poetry writing to contemplate something I read in the paper this week. It was an article about how adult females tend to refer to themselves as girls, as opposed to women. As in, "Hey, I'm hanging out with the girls tonight." The author had all these possible reasons for this word choice, including that females of today have a hard time living up to their mothers, and suggesting that perhaps the maturity level isn't quite up to par.

So, hey, Woman! (Author is a woman/girl/female.) You missed the point, honeydoll. When have you ever heard a male say "I'm going golfing with the men today" - you don't! They say 'guys' - "The guys and I are going to get waxed today."

So why is this? Simple. The letter S is a surefire pluralizer. In a language when educated folk use the word fishes to describe multiple fish, it is no wonder such ambiguity crawls into the use of switching an E and an A. Man:men; woman:women. Sucks. But the use of guys and girls is more pleasing to the psyche.

Case closed. Next?

uh, duh. . .

. . . who is shocked that Dumbledore is gay? I mean, come on! In reading the books, no one ever made the connection? I wondered about Minerva too. It isn't like the teachers at Hogwarts had family suites. Anyway, it'll just give the book-banning nazi cows more ammo to keep those pagan witch books out of schools. Must protect the children!

Whatever.

So John Updike was here yesterday, and he was quite delightful. He did a private Q&A with the CRW department students in the afternoon, before the night reading. He recalled his amazement at learning that a sentence had anatomy - he could even recall the name of the teacher who taught him that. More importantly, he recalled how she had this thing with messing around with her bra strap. Apparently, she was ill-fitted. We all laughed, of course, because it was funny, but then I instantly started to wonder if I have some odd behavior that I am unaware of but that my students will remember years from now. Ah, that Miss Weathers! (Some of them refuse to call me Jen, despite my repeated requests.) She always had her finger in her nose! Must've been the nose ring.

Yes, teachers have come quite a way from the days of slips and oxford shoes. Thank God. I guess I am a hair tosser. (Back to the odd habits. Keep up.) I always have my hands in my hair. I've gotten better about not twirling my pencil in my hand. . . I know that is distracting to others. Although it is so calming. Do I wiggle my foot too much? I also am a chair rocker - but only in the classrooms with those red chairs. . . hmmmm.

Too much to do tomorrow. I am already behind with all the extra stuff on my plate this week. And all I really want to do is write.

now available . . .

. . . at The Pedestal Magazine: my poem (and others as well!). The intro by Jared Smith is an interesting read. Take a gander.

the unforgettable fire . . .

. . . in the cd player, finally replacing Amy Winehouse. Although, I must say, I do go through phases with music. Amy's been in there since school began basically. But every once in a while I get on this U2 kick - older U2, when they weren't popmarting themselves with lemons in zoos. This is nostalgic, longing, mournful music. Thinking music.

Although I think I have found a way to get Amy Winehouse in the classroom. My 8th grade history teacher, Chuck, would bring in music to elucidate a lesson. Studying the Civil War? How about a little Guns 'N Roses. Dealing with the Depression and the Dust Bowl? Nothing like Bruce Springsteen to really bring the lesson home. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I see how many of his classroom techniques I actually use. Although, I've never tossed a chalkboard eraser at student - not yet. I should add that he was throwing it at two of his favorite students (me and a friend) who were probably shooting off at the mouth (yeah, I can pretty much guarantee that) and it was a friendly throw (it hit the blinds, in a cloud of dust). My aim is so bad though - I'd probably wind up beaning the wrong student.

In another twist of irony, speaking of that old friend, I just wrote a poem that pretty much has her as a central figure, although I haven't really thought much about her in years. But it was this thing she used to do - and it somehow caught my imagination. It probably isn't the nicest portrait of a person, but it sure does explain a lot about human nature.

And poetry - I have come to the conclusion that I am not good at scanning poems. My ear refuses to hear the stressed/unstressed part of meter. I can pretty much tell just by hearing if it is iambic, but in trying to deduce if there is a trochee or spondee tossed in, I can't really rely on how I hear it. Maybe this is one of those things that requires years of study, of tuning one's ear to the nuances of the language. Surely it was easier for poets who were writing back in the day before free verse took over, and everything started to sound like iambic, regardless of how the poet tried to make it sound. I am rather irked about this, because it is something I want to actively consider in my revisions. But I already know I don't hear things quite the way they sound sometimes, which can be rather annoying when I am trying to say certain words. (Measure is always a problem.)

football season . . .

. . . means that the weekend news gets the shaft. But I am not bitter. I know the news: the world's in a shithole, and we're having weather.

I realize that lately my blog entries may be reflecting a rather, shall we say, morose outlook on life. Au contraire! Various good things that have been going on in no particular order:

1. Finished grading, and if I can get my act together the rest of the evening I will be done with all my weekend homework. (Homework is not the best word to use for grad school stuff, but whatever.)

2. Read the most delightful short essay by Lori Soderlind entitled "66 Signs That the Former Student Who Invited You to Dinner Is Trying to Seduce You" which had me laughing out loud at several points. I was in B&N, so I went ahead and bought it. She unfolds the story by numbering - like Barthelme in his glass mountain short story. This style gives great weight to the irony and humor. Must try it.

3. Figs are still in the store.

4. Have been writing a lot of poems lately.

5. There will be something besides Lawrence Welk on television tonight. Of course, I won't be watching, but I like the TV on for background noise. But all those flashy blue suits and bubbles bouncing around the stage are very distracting. I don't do well with silence when I am trying to work. I like cafes, bookstores, the lake, beach; places where there is constant noise. The best sleep I had this summer was in Munich, in this little dive hotel with these huge windows that opened to the noise below. Munich doesn't sleep at night. It was great.

So there we have it. Five things. All good things. Also reading Chuck Palahniuk's book of essays Stranger Than Fiction. It is the first thing I have read by him, and yes, I know, Fight Club is on my list. I loved the movie. Brad Pitt does indeed rock. And yes, my new mission in life is to write a great book that Hollywood wants to option and cast Brad in. After all, it happened to Chuck, it could happen to me. (Don't be all judgmental on me now. This would be for purely altruistic reasons. My mother wants to meet him.)

Onto more reading and poetical analysis!

another enters the fray . . .

. . . of the blogosphere: Ecotone, the literary journal of UNCW is casting its net here, with a host of devilishly creative writers.

Speaking of blog updates, if you haven't been keeping track of Harriet, the Poetry Foundation's blog, you should check it out. There have been some really interesting posts, particularly by Christian Bok on writing and failure, which you can read in the archives under his name.

The weekend is here, and I am grateful. It has been a particularly trying week.

life should come with a foreign accent . . .

. . . today I went to the lake to write, organize some thoughts, revisit some poems, and when I arrived at one of my favorite spots, there was a man already there. I sat down anyway (it is a large covered pavilion right on the lake) and opened my notebook. He got up a few minutes later, and wished me a good day, in a lovely Australian accent. It was a beautiful thing.

fallen . . .

. . . walked to car after teaching and doing office hours today, only to find that my rearview mirror had fallen off the window.

Sometimes, it is just that kind of life.

it . .

. . . gets better, right?

what is this. . .

. . . finally finished Kim Addonizio's book of poems what is this thing called love? It took me so long because I kept rereading each poem as I came across it. This book was written for me, despite whatever impetus Ms. Addonizio may claim!

Actually, what I like so much about it is the way the images work inside the poems, so softly but so starkly that they are glossed over. The poems all feel organic, but never rough or halting. I am not a huge fan of the form, but I admire what she is able to do with it when she tries - whether the poems are successful or not is another matter, and since I can't get past the admiration of her poems, I leave that to the individual reader to decide. But hands down a keeper. Such a keeper, that I have been hard pressed to leave the house without the book or remove it from my immediate vicinity. You never know when you may feel the urge to read a particular poem again.

I will most certainly be buying her other books. I have heard via the grapevine that she was at UNCW a few years back, and I lament the loss of not being here then. But hopefully there will be a future opportunity.

Other news: read Pope's Rape of the Lock again, after two or three years. I still love it. I think what I love most is the circumstance of his writing the poem, and the stately grandeur with which he handles the situation at hand. Talk about taking things out of proportion.

I think I may have discovered why I react so vehemently about rhyme in poetry. Rape of the Lock does rhyme, of course, in couplets, with a few slants tossed in now and again. Spenser's Faerie Queene rhymes, as does anything by Shakespeare, so on and so forth - but the big difference between why I like these particular pieces and not the ballad or other shorter rhyming poems (exception of the bard), is that they tend to aim for a colloquial iambic pentameter, and they are epic. It is the story, the way the lines progress with clever wit, and a keen eye to the limits of language. But mostly it is the story. This is part of the transition of poetry from an oral tradition to a written one - the loss of rhyme (thank you Milton, thank you!) and the shift of focus to the line break as a higher measure of the art and the limits of the English tongue (another huge thank you, dear, most difficult language) that render rhyme obsolete.

So, when I read Addonizio, and I don't detect the rhyme initially, I am gleeful at the skill it takes to use such an historical tenet of poetry, and modernize it so fully that it becomes invisible.

I am also fully aware that I may change my mind about rhyme in future. And I do like children's books that rhyme, mostly because they love the musicality of the language and when one is learning to speak it is easier to have that sing-songish sound to help the brain unfurl those complexities.

Onto the rest of my Sunday. There are more poems to read.

have lost my voice . . .

. . . and also apparently my sanity. Or sense of decorum? Or impeccable sense of character? (Hah, if I had that, well, there are books that can be written on the time and trouble I would have saved - mostly in high school, but in other patches of life too.)

Doris Lessing has won the Nobel. I know her by name, but not by work, and so I am sort of glad a lesser known writer has taken the prize because it will help shoot her out of obscurity. Looking forward to reading her work.

Also, Al Gore won. Of course. Can you say validation? Because honestly, I don't which upsets me more - the ignorant people who voted for Bush (you know who you are, and we both know you aren't reading this blog), or the ignorant people who don't give a shit about the environment (you know who you are, and many of you are reading this blog, and honestly people, you can't shit in your bed and expect it not to get messed up).

On tap for the weekend - copious amounts of studying and other various domestic chores. I should write more.

Oh, and official thanks to the guest poetry editor Jared Smith at The Pedestal Magazine for selecting my poem to be included. They have been amazingly supportive - go check them out.

genocide denier

so when bush starts ww3. . .

. . . who will stand by us?

The possibility of Bush attacking Iran sounds laughable, right? Because clearly the American people see this as a bad idea, and Bush respects the wishes of the people. We don't currently have the manpower in our armed forces to set up a school cross walk, let alone invade another country. Clearly, Iran is not speaking for the majority of the Middle East countries. So it is absolutely absurd for me to posit the thought that we could very well see the next world war on a nuclear/biological level in the next two years. Right?

Well, no. (If you don't already follow my sarcasm, the above was an example). McCain, on his bid to reinvigorate a dead campaign, is actually going to the far right Christian evangelicals. Bill Moher had a special on this the other night. I didn't catch it, but heard about it. The gist seems to be that they are starting to drum up support for a war with Iran with the US equivalent to Muslim extremists. (Uneducated people are ignorant, no matter what their religion is, and those ignorant folk are the dangerous kind. The ones who start shit.)

Recently Hillary Clinton and her fellow campaigners were questioned about a bill they voted for that gives Bush power to strengthen sanctions against Iraq. The questioner accused Hillary of once again giving Bush the authority to invade a foreign country. Hillary denied that the bill would do any such thing. Iran is certainly on the radar of many though.

Bush obviously doesn't respect the wishes of his countrymen, or we would not still be in Iraq. (I never wanted to invade in the first place, but I was outvoted.) The lack of military might isn't such a problem either. The draft still exists. We could very well see it come back to use. By drumming up support with the religious right, a huge obstacle is overcome to public feeling. Iran is seen as a much bigger threat than Iraq. (Because they are, realistically speaking.)

A war would certainly help the economy. Think of all the factory jobs that would be created. Bullets, bombs, aircraft, hummers, all sorts of equipment would be needed in a short amount of time. The US economy soared during WW2 with all that production. Everyone had a job.

So who would stick by us? England. France. Italy, Germany. Other Eastern European nations. Israel.

Who wouldn't? The entire Middle East. Even countries who may wish for neutrality (Egypt springs to mind) will be hard pressed to not come to the call of their fellow Arab. Russia. China. North Korea?

This isn't sounding like a good thing, is it. The more I think about it, the more surreal it seems. But it also is resonant of how great the rhetoric of Hitler was. He put Germany into such an atrocious position, but it was so gradual, so slowly done, so righteously presented. I am not comparing Bush to Hitler (although many would I am sure), but what I am saying is that there is a feeling of complacency among Americans. We don't believe Bush would put us in such a bad spot. We really are secure in the memory of Vietnam that the draft will never be used again. We are naive. The evidence is mounting. It is being seen by people, but kept quiet.

I would love to be wrong on this one. I would happily eat crow (tofucrow). But I don't think I am. I think things are escalating and if they continue there will be a point where we find ourselves in another war, not quite knowing how it came about or why. You need a passport these days to get into Canada. Just remember that.

behind . . .

. . . not sure how this always happens to me, but it does. I get spectacularly ahead in certain areas, and then fantastically behind in others. Never a happy medium. I have an eight pack of paper towels in the cupboard, but I'm almost out of cleaning spray. (Yes, organic, geranium scented. It is my personal theory that all the germophobes out there who use harsh caustic chemicals are somehow partly responsible for cancer rates soaring. Germs are okay. Tumors a little less so.)

I received a rejection notice today in the mail which is odd. I won't mention the journal's name (because the person who sent this was obviously a very green editor who didn't know what she was doing), but it was the usual form letter, with some wording to the effect of 'don't forget your SASE.' This contrasts with their website instructions, which I always follow (with the exception of simultaneous submissions). Anyway, she'd underlined that part twice, and then, to make sure I got the message, hand wrote out a note that next time I submit to be sure to include my SASE. My poems were included in the envelope.

Now, why would I want those poems back? Firstly, they were stapled. I know better than to send anyone a stapled set of poems. Secondly, they had been handled by who knows how many people and were wrinkled and creased, recreased. Why would I send out to another editor a set of poems that had clearly seen rejection once before? I don't include a SASE if it isn't required. Call me cheap. I figure if you like my poems enough to want them, I'll hear from you via email. And if not, please recycle my poems.

Since I am on my soap-box, let me just tackle the simultaneous submission policies of many publishers. I figure they are sort of like a really feeble lock on a henhouse to keep the foxes out. They nudge it, the door stays shut, they move on to the neighbors. The smart fox ignores the lock and goes in through the open window. My advice? Don't tell them you've sent it elsewhere (even if they invite you to do so - you'll be at the bottom of the pile), and don't worry about it. I know it sounds harsh, but honestly. Most likely you are not being paid. Most likely they are not being paid. They do it for the love of finding great new talent. You do it for the love of being the great new talent. Editors who bitch about them or flat out refuse to deal with them are normal. Everyone complains about their job from time to time. (I complain about writing all the time.) It is the writer's responsibility to ignore the editor on most things. It is the editor's responsibility to find great new talent. It is how it is.

Just read the end of King's On Writing where he writes about the practical side of publishing and agents and all the business that goes with being a published writer. I find it to be a really refreshing take on the business side of things. (Of course, King is always rather open with his ideas and in a no-bullshit manner. Love it!)

I feel that now (after I have insulted people with cancer and magazine editors at large) my work is done for the day. I can revel in the rest of this latte, look at some student poems, and relax in the mellow glow of the fading sun. (Yeah, the sun was a bit much.)

Ken Smith

There is nothing I can say that several haven't already. Obviously, Ken touched many lives. He was a presence in the room, and his laugh was infectious. He will be sorely missed.

Other (more eloquent) posts on Ken from former UTC students Laurel Snyder and Paul Guest. Anther alum, Bradley Paul, had a great memory of Ken and his wife on the sun porch of Rick's house during Meacham - he posted that on Paul's blog.

If there is one memory to take away from Ken's life, for me, it would have to be the absolute love between him and Madeline. They were in love. True, lifelong, romantic love. You didn't have to know them to know that. They exuded it wherever they went.

lovely news . . .

. . . this morning. Exactly how I like to start my days. It makes up for yesterday which was a minor run-in with disappointment.

No classes Monday or Tuesday. Fall Break. A marvelous invention. Reading selected stories from Sixty Stories by Donald Barthelme. I never would have picked up this book on my own, mostly based on the fact that they are short stories and the less than lackluster title. However, I am very grateful I did pick it up (for a fiction class), and read the intro by David Gates who addresses the title of the collection. I must say that overall, I am very impressed with Barthelme's titling propensities, being that I am myself rather title-challenged. I am going to start naming my poems Bob. Bob 1, Bob 2, Bob 3, so on and so forth. Okay, not really, but I do feel that titles are an area I really have to work at. I find them rather difficult because they are almost expected to be summations of a poem, or they draw uber-attention to a certain aspect of the poem. Perhaps this is why I am fond of long illustrious titles that bounce back off the poem or first lines that play immediately off the title.

Also finished The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, and found out that she will be a visiting writer next semester. I hope I am able to take her class. I think of her book as being more in the pop fiction vein, and since I have had my students read Stephen King's On Writing this semester the idea of literature versus pop fiction has been on our collective minds. I haven't read any reviews of her book, but I suspect it was well received. I was more than happy to follow her down the path she took, and was pretty enthralled the entire book, and then found the ending to be almost anti-climatic. But part of me is hoping this is because she has a second follow-up novel in her sleeve, which I will tentatively call The Librarian. It seems only fitting.

Also reading Kim Addonizio's What is This Thing Called Love. Pretty much loving it. I am amazed at how she is using form in this book. Rather experimental and incredibly colloquial at the same time. Some are more successful than others, but when she is on, she is dead on. Amazing moments. I will definitely have to read her other books.

I wrote four poems last week (inspired by Addonizio), and two of them seem to work pretty well, the others need some serious life support. I like this bout of prolific writing, although the product may be somewhat questionable. It still feels like a good balance. Read a book of poetry, write four or five poems.

Considering all the news that the movie of Khaled Hosseini's book Kite Runner is getting these days, I may try to read it this week before I become immersed in knowing too much about it (which I sort of feel I do already). Of course this runs the risk of not liking the movie then, which is usually the case (books are better with the exception of Lord of the Rings, yeah I know, but come on - one can only read so many fake folk songs in horrid iambic trimeter/tetrameter).

drama . . .

. . . with my car. Today. At a strip mall. Couldn't get in. Door lock sticks. Door lock is automatic, only responds to the key if key is inserted and twisted the right way. Key lock is a fickle lover.

Me (in my head): Oh my God, no.
Me (out loud): Fuck!
Me (in my head): I hate this car, I really, really, really hate this car.

My passenger door unlocks. [This is a new occurrence that only started happening when the driver's side door stopped working. But why? I don't care about my passengers. If there is a fire in the car you can bet your ass I'm getting myself out. ]

I decide not to look around to whomever could be witnessing my struggle with the lock. Crawl in through passenger side, over huge lumpy armrest (which does move, but I forget). Furiously poke button from inside of door. Still won't budge. Effectively trapped.

Still need to drive to store. Store is in same parking lot. Drive over, with nonchalance. Surely, during the ten seconds it takes to make it to Harry T's my door will miraculously work again.

I park, shut off engine. Bush button. It doesn't work. Am officially trapped. Parking lot is rather busy, and I feel expected to make a normal exit from my car. Frantically turn to cell phone, randomly look through numbers. No one to call. Revert to pretending I am listening to messages (ah, how low we sink) and trying to ignore the fact that the car is now heating up and I am about to die in a parking lot full of people because I am too prideful to crawl out the passenger side and would prefer to look as though I know exactly what I am doing and in what temperature I am doing it in.

Look hatefully at door. Push button again. It unlocks.

grizzly bears . . .

. . . that is what is on the state flag of California. I miss it actually. Thinking about it a lot today. There was a smell that reminded me of this potpourri that I used to have when I was a little girl. I don't know how I got it or why, but the smell is rather like faded roses and crisp branches. Then driving to class today it softly rained in this field that has a lot of bitter weeds in it - you know the type that bleed milky white when crushed. The smell was amazing.

Ah, California. What a tempestuous relationship we have. I should work on going out there this summer. Doing some reading, writing. Hanging out on the boardwalk in Santa Monica. Visit a Borders. Have some real Mexican food. Figure out if that is where I want to go after graduation. We'll see.

What is that great line from Cannery Row? Something about the stink of nostalgia. . .

ugh . . .

. . . day is just not going well. There is a disconnect that I cannot figure out. Somewhere, something is not jiving. Something is missing. I have this feeling it is something right in front of me, but for some reason, I am just not seeing it.

We talked about passive voice in class today. How it lacks authority. (And fragments can be good.) Which makes me wonder how passive I am in life. (All things writerly can be ascribed to life in general, I think; poetry is life.)

Passive is an easy way to be. Non-committal. And who wants commitment during an MFA? It is so much easier to not deal with those sorts of issues. To not have to deal with them. I'm lucky if I can commit to an entire book of poetry these days.

But. . .

I did commit to a wall color. That's worked out pretty good. I commit to reading novels outside my classes. I even finish them. I'm so committed to my pets that I end up spending way more resources (time, money) than I have to give. Somehow it all works out.

And let's face it - all those bumps in the road are worth it. The time with the cats, the birds, the gerbil; the not having to look at white walls; the new stories. . .

Okay. So I am not really a commitment-phobe. So what all is going on here?

(Basically, this is me talking to myself. If you're reading this, and have insight, by all means, let's hear it. Otherwise, you can ignore my drivel and be glad I didn't post the earlier draft of my rant on all things evil about Paula Zahn. Now that was scary. And I may put it up anyway. In the future. If I can commit to it.)

no grading . . .

. . . to do over the weekend. What a lovely occurrence. However, there is a multitude of reading to be done. But no errands, no need to be any place, no need to change out of my pajamas. How glorious! I have nothing else to add. That's it. The weekend lies ahead in all its shining promise.

ten . . .

. . . today consisted of grading, planning new class focuses, and listening to Pearl Jam. I bet I haven't listened to Ten in over a year. It is my favorite album they ever put out. Anyone who knew me in high school is avidly aware of my Pearl Jam affection. I don't think there was ever an empty space on my book covers that didn't have I (Heart) Eddie Vedder. Which is kind of cute, I guess. A healthy obsession. Unless you are the one being objectified - I can see how that could become wearisome depending on your outlook.

Three new poems written this week. But nothing incredibly noteworthy yet. A few interesting images to ponder. Thinking in fragments a lot. Obviously. Lots of energy lately. Bright outlook. Mind seems to be in ten places at once.

hunting for poems. . .

. . . last night led me to a few boxes I haven't yet unpacked, despite living in my apartment for a year. Anyway, it was quite a revelation, because not only did I save all of my undergrad poetry folders packed with weekly packets of everyone's poems, but apparently I also saved my stuff from intro to Creative Writing. Needless to say, it was quite an eye-opener. And very embarrassing to see my stuff from that class. It was quite painful. But I won't dwell on it. I suppose I am keeping them because you never know when you may get shit-faced and feel the need to read incredibly embarrassing past writing with your friends.

However, the other packets, the poetry ones, I also find intriguing. There is the natural curiosity to see the path my own poetry has traveled, and also how closely I stick to certain images and ideas. But then there is the curiosity of my fellow undergrad classmates. It's no secret that there are some mighty fine poets out there who came from the same workshop a few years ahead of me.

Anyway, what I was really doing in those boxes was searching for poems to excite my students with. The stuff that worked on me back in the day. And I was so happy to find it still does. I have to say for the most part that Rick Jackson has impeccable taste when it comes to poems. A few exceptions. He's a huge Marvin Bell fan, and I couldn't care less about the dead men poems. Talk about beating a dead horse. (Serious pun intended.) He's a bit more strung on Berryman than me - Dreamsongs. And then it occurred to me that what I really have an issue with are the serial poems. But I dug the Book of Orgasms. (But come on! How can you not like those??)

So I suppose I should revisit those poets and figure out what it is that isn't doing it for me. Likely it could be a lack on my part of reading them inaccurately. I am often guilty of that. That is why it can be so hard to read a Tom Robbins novel, but so incredibly satisfying afterwards.

Okay, I am really just procrastinating here. I need to be writing a poem. A better poem than the one I have in front of me that will be submitted if nothing more striking comes along. Blogging as avoidance.

two new poems . . .

. . . over at Prick of the Spindle. They do a lovely job. Here and here.

is it wrong . . .

. . . to be so amused by Reno 911? Because I am. Deliciously so.

i had always suspected as much . . .

. . . this just in: scientists now believe that the velociraptor had feathers. Well, anyone who knows my darling birds, Buddha and Phoebe, can attest to the fact that "terrible lizard" should have been "terrible bird" instead. I feel strangely vindicated. For what, I can't say. Perhaps Buddha's feather picking is an attempt to show his more macho, reptilian side. (Actually, he is letting the feathers on his epaulets grow back, which is a miracle in itself since they've been missing for years.)

Still trying to finish Owen Meany. Will try to do it today. It is such a good book, and somehow I managed to get sidetracked by school and other things. But I have a whole stack (or three) of books to read that are in no way related to school. I have three unread New Yorkers sitting on my desk. Still haven't finished the latest P&W. Although, I did read the Edwidge Danticat article, and I was quite horrified by the treatment of her uncle. Americans simply do not realize how foreigners of any color not white are treated. It is shameful. Immigration is the worst run government office. Imagine the DMV, with lines five times as long, officials behind counters who move as though they are underwater and haven't cracked a smile in ten years, and then magnify the paperwork twentyfold, and add to that the glare of security cameras, and security guards who are hopped up on espresso. It isn't the most friendly of places. I blame lack of training, lack of bilingual staff, lack of care on the part of the government. How did I get on this subject? I can soapbox all day long on this sad state of affairs. I must stop though. The birds/raptors want their breakfast.

rhin . . .

. . . itis. It finally floored me today. I now have some sort of medication that the pharmacist assured me would work. In a week. A week without breathing. Somewhere in that there is a poem.

Now reading Fire and Flower by Linda Kasischke. Her other book, the one I am supposed to be reading, Housekeeping in a Dream, is going for $100 on Amazon. And only on Amazon. So if you have a copy, won't you let me read it? I'd be ever so much obliged.

I am also on the prowl for more music. Musical suggestions. I don't listen to the radio. Why? Because all DJs are dumb. Because all radio commercials suck. Because I can listen to exactly what I want on the net, without DJs or commercials. Technology is amazing. But I'd still rather vote on paper.

Speaking of voting, local elections are almost here. I am sort of amused at the bickering that goes on between council persons. This can't be a Wilmy only problem because Chatty has it too. People are funny sometimes. Predictable. Ultimately, always predictable.

randomness. . .

. . . busy week. Thinking a lot about religion. Haven't had the time to be able to dip back into The History of God. I do have another book of poetry that I will start tonight. A lot of things going on in my mind, but nothing I can yet articulate. A theme with me recently.

why . . .

. . . does my profile pic keep disappearing? I am being electronically erased, and I am taking it as an ominous sign.

Reading a plethora of 16th century poetry, and that damn iambic pentameter of English verse is making me think in that meter. It won't get out of my head. (Must think unrhythmical thoughts.)

So I hear James Frey has a book deal. A fiction book deal. I am delighted. I haven't read his other books - but considering the amount of controversy surrounding them, I find it nice that a talented writer can find a book deal despite such a spotty background. It is like politics, but with a better vocabulary, and less sex.

I am starting to be enticed by poetry once again. This is for several reasons, but also includes the book of poetry I am currently reading, which I think every person who has a heartbeat should read: The Book of Orgasms, by Nin Andrews. Amazing prose poems. Daring, lusty, and all around fabulous. I completely love this book. Book of the year. Well, at least book of the week. I am also doing this thing on Shakespeare's Sonnet 144, which is my all-time favorite sonnet of his, and I think he would highly approve of Andrews' book. (For the uninitiated, Sonnet 144 is all about venereal disease. You have to love Shakespeare. What a sport.)

and . . .

. . . home now. Things are slowly unwinding.

everything is . . .

. . . amped up. There is a tension in the air. At home, right now, Buddha is screaming his ear-shattering I HATE THIS WORLD scream, which translates into the Oh my god, my neighbors are going to complain and I will be forced to move out tension. Then there is the tension that seems to be permeating around others that I can't quite figure out but it translates into the Am I experiencing more or less stress than the person next to me type of tension. Then there are these allergies, which I have never had before in my life and I hate them and want to whine about the two options they present: take some antihistamines and have a vague idea of what is going on around, or the second option of not breathing. Both are less than desirable.

I have class soon for which I am woefully under prepared. Or I am too well prepared and am just too much of an overachiever to understand what that really means.

The weekend was a bust. A terrible bust of wasted time, lack of rain, and moldy bread. I cleaned. Again. I have these great big piles of trash bags sitting by the front door waiting for me to take them out when I leave. I am in no mood for class. I am cranky, stubborn, and tired of people. I should wear a sign that says "Touchy. Subject Should Be Handled Gently."

I am sure I will be over this bout of whatever it is the moment that fourth cup of coffee kicks in. Maybe this is all just sleep deprivation.

is it, or isn't it . . .

. . . going to be a hurricane? So much for my theory that hurricanes are less stressful in that you have plenty of notice whether or not they are coming. This system sitting on the ocean at the moment is irritating me with its non-committal attitude. Figure it out already.

I have finished grading papers. Which means my weekend is suddenly a lot brighter. (If the above would figure itself out it could be even better.)

Rearranged my furniture last night. I don't know why I like to do this so often. I have been a chronic furniture-rearranger since I was a kid. The couch is always better on the other side of the room. I may keep it like this for a while. It works well. The birds like it.

Cryptic news: I am brooding over something. And the duck flies at midnight. Okay, that was bull. But the first part was true.

I am . . .

. . . in that restless mood where I want to write something, but I am not sure what. I think this is sort of like jungle fever for writers. I have been journaling for the past hour or so, and all that I have accomplished is to run out of things to say to myself. So here I am. Trying vainly to find some sort of newsworthy or entertaining morsel to tempt the blogger gods.

I have been meaning to talk about grey hair. I have had this post in mind for a while, and so why not espouse on the topic of follicles? To begin, I have decided I like my grey hairs. They are not grey, per se, but more silvery white. This seems reasonable. It is also inevitable, so why not enjoy it? There seems to be this dichotomy of social thought on grey hair. On one hand you have the growing number of women who are shunning chemicals to alter their color. On the other hand, you have my all time favorite commercial: Just for Men.

Now, my grandmother used to use Just for Men in a shade of brown, so clearly, it is mislabeled. But I can forgive them this for the simple fact that I find their current commercial unbelievably entertaining. This is the one with the two sportscasters (former players in some sport that apparently did not set them up well enough with retirement which led to their participation in said commercial) in the bar. Anonymous guy with grey beard approaches snotty woman with blonde hair. The sports guys, in unison: "RE-JECTED!" And then, the ultimate in rhyming reason: "No play for mister grey!"

How can you not love that? Especially since mister grey goes into the bathroom (where there is an apparent abundance of Just for Men hair products) and emerges, newly browned, to approach snotty blonde. This time - yes, this time! - she practically mauls him on the spot. Score!

Yes, I love this commercial. It never fails to please me. I laugh every single time. And I like my own silver follicles that are competing with the dark brown. They add some bling.

And that is all I have people. I teach tomorrow, which means a seven am wake up call.

Gunn. Tim Gunn.

. . . just when I was going to get really irritated at Tim Gunn for having his own show and neglecting his ardent fans of Project Runway, I can finally relax. Seems Tim has been busy doing both his own show and Project Runway 4. Which means those of us who have been watching Top Chef to get our fashion fix with Padma Lakshi can now get that fix the old fashioned way. By watching Heidi, Nina, and Michael berate and torment a new cast of contestants all vying to be more engaging than their predecessors.

This is a load off my mind. Seriously. There is a huge poet following of Project Runway. I swear.

So what am I doing this holiday weekend? You guessed it. Researching the correct usage of the comma, colon, and semi-colon. Strictly for fun. And to reiterate my own understanding so that when I mark my students' papers I can be certain I didn't impose my own grammatical inaccuracies on them. When 80% use the comma incorrectly, you know there is some sort of deficiency in the high school system. And when I was able to graduate with my bachelor's in English without ever once being required to take a grammar course, well, the problem becomes apparent. Catch-22.

Not to harp on the Tim Gunn thing, but I really hope his show doesn't suck. It looks like it could. One reason we all like Tim so much is for his sparse appearances with a truly verbose vocabulary. An entire half hour of those pinstripes might make me change my mind. Think I'll hold out for PR4.

books! . . .

. . . I ordered have arrived. I am giddy with the smell of print. Let's see, what did I order? Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje, The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien, Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, and A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving, which I started reading last night.

i have to say . . .

. . . that so far the semester is going really well. My students are great, their classes coalescing and morphing into these mini-think tanks of creative writing. My own classes are supremely satisfying, more so than any previous semester. Most of this has to do with me and not necessarily the classes I took previously. I feel more grounded this year, more in control of my surroundings and committed to the writing. And I really just love being in school. The phd is starting to sound really tempting again, although I feel it would back-burner my writing.

Speaking of the writing, I need to get some discipline in terms of making regular hours to sit down and face the computer. I don't have writer's block - I have writer's aversion.

But I am very stoked about teaching.

it is officially stupid . . .

. . . driver day. I don't even want to get into the details, I just want to have a chauffeur.

I have been considering expanding the menagerie by one. I think that another rodent would do fabulously in the house, and am jonesing after a hairless rat. They are my favorite, with the soft skin and the delicate features. Alas, I would prefer to rescue (believe it or not but rat rescues do exist mostly from unwanted litters or from health issues or behavior issues) but there are no local rescues. And the pet stores (which I shudder to think of buying from, but it may come to that) don't carry hairless rats. At any rate, I'm on the lookout if anyone comes across one.

I finally have things to be doing; papers to be grading, poems to be writing and reading, and other various projects. This transition into the school year has been rough on Buddha, who wants me there all day. He was rather ornery this morning with me since I left him most of the day yesterday. Mondays are my busy days. There is no way to explain this to him, of course.

Off to teach in fifteen.

reality check . . .

. . . Alberto Gonzales is gone. Bush said his name was dragged through the mud. That poor, mistreated man. I feel sorry for him. Oh wait. No I don't.

Another misguided soul, Michael Vick, says he rejects dogfighting and is sorry. Yeah, sorry his ass was caught. I am also a but perturbed at the NAACP, an organization I think very highly of, is coming to Vick's defense. Whatever. That is a sign that the organization needs to rethink their priorities. Defending an animal killer/abuser/exploiter is not one of them.

Sometimes this world is too much. I have been thinking of my carbon print lately, ways to reduce it. Funny how little things snowball on you. It starts with one thing, organic shampoo, and moves on to organic flour. The range of healthy products is astounding. Car companies are starting to figure it out. Homeowners too. But still...there is too much waste. Recycling needs to be mandatory. Think of the resources we waste.

Okay, enough. I am just in one of those funky moods where I find that the last three things I bought at Target were made in China and it bothers me. Big question day here at the blog.

First classes that I am actually taking start today. Now that will be good. I really do love school.

today is a lazy day . . .

. . . complete with a really bad night's sleep. All my pets are in great moods though and you can't beat that. It is also rainy, which is fabulous.

I am reading this really interesting book on religion by Karen Armstrong called A History of God. So far I am quite impressed. There is so much I do not know.

yesterday . . .

. . . I gave in and went to Best Buy and bought a new laptop. I consider it an investment in my writing. (Because, apparently, I am a very high maintenance poet who needs a really big hard drive in order to compose my usual 25 line poem.) Normally I would have been very excited about such a purchase and ripped into that box immediately. Didn't happen. Too much stuff to do. At about 10pm I was ready to set it up. I opened the box, admired the shiny new casing, the smooth design, the lightness; I wondered over the bizarre 12 cell battery which protruded from the bottom to give the laptop 'lift' and then I turned that sucker on.

Yes.

And then I noticed it was the wrong computer. The number on the computer didn't match the box. It figures. So that (lower performance) laptop will be going back today.

Other news: not really any. Class this morning. Best Buy this afternoon. Rain dance later in the day.

needless to say . . .

. . . but the seven a.m. wake-up call did not last.

seven . . .

. . . in the morning. This is when I have been waking up the past two days. Mostly I have this idea about creating some self discipline and doing at least an hour of writing in the morning. The first day worked out pretty well. Today my computer acted up on me, refusing to open Word. Is this a sign? Do I need a new computer? Do I need to ignore the morning hours? Hmmm.

Classes start Wednesday.

I have been missing my dogs. A lot. Below is a picture of Gizelle. I hear she helped herself to some freshly cooked food on the counter the other day. Lol. Now that's my girl.

the war czar . . .

. . . sounds like a great title for a book, no? Well, in actuality, we have a war czar, and this war czar has apparently advised that Bush guy that we should consider reinstilling the draft. Yes, the draft.

But it's okay. Really. Because Bush, in his usual manner of being dead-on in his reasoning and rational and ultimately, his policy, has said that he doesn't think we need the draft. Phew. Load off my mind.

In other not so new news - it is hot. The heat 'broke' today and is just going to be 90 degrees. Yesterday, traveling on Oleander, the bank's temperature sign said it was 100 degrees. I believe it.

In the paper today there was a story about a new hang out spot for Emirates in Dubai. It is basically a freezer, where everything is made of ice. Everything. You pay your money, get a parka and some real shoes, and then you get to sit around on blocks of ice and enjoy the freezing temperatures. This is from the same city that brought snow to the Middle East. I cannot even begin to explain the enigma that Dubai is. It is this rushing amalgam of people, all different kinds, existing together in a hot desert. Nothing is hidden. It is all there to be seen. The buildings, the people, the wealth, the poverty. It is basically insane, and I want to go back, and stay for a while. There is a story there, I can feel it. (Of course, I think this about everything. Ah, the grocery store. Bet there's something interesting going on!)

the devil came on horseback . . .

. . . I went to the free screening at UNCW's Lumina Theatre last night, and I was glad I did. The genocide in Darfur is happening today. It was happening yesterday, and will continue tomorrow.

One of the things I am leery about whenever I get involved in some sort of community activism, is the overwhelming nature of the problems that we create for ourselves. I watched this movie, the pictures of the dead bodies, little girls burned alive, whole villages annihilated, the janjaweed (the Khartoum funded Arab militias sent to do the killing, paid in looting rights) admitting to their role openly, and I wonder, Well fuck. What am I supposed to do about it?

So it isn't an easy thing to deal with. Once you have seen these pictures, once you know that right now someone is being killed with no chance of protection (because this is a systematic killing, earning the name of genocide, and absolutely requiring our government's intervention), once you know all of this, you can't ever go back to not knowing. And therein lies the hopelessness. What can I do? I have no power. I cannot simply pack up, move to Darfur, buy a gun, and sit entry at the villages.

But what I can do is to tell people about it. I can tell my elected officials that this matters very much to me. I can write letters to three people: my representative Mike McIntyre, and my two senators, Elizabeth Dole and Richard Burr. Yes, they are both Republicans, but in my experience with government, political affiliation means absolutely dick when it comes to listening to their constituents. The noisier you are, the more response you get.

I could stop there, with three letters, but why? Let's face it: elections are coming up. I haven't heard anything about Darfur so far from the candidates. I have heard a lot about Iraq though. Last I checked the Iraqis were not hell bent on genocide. Last I checked both sides were well equipped with guns. And the truth is, we don't really know who the bad guy is over there, because there really is not one. We can blame it on the insurgency, but the insurgency is both Sunni and Shiite.

I am digressing here, but the point is, no one seems to know what is really going on in the world, and this irritates me. We elect our leaders based on whether they think abortion is wrong or not. In what moral world does abortion trump the mass killing of an entire people? I am sick of playing games with rhetoric people. Republicans are too greedy and conservative to act ethically at home and abroad, and Democrats are too busy playing the rhetoric game to find their balls and take some action. Everyone wants to hold on to their power, or get more power than they currently have.

So I am writing my letters. And next time I register to vote, I am registering as an Independent. I don't need a party line to tell me what I should think is an important issue. And to you, who read this whole thing (thank you), don't believe for a minute that your opinion doesn't matter. We are lucky to live in this flawed country, and yet I can feel no pride in being American, while my government ignores the genocide. We swore to Always Remember, didn't we? What fools. We should have sworn to Always Act.

Save Darfur.

i (heart) charles simic. . .

. . . so it is fairly lovely news that he is to be the new Poet Laureate. Simic's poetry is influential to me, in that I feel his verse is profound in both the lyricism/imagery and the political ideology, whether one wants to call it ideology or not - perhaps humanity is a better word. Either way, he makes me want to be a better poet, and because I believe that being a poet is more than just writing, it is a way of looking at life, of engaging in life, of being aware in all the senses, I am excited to see that perhaps the discussion of modern poetry can perhaps be refocused to poetry itself, and not the same old boring po-biz discussions of who has what money and bringing poetry to the masses as it used to be in the good old days (and what days were these, I ask) and finally, to look beyond one's own petty agenda that puts the biz in po-biz in the first place. Who the hell cares? I just want to read some good poetry and theory. I am tired of the publishing end of things, and the brouhaha over Academia: Devil Poetry, or Devil-May-Care Poetry?

And yada yada yada.

the most awesome . . .

. . . museum in Florence. Yes, the Uffizi is nice too. But sometimes you just want to see dead animals and giant, scary bugs. This was a highlight of my trip this year, and I highly recommend it. I can't get the giant rhino out of my head, and sadly, the website does not show him. I'll take pictures next time.

hairspray. . .

. . . was pretty cute. Fabulous casting, including some appearances by original cast members from the first movie. It is always hard to see a remake of a movie you absolutely love, so I was glad to see that while the musical played tribute to the original, it definitely went in its own direction. I still prefer the original - but the musical is pretty rockin' too.

let the battery run down. . .

. . . well, it is getting closer to the start of another school year. Less than a month. I have a vague idea of how I am going to orchestrate my classes. Other than that, it will just be nice to be back in the classroom. I always look forward to the first day of class, even when I was a kid. There is just something exciting about having a list of knowledge and assignments to wade through in a timely manner. I do well with guidelines. Which is one reason I am thrilled to have a working outline of my book. I never thought I would like to write that way, with a goal in mind, and in poetry, you don't write that way. At least, you are discouraged to. Poems are more acts of discovery towards meaning, and literature seems to be a more guided tour with acts of connections along the way. Structure seems to be something that is helpful to me at this moment, even as I crave change constantly.

Yummy! . . .

. . . is doing great after his minor lumpectomy. Excellent news. I couldn't be more pleased. He is such a great little guy.

Also met this fabulous child at the pool today who informed me that her Barbie dolls were recovering from a drug and gambling addiction respectively. They were both former cheerleaders. I don't judge. (Except, as far as I know, my Barbies were never into such illicit acts, other than feeling up the Ken doll, and believe me, that wasn't really satisfying for Barbie.)

no spoilers, promise . . .

. . . but I simply have to say that the seventh Harry Potter book was damn good. Yes, that's right. Damn good. Apparently I am a fan of magical realism. Kid books too. The His Dark Materials trilogy (coming soon to theater near you with Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman) were great also. So what else should I read?

I did have to finish the Pessl book first before committing to Harry. And it was worth it, because after the first three hundred pages or so, the book gets good. Not just, oh, yeah, well I guess it was worth reading it, but more like, holy crap, didn't see that coming, or that, uh huh, oooo, it all makes sense now. But you have to delve through 300 pages to get there! Longest book foreplay ever.

Taking Yummy to the vet. I think he may have a scent gland tumor. Male gerbils have scent glands on their tummies, and they are susceptible to cancer. So, hopefully, Yummy will be a good candidate for surgery. Fingers crossed. He really is the cutest little shit.

if it were easy, everyone would do it. . .

. . . I haven't been blogging about the progress of my "novel project" in a while. I had run into a plot snafu, which, after some incredibly slow contemplation, a solution may have presented itself. Not completely thought out, but on its way. One thing this means is doing some research, which once upon a time would have been considered an extreme hassle. Now, I am looking forward to it. Items to research? The NHL, and Greek mythology. I am not sure about the mythological aspect just yet, but it merits a glance, particularly with my opening scene.

I haven't written a lick of poetry since I have been back from Europe. Although I have some ideas percolating on that too. All these ideas and nothing written.

I am still bogged down in the Pessl book. It is incredibly dense with language and scene. At times I find it incredibly clever, and at others I get frustrated with its slow movement and extraneous scenes. In thinking about this today, I wondered at what point my personal criticism diverges from being critical of the piece on its own merits, and being critical of how I would have done it differently. This sort of bothers me in some respects, because ultimately, I want to respect the intention of a writer, and on the other hand, I want to be able to discern when a piece works and when it doesn't, and have that be based on some concrete concept. Thinking this way all the time can hinder my enjoyment of a book. My expectations for literature are high. Let downs are easy. On the other hand, I totally chilled with a Dan Brown book the other day as a nice break from Pessl. I haven't made up my mind about her yet - we'll see when I finish. But I didn't expect anything from Brown other than some entertainment.

Other news...well, there is no other news. A month from now, new MFA orientation. The birds are adjusting well to their new cage. Phoebes got into Buddha's side tonight and snuggled up before becoming evil. I had to separate them. Yummy, the gerbil, may be sick. He will be finding a vet tomorrow. Sigh. He is such a cute little guy.

i need a verberizer. . .

. . . because this word is still bugging me: condensation. How do you turn this word into a verb? Is it condenscencing? Ah, the pitfalls of the English tongue. I managed to get through an entire education without once having been taught grammar. I mean from day one. Right through college. Amazing that even as an English major I was not subject to having to understand the basic fundamentals of my language and thereby enhancing my own understanding of what I was reading. So I learned grammar the way everyone does - by reading.

But now this has become problematic. Because the ideas of strict writing are out the window. Sentences no longer must be carefully constructed with a direct object, a verb, a noun, or whatever else sentences must have. I don't do sentence diagramming. Never have. (Isn't this kind of funny though? Imagine me teaching people how to write and I have never dissected a sentence. Should I make the obvious surgeon joke? No. That would be trite.)

Any grammar I do know I picked up off the street or in my required French classes. Trying to figure out the equivalent to French grammar in English grammar made those classes twice as hard. My point?

Well my fridge is (where's my verberizer?) condenscencingationing on the outside. And I am reading Marisha Pessl's Calamity Physics, which has a main character who's vocabulary and reading background is pretty damn hot for her age. She even indulges in a bit of ranting on a teacher who uses the dangling preposition. Which does make me chuckle, sure. Until I come across a huge glaring misspelling/typo/editing faux pas that made me laugh. It wasn't intended to be there either - Pessly does misuse grammar upon occasion when it serves her purposes.

So where am I going with all of this?

Nowhere. I'm just ranting. And for no good reason. I like Pessl's book thus far, the fridge will be fixed. The birds will stop yelling. All will be good.

a package . . .

. . . in the mail from my mother! Very exciting to get unexpected stuff. In this case, organic food. The birds are big fans of the gingersnap cookies. So yea for motherly love!

The heat is getting to me. I haven't been outside in two days, and each morning I read the UV index and then I wonder about America's love of creating codes of alarm. Soon, you will ask someone how they are, and instead of the stock answer "Fine," you will get "Oh, I'm a code orange today, and you?" "Code yellow." "Excellent."

So anyway, I am heading out in a bit. Surely a movie is in order. We'll see. It beats listening to C-SPAN and the congress debating the Iraq War Troop Withdrawal Bill. Although I do like listening to government in progress. I am always amazed at how passionate some of them are when they get up to speak, and by the orderliness of Robert's Rules or whatever protocol they use. It is also distressing to know that the vast majority never read the bills they vote on, surely not thoroughly. I still remember watching the debates when they impeached Clinton, and Robert Wexler, a Democrat (Florida I think), get up and rail on the floor - he was so preacheresque. And young. He definitely made an impression. I forget whether he was for or against impeachment, but he was spirited either way. I miss the Clinton days. It will take a full eight years of another presidency to fix what this current idiot has wrought. I personally think that we should exile him, but who the heck would take him?

I finished reading The Buffalo Soldiers last night, and it was very good. One of those 'sad' and 'depressing' but ultimately 'uplifting' books I was railing about the other day. But in a good way. It was a page turner towards the end especially, and I love how Bohjalian was able to make you root for all the characters, and then make you almost hate one particular character, and then root for him in the end despite his flaws. I want to read his other novel, Trans-Sister Radio. As a writer he reminds me of Nicholas Evans. Both in tone, subject matter, and plot development.

And by the way, one of the things I read on some lit blog when I got back from Europe that irritated me, was about how there are no real blogs that do book reviews or in depth analysis. This isn't exactly true to begin with, and secondly, why should bloggers spend all their time writing reviews of books? I can't speak for others, but for myself, I don't write essays. I am not a strong reviewer. I either like something or don't, for a variety of reasons, and I see no point in trying to articulate my own ideas in a way that will make it a high brow review for a personal blog. No one cares. You like the book or you don't, and you move on. If I don't like something, I will say it. But to bash lit blogs or po blogs for not being what they aren't seems ridiculous.

Now I am ranting. It's over. Swear. Off to the day.

and so it begins . . .

. . . the Pottermania! I pre-ordered my book. I had planned on waiting, but to be honest, there is just no way to avoid finding out whether Harry dies or not because this is going to be everywhere. All the newscasts; local, national, international, galactic. I fully expect random relatives to call and express their outrage/glee; strangers asking in the street if I could believe Rowling's gall/genius; spam in my inbox asking if I want to join the Thank God Harry Died/Lived Club!; and so on and so forth. So, from the date of release, to the point when I get the book and read the book, I will be out of commission. I am unhooking. I want no spoilers, no impingements upon my joy of reading a story where I am so engrossed that nothing else in the world matters. If Wilmington happens to have a hurricane while I am reading this, so be it. I have a flashlight. Extra batteries.

The movie I am willing to wait for a bit, until the crowds thin out a bit. I have read the book so no chance of spoilers, just the chance that the director screws up royally and cuts important things. They've all done it. But, who gives a shit. Harry Potter would have been my favorite books as a child, and are among my tops as an adult. I know. And I don't care. Escapism is a great function of fiction and especially magical realism.

it is hot . . .

. . . and muggy. My cats have melted on the tile floor. I don't know how they managed to spread themselves so flat. I feel a bit guilty, not running the a/c, but the birds hate it. They love the humidity and the heat. Poor kits.

Saw Waitress last night. I really liked it, and was most impressed by Keri Russell more so than the story. It is incredibly predictable, but what keeps it from being just another movie is the incredible performances. Although I personally felt Andy Griffith could have been a bit more curmudgeonly. But whatever.

Finished reading Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginnings. It was not what I expected, but once I got into it, I fell for her rhythms and incredibly keen eye. She doesn't talk about writing overtly, or even how she got started. It is very subtle, but powerful. Onto William Carlos Williams next.

I still have not ordered my books for Fall. I suppose I should if I want them on time. I have a list of things that still haven't been done, but the list of things I have done that didn't need to be done continues to grow. Irony.

Speaking of which, I have scrapped all the pages of the book I had thus far. There was no irony. I am not going to write another 'sad' and 'depressing' but ultimately 'lesson learned' and 'enlightening' book. What fun is that?

Sending out poetry. Will let you know of success. You can count on the rejection!

yes, this is a great way to spend . . .

. . . taxpayer money! The US is so behind on their views on sexuality. I have said it before, and I will say it again - my kids are not going to watch anything but French film. None of this American crap.

Well, reruns of Project Runway are on, gotta go.

Happy Fourth!

away . . .

. . . I have been sick, which isn't fair. It is summer. There is unseasonably cool weather to be enjoyed. Which I did today. Eighty degrees, no real humidity. Awesome weather.

So I found out this week that it is my ten year high school reunion. That totally snuck up on me. For one, I didn't realize it had been ten years. Secondly, I went to a really small school with a graduating class of about 30. A friend who is trying to convince me to go told me that a lot of people are going - around 100. I didn't think to ask where the heck we were scrounging up the extra 70 people. And as far as I know, this will be the first reunion in, say, forever.

Okay, okay. I am being cynical. I am sure other graduating classes are going. It was (and likely still is) a total student body of 500. K-12. Yes. All of us on this tiny campus, bungalow style classrooms, hippie murals on the walls with John Lennon. We celebrated Peace Day once a year. We tye-dyed t-shirts and made homemade vegetarian chili. I shit you not. Yes, this was in California. Yes, I am aware of those connotations. Yes, there was a pot-bellied pig named Bumper who walked around campus.

Thinking back has made me nostalgic. Somewhat. Then again, it is also a major flashback to icky high school memories. And a complete chance for both self acrimony and self validation. The thing is, I am so over high school, that I wonder what the point is in going. College does a pretty good job of wiping out high school. Grad school does a really great job of wiping out undergrad. It is like trading up, and the higher I go, the more I like school. I am finally going for me.

So the question is twofold: 1) will nostalgia win over a healthy sense of self? and 2) can this ridiculous post get any longer?

more . . .

. . . links coming soon. Blogger has come a long way since I last complained. (Thank you Blogger!)

If you know of a great (or outrageous) link, let me know about it. I am aiming for something akin to Lime Tree's plethora of places to spend time procrastinating on the web. It is awesome.

I also spent some time catching up on the literary world, and as usual I found stuff of great interest. More on this later.

Writing Report Card: today was a very productive day.

no conures, no more . . .

. . . I have conures. Two of them. And, yes, they are loud. I should have gotten doves.

But I didn't. I have a nanday (notoriously the most destructive and vocal bird ever) and a green cheek (notoriously a biter). They both live up to their reputations.

I have come to the conclusion that I am not overreacting or being overly sensitive to their behavior. They are just obnoxious. This must be what it is like to have teenagers. (I say this tongue in cheek by the way. I love teenagers! They go so well with a balsamic vinaigrette.)

No, I am not comparing my birds to teenagers to food. I would never jest.

All I am getting at is that I am not the one with the problem here. The birds are just annoying. What an amazing (and seven year long) revelation!

***Here at poethussy, we strive for a balanced reporting of life, and delight in the small won battles/revelations.

there is this old john wayne movie . . .

. . . called Donovan's Reef which is what I am thinking of at the moment for the glorious scene where Elizabeth Allen's character goes in search of a swimsuit. If you've seen it, you know where I am coming from, and if you haven't, get thee to a movie rental!

tidbit. . .

. . . which I found interesting, and surprising, coming from the local dot com news feed. Naturally it is in the opinion section, and maybe ten people will read it, but still, the fact that it is there at all was pleasant. (Also I have looked, and have no idea who this person is responding to, but if I can find it, will link that too.)

Op-Ed.

and holy cow, how did i miss this????

Okay, a wee bit of being star struck, as I just found the following comment about my original Natasha Trethewey post.

So, Ms. Trethewey, the pleasure was mine!

total score . . .

at the used bookstore:

Joy Williams: Taking Care, Breaking & Entering

Clyde Edgerton: Walking Across Egypt, Killer Diller

Chad Prevost: Snapshots of the Perishing World

Nathanael West: Miss Lonely Hearts & The Day of the Locust

William Carlos Williams: In the American Grain

James Cummins and David Lehman: Jim and Dave Defend the Masked Man

Arundhati Roy: The God of Small Things

Stephen Dobyns: The Church of Dead Girls

Eudora Welty: One Writer's Beginnings

Chris Bohjalian: The Buffalo Soldier

Brigit Pegeen Kelly: The Orchard

Saul Bellow: Ravelstein

E.L. Doctorow: Lives of the Poets

All for under $50. I had to pull myself out of there. But I am super excited about these books. The Prevost one in particular because he is a local Chattanooga author with no connections to the writing workshops at UTC, which makes him a strange and curious anomaly - and he is talented to boot. He did come read at a Meacham, last year maybe? Hmm. Anyway, the other that I am super excited about it the Cummins, Lehman book which comes complete with these amazing illustrations by Archie Rand. I have a feeling this book will be called into play this upcoming semester when tackling poetry in the intro creative writing class. And it just pleases me to no end.