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.