PSA

For those who missed it the moral lesson from this past week's Grey's Anatomy is to not pee in the Amazon River.

sometimes there are those. . .

. . . commercials that break the barrier of taste and achieve humor. Last night I caught the end of a commercial for pregnancy tests. (Sorry, didn't catch the brand.) It seemed a normal commercial until the announcer informs the audience that "it is the most advanced piece of technology you will ever pee on."

Which got me to thinking. And then, perhaps, it is best I leave this post now, before it goes places it shouldn't.

Talent abounds at the . . .

. . . thesis reading tonight. Seven graduating students gave readings from their theses, and it was a display of some serious talent. I was duly impressed all around. It actually got me to think about language (an abundance of poets read), and excited for my own future projects. The other really stunning thing was how much there was a shared admiration for these students from the faculty. I have seen a lot of introductions over the years to writers, and nothing topped the glowing reviews of tonight.

It also gives me a glimpse at what I need to strive for in my own writing. I have tentatively been thinking about my own thesis, and what sort of poetry I want to write. I am lucky in that I already have a tone...there is usually little doubt but that my poems are written by me. But subject, holding that tone throughout an entire manuscript...it is a lot to ask for, and I am not entirely sure that I have the scope of such a project yet.

I am going to be scratching my fiction itch this summer though. The fiction presents no problem in that way. I can think in terms of the novel with a vague idea of balance and interconnections, but the poetry has yet to present itself that way to me. It is a more cantankerous relationship. Tempestuous.

are you a fictoirist?

The other day we (a bunch of fellow mfa-ers) were chatting about creating a new term for a genre that blends the truth with fiction - you know, the same old discussion we must keep having after the Giant James Frey Incident. And now, with Dave Eggers' book What is the What, the conversation is certainly still relevant. Dave Eggers may not know it, but he is a fictiorist. This is the term that spontaneously erupted from our conversation that I feel very proud of, and no doubt, surely, someone out there has already coined it.

So what is a fictiorist? And how do you say it? Well, firstly, with attitude. But for those who want the phonetics of the word: fick-shwar-ist. I liken it to Amy Lowell being coined an 'imagiste' but without the fanfare. A fictiorist is a writer of fictoir: fiction + memoir, in which the rules and expectations of truth are bent to create a wholly pleasing and mostly accurate account that may or may not be true, depending on what tenets of truth the fictiorist deems important.

I feel a sort of lawyerly litigation lust coming out here. Think of the loopholes! The contracts! The lawsuits!

It is truly rife with possibility.

oh, and

another thing: BOOKS! I am going to start keeping track of every book I read here. . . for better or worse. Warts and all. I seriously want to get my book on this summer. So lots of books. Ah, books.

So here is the thing: I have been contemplating the use of a blog, and this one, and particularly with regards to writing. What use is it if I am not going to use it? And how can I keep things on the topic of poetry? Well, it isn't possible, because poetry and fiction do not exist in a vacuum. And so I think I am going to start ranting and raving, and basically soap boxing my self all over the place. In good form of course. There just is no real way to talk about writing without talking about life, etc., so there you have it.

One thing I will mention immediately in my soap box format, is that in this age of technology and personalization, I cannot believe how limited the selection of formats is that blogger provides. It is positively Stone Age. Glad I got that out.

Other things of various levels of importance: I bought wine at the Harris Teeter last night and I wasn't carded, despite the sign in the wine selection that says something about carding if you look under 30. I read in the paper this morning that Bush was thrilled with Alberto Gonzales' testimony, and that he felt it was clear and reinforced his confidence in Gonzales. All I can say is Bush sure makes it easy for Jon Stewart. Speaking of news people, my new crush (which doesn't really replace my former, Russ Mitchell, but since he is not on all that much anymore....) is Steve Hartman, who has this really sweet older Tobey Macguire sensitivity about him. Very hot. Apparently, at my advanced age that requires I not be carded at the grocery store, Steve Hartman is more suitable than Tobey Macguire.

So, there we are, as of tonight. I am heading to Europe soon on a fantastic trip that I will be blogging about as things take shape. I just got the itinerary today, and I am stoked. But tonight I am too tired. . .

native guard

It is kind of hard not to be excited that Natasha Trethewey won the Pulitzer, especially since I raved over her book last summer. It really is worth a read, and then another and another. . .

Poetry Galore

It is National Poetry Month, which means absolutely nothing to anyone who isn't greatly interested in poetry. But I have to admit I feel a bit of glee at reading all the po-blogs and po-sites that are celebrating. It is like being the wallflower who suddenly is asked to dance. A lovely feeling.

If only I could transcend that feeling into my own poetry.

As the weather perks up into the 80s, so does my mood. I want to plant green things in the ground. Make iced tea. Or frozen orange juice pops. I'd even take a mint julep.