The writing life! So exhausting! And Meacham's not over yet. Last night, readings by Richard Jackson, Judson Mitcham (fiction), and Ed Hirsch, who was poet-casual in blue jeans, tennis shoes and a nice jacket. I'm not always a fan of his work, but I did, in fact, enjoy his reading. Rick was Rick, always great, and Mitcham's story was a hoot, which is such a huge victory for me, because I generally cannot abide fiction readings.
Earlier in the day, a really bad reading. We shall speak no more of it here. At least for now.
Thursday night Bradley Paul read, which was great. Rick, who'd had, perhaps, a bit too much mine at our dinner, was seated beside me, whispering into my ear the whole time, in high spirits. Who else read that night? My mind is threadbare at this point. And I still have to read today. Heh.
Must decide on the poems. Adios, y'all.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Today's word is
RESPECT. In honor of Victoria. Heh. You'll have to go over to her place to see why.
***
Shameless of me to bring bags of Hershey's Miniatures to classes today. But I did it, anyway. My first class was most pleased. When I asked, "Who loves you?" they all laughed. They think me half-nuts, I'm certain. And likely they are right.
***
Meacham starts tonight. Our three days of readings and workshops and drunken bashes each semester. Bradley Paul reads tonight, author of The Obvious and my old pal. It'll be good to see him and Karri again. The last time we got together was in Baltimore when my book came out so there's a symmetry in this, as Brad's book just arrived.
I read Saturday at one. Ensconced in the swankery of The Flag Room. I'm going to try to post pictures of all the goings-on.
***
No promises of any flag sightings, though. Do keep your expectations in check.
***
So I'm showing my class a quicktime clip today and the professor next door sneaks in and asks if I could turn the volume down. He's a really nice man and I quite like him but he is constantly blaring films in his class, on world religions, I think, so there are always tribal drums pounding through the wall and sacred heart singing and sundry wailings. And I never say anything. It didn't bother me but there did seem to be some lack of recognition there.
Oh, and a lack of RESPECT.
***
Shameless of me to bring bags of Hershey's Miniatures to classes today. But I did it, anyway. My first class was most pleased. When I asked, "Who loves you?" they all laughed. They think me half-nuts, I'm certain. And likely they are right.
***
Meacham starts tonight. Our three days of readings and workshops and drunken bashes each semester. Bradley Paul reads tonight, author of The Obvious and my old pal. It'll be good to see him and Karri again. The last time we got together was in Baltimore when my book came out so there's a symmetry in this, as Brad's book just arrived.
I read Saturday at one. Ensconced in the swankery of The Flag Room. I'm going to try to post pictures of all the goings-on.
***
No promises of any flag sightings, though. Do keep your expectations in check.
***
So I'm showing my class a quicktime clip today and the professor next door sneaks in and asks if I could turn the volume down. He's a really nice man and I quite like him but he is constantly blaring films in his class, on world religions, I think, so there are always tribal drums pounding through the wall and sacred heart singing and sundry wailings. And I never say anything. It didn't bother me but there did seem to be some lack of recognition there.
Oh, and a lack of RESPECT.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Further on up the road
Has anyone seen the new issue of Hunger Mountain? Really nice new journal and I'm in this latest issue. This one is important to me: it's the first time I've managed to appear in the same journal with Eliot, my best friend and just a nauseatingly great poet. His poem is just great and as usual has me feeling covetous. Well, not really. I miss those days in Alabama: he made it bearable there.
And my two poems? One is about my grandfather Rip, the embodiment of cantankerous, still raising hell after losing the ability to speak, the use of one arm, and, in recent years, the amputation of both legs.
The other is called "Questions for Godzilla."
***
Saw Friday Night Lights yesterday. Billy Bob Thornton may be a freak of the first order in life, but I'll be damned if he isn't a great actor. He's very quiet here. A good movie, but there's something unusual about that Peter Berg has brought to it. It's almost documentary-like in that there doesn't feel, not exactly, that there is a narrative agenda. In other words, the movie seems to be always just observing. At a distance. Which I think serves the film well. Because, let me tell you, these people are insane for their teams. That distance communicates the differences between the average audience and these towns, but without condescending to them or painting them as redneck mongrels. Rather, it's just how it is there in these poor, hardscrabble, depressed towns. Good film.
***
I read Saturday. Got to start thinking about what to read.
Which brings me to something Wendy and I were talking about. I'd love to start my own reading series. We have a great one here already so I wouldn't want to step on its toes. But I know so many good young poets and it'd be a lot of fun to be bringing them down here.
Of course, this means money. Which I don't have, certainly. Where is my wealthy patron?
***
End of October manuscript deadlines:
Carnegie Mellon Press
Beatrice Hawley Award
Hollis Summers Prize
There are more, I'm sure. Paris Review prize, for example, but why bother?
Any I'm missing?
And my two poems? One is about my grandfather Rip, the embodiment of cantankerous, still raising hell after losing the ability to speak, the use of one arm, and, in recent years, the amputation of both legs.
The other is called "Questions for Godzilla."
***
Saw Friday Night Lights yesterday. Billy Bob Thornton may be a freak of the first order in life, but I'll be damned if he isn't a great actor. He's very quiet here. A good movie, but there's something unusual about that Peter Berg has brought to it. It's almost documentary-like in that there doesn't feel, not exactly, that there is a narrative agenda. In other words, the movie seems to be always just observing. At a distance. Which I think serves the film well. Because, let me tell you, these people are insane for their teams. That distance communicates the differences between the average audience and these towns, but without condescending to them or painting them as redneck mongrels. Rather, it's just how it is there in these poor, hardscrabble, depressed towns. Good film.
***
I read Saturday. Got to start thinking about what to read.
Which brings me to something Wendy and I were talking about. I'd love to start my own reading series. We have a great one here already so I wouldn't want to step on its toes. But I know so many good young poets and it'd be a lot of fun to be bringing them down here.
Of course, this means money. Which I don't have, certainly. Where is my wealthy patron?
***
End of October manuscript deadlines:
Carnegie Mellon Press
Beatrice Hawley Award
Hollis Summers Prize
There are more, I'm sure. Paris Review prize, for example, but why bother?
Any I'm missing?
Monday, October 25, 2004
inflected
EQUATION
If only the ineffable were not
just that. If only someone
were not shedding some thing
relentlessly: used
bandage at my feet
with gravel and plastic skittering
in wind. And you
have seen jaundiced condoms
left behind like dead
pupae on the ground
and you’ve heard the song,
a confetti of noise,
inside the shell of that passion—
if only infinite
litter were not all
that could distract,
tonight. The storm of the mundane
has never moved on
and I have named
the water in the rust-ringed sink
a thousand times
as it spun out of the visible world.
If only for a time.
If only for a day
as it’s counted by a cheap watch.
If only any arithmetic
were bearable
or an old word worth repeating
or some fact
a fellowship with time:
the song the yellow canary sings to his mate.
Her body ripening
in response with eggs.
If only this
were true.
If only the ineffable were not
just that. If only someone
were not shedding some thing
relentlessly: used
bandage at my feet
with gravel and plastic skittering
in wind. And you
have seen jaundiced condoms
left behind like dead
pupae on the ground
and you’ve heard the song,
a confetti of noise,
inside the shell of that passion—
if only infinite
litter were not all
that could distract,
tonight. The storm of the mundane
has never moved on
and I have named
the water in the rust-ringed sink
a thousand times
as it spun out of the visible world.
If only for a time.
If only for a day
as it’s counted by a cheap watch.
If only any arithmetic
were bearable
or an old word worth repeating
or some fact
a fellowship with time:
the song the yellow canary sings to his mate.
Her body ripening
in response with eggs.
If only this
were true.
Buffy verse
The Slayer
by Jeanine Gailey
It's hard enough just trying to pick out
the miniskirt that matches my platform jellies
but as you know, the cute-as-a-button cheerleader
must also answer to the darkest demons
(if you've watched any animé, you know this drill
already - how I'll prowl through corridors
looking fragile in the shadows, how the monster
grabs my ponytail from behind and I'm
knocked, momentarily, off my tiny feet
but will spring up, brandishing the medieval sword
hiding in my teddy-bear backback.)
And don't think it doesn't get boring, the backflips
and the bite marks and perfectly timed execution
of one more stake through the heart. I'm tired of wiping blood
off my jeans, the adrenaline rush in graveyards.
Just once I'd like to take the night off, maybe
be the damsel in distress for once, instead of always,
always, wearing the armor and carrying the flag.
by Jeanine Gailey
It's hard enough just trying to pick out
the miniskirt that matches my platform jellies
but as you know, the cute-as-a-button cheerleader
must also answer to the darkest demons
(if you've watched any animé, you know this drill
already - how I'll prowl through corridors
looking fragile in the shadows, how the monster
grabs my ponytail from behind and I'm
knocked, momentarily, off my tiny feet
but will spring up, brandishing the medieval sword
hiding in my teddy-bear backback.)
And don't think it doesn't get boring, the backflips
and the bite marks and perfectly timed execution
of one more stake through the heart. I'm tired of wiping blood
off my jeans, the adrenaline rush in graveyards.
Just once I'd like to take the night off, maybe
be the damsel in distress for once, instead of always,
always, wearing the armor and carrying the flag.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
I am just too amused by the level of interest here in my level of interest in Buffy. I knew the show was beloved but, geez.... I'm thinking there must be some way of harnessing this Buffy-love. A collection of Buffy poems, like Krypton Nights. Or a Buffy anthology. Yeah, there's the ticket. Everyone so inclined should write a Buffy poem. Send them to me, I'll post them here. And after that? What say you?
***
As for me, well, I just finished "Prophecy Girl," the last episode of season 1. Count me converted. Great show, lots of fun, and at times it really sings. There are not so great moments: "I Robot...You Jane" is painful at times. Early on the show is still finding itself and it shows at times with awkward moments. But the best hints at what must make everyone so ga-ga.
The episode with the puppet amused me to no end. The gang has already faced dozens of monsters, vampires, demons, but they're clearly beyond creeped out by this little dummy. Funny stuff.
"Angel," the episode, was pretty great, as was "Out of Sight, Out of Mind." I'm thinking the invisible girl hasn't been seen (or unseen?) for the last time.
Ok, so I'll soon be launching into further seasons. Happy? Get cracking on those poems.
***
As for me, well, I just finished "Prophecy Girl," the last episode of season 1. Count me converted. Great show, lots of fun, and at times it really sings. There are not so great moments: "I Robot...You Jane" is painful at times. Early on the show is still finding itself and it shows at times with awkward moments. But the best hints at what must make everyone so ga-ga.
The episode with the puppet amused me to no end. The gang has already faced dozens of monsters, vampires, demons, but they're clearly beyond creeped out by this little dummy. Funny stuff.
"Angel," the episode, was pretty great, as was "Out of Sight, Out of Mind." I'm thinking the invisible girl hasn't been seen (or unseen?) for the last time.
Ok, so I'll soon be launching into further seasons. Happy? Get cracking on those poems.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
I've resisted
for a long time, but I picked up the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Fifteen bucks, worth a shot to see what I think. (I've never seen an episode before.)
***
Gloomy here. No rain, though. I miss sunlight already.
***
Hello. Who are you and where are you from?
***
Gloomy here. No rain, though. I miss sunlight already.
***
Hello. Who are you and where are you from?
Friday, October 22, 2004
The answer
Who's next in this dizzying cavalcade of stardom that is Chattanooga?
Gunnar Hansen. Leatherface. The guy who put the chainsaw in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Here in town for some kind of haunted cavern thing at Ruby Falls.
I may have to move. Too much celebrity.
Gunnar Hansen. Leatherface. The guy who put the chainsaw in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Here in town for some kind of haunted cavern thing at Ruby Falls.
I may have to move. Too much celebrity.
A place called vertigo
This week's goofiness has me thinking about writing a memoir again. I started this summer, actually, and had about twenty pages before getting bored. David Hernandez is always telling me I should write it; it's him that got me started this summer. It'd be a great book, I think, equal parts horrific and hysterical. But, God, writing it--all those words. Here, with the blog, I don't think too much about aesthetic concerns, everything is pleasantly slapdash, so these little bouts of prose don't seem a bother.
***
But back to goofiness and random wackery. I just attract it, plain and simple. Here's a little piece I wrote when I lived in Tuscaloosa:
ON DETERMINATION
Due to some construction on campus, where a long park is being built between two buildings, my usual route to Morgan Hall is now impassible. To get around this, I duck into the student center, take an elevator up and exit out into a parking lot, a few blocks from the department. This morning, for whatever reason, the automatic door outside the student center wouldn't open, so I waited around for someone to come along. It was early and few people were about. I looked over my shoulder and several feet behind me an older lady, in her late fifties, I'd say, was approaching. She waved and I was sure it was to someone else, maybe on the other side of the door. Suddenly, her arm was around my shoulders, her thickly made-up face pressed close to mine, cheek to cheek. To be sure, we were beginning a strange dance. I tried to figure out if I knew her. I didn't. She said:
"He's determined. He's determined to be out there on that football field."
Was she speaking English? I looked around and to the side of us stood Sluggo, her beefy boy, her pride and joy, I guess.
"But, I want you to know his determination is nothing, nothing compared to your determination. What's your name, son?"
At this point, I was so stunned I told her. She began to pray.
"O Lord, it was you who was possessed of the original determination, and it is this spirit of determination we see in Paul. Bless him, Jesus, bless him. Amen."
She leaned ever closer, and impossibly, my sense of dread grew. She kissed me on the cheek, and said, "You're beautiful, you know that? Is it ok for me to tell you that?"
"Sure, anything," I replied, thinking, as long as you let me go.
As quickly as she'd coiled around me, she stepped away and told her son to open the door. I pulled away from them, fast as I could go, and as I zipped away, I heard over my shoulder these words:
"Maybe I'll see you on campus!"
I ran away.
***
But back to goofiness and random wackery. I just attract it, plain and simple. Here's a little piece I wrote when I lived in Tuscaloosa:
ON DETERMINATION
Due to some construction on campus, where a long park is being built between two buildings, my usual route to Morgan Hall is now impassible. To get around this, I duck into the student center, take an elevator up and exit out into a parking lot, a few blocks from the department. This morning, for whatever reason, the automatic door outside the student center wouldn't open, so I waited around for someone to come along. It was early and few people were about. I looked over my shoulder and several feet behind me an older lady, in her late fifties, I'd say, was approaching. She waved and I was sure it was to someone else, maybe on the other side of the door. Suddenly, her arm was around my shoulders, her thickly made-up face pressed close to mine, cheek to cheek. To be sure, we were beginning a strange dance. I tried to figure out if I knew her. I didn't. She said:
"He's determined. He's determined to be out there on that football field."
Was she speaking English? I looked around and to the side of us stood Sluggo, her beefy boy, her pride and joy, I guess.
"But, I want you to know his determination is nothing, nothing compared to your determination. What's your name, son?"
At this point, I was so stunned I told her. She began to pray.
"O Lord, it was you who was possessed of the original determination, and it is this spirit of determination we see in Paul. Bless him, Jesus, bless him. Amen."
She leaned ever closer, and impossibly, my sense of dread grew. She kissed me on the cheek, and said, "You're beautiful, you know that? Is it ok for me to tell you that?"
"Sure, anything," I replied, thinking, as long as you let me go.
As quickly as she'd coiled around me, she stepped away and told her son to open the door. I pulled away from them, fast as I could go, and as I zipped away, I heard over my shoulder these words:
"Maybe I'll see you on campus!"
I ran away.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Corpulent soccer mom
It was a gorgeous autumn day today, warm and bright. I had three hours until I taught my evening class; I decided I'd walk downtown, get a large glass of sweet tea somewhere, and just feel groovy. And I did.
Walking back, there's a lot of roadwork going on right now and new curb cuts are being put in in lots of places (an amazing and long-needed addition to certain areas here), so I had to take sometimes circuitous paths to get around busted up sidewalks, new asphalt, old road being dug up.
At one point, to get across the street I had to jaywalk, essentially. I waited until traffic wasn't coming or was adequately distant, then started out. A mini-van coming down the street slowed, the woman waved me on with her wattled arms, but agitatedly. I nodded, went on. She sped up and as she went on I heard her yell out:
"YOU'RE GONNA CAUSE A WRECK, YOU IDIOT!"
I turned around and busted out laughing. What the hell? Just inexplicable. I thought then how funny it'd have been for me to snap, to fly into road-rage, this guy in a wheelchair trailing this banshee in a mini-van, both of us in a froth.
Are you talkin' to me?
Walking back, there's a lot of roadwork going on right now and new curb cuts are being put in in lots of places (an amazing and long-needed addition to certain areas here), so I had to take sometimes circuitous paths to get around busted up sidewalks, new asphalt, old road being dug up.
At one point, to get across the street I had to jaywalk, essentially. I waited until traffic wasn't coming or was adequately distant, then started out. A mini-van coming down the street slowed, the woman waved me on with her wattled arms, but agitatedly. I nodded, went on. She sped up and as she went on I heard her yell out:
"YOU'RE GONNA CAUSE A WRECK, YOU IDIOT!"
I turned around and busted out laughing. What the hell? Just inexplicable. I thought then how funny it'd have been for me to snap, to fly into road-rage, this guy in a wheelchair trailing this banshee in a mini-van, both of us in a froth.
Are you talkin' to me?
One of those days
My mother once asked me if I would ever have any normal friends. By that, she didn't so much refer to the friends I had so much as the oddballs that I have always attracted. I'll catalog some of them, characters all, at some later date, but today had me thinking about the random nuttiness that follows me ever around.
I went over to my apartment with a friend to check on the door, as it's never working correctly, always jamming. Same story today. So we try my key, which straightaway becomes lodged like the sword in the stone. And I am not Arthur. It will not budge.
At the office, they tell me maintenance is on lunch and I'll have to wait. But, no! Who is there? The exterminator guy. Massive, rotund, over-friendly exterminator guy. He offers his bug-killing expertise to my locksmithing problem. Hey, why not? Might as well. So he shambles down to my door, wheezing mightily, and after agreeing, yes, that key ain't coming loose, he goes to his truck and returns with a giant aerosol thermos of roach spray. He sticks the straw small nozzle into the lock and begins hosing it down.
Yes, he's lubing the doorlock with bug spray. Now it's me that will check in but not check out.
He soon concedes defeat. Now you know what not to do when faced with a similar crisis.
Later, I'll tell you about the soccer mom I caused to fly into a rage.
:)
I went over to my apartment with a friend to check on the door, as it's never working correctly, always jamming. Same story today. So we try my key, which straightaway becomes lodged like the sword in the stone. And I am not Arthur. It will not budge.
At the office, they tell me maintenance is on lunch and I'll have to wait. But, no! Who is there? The exterminator guy. Massive, rotund, over-friendly exterminator guy. He offers his bug-killing expertise to my locksmithing problem. Hey, why not? Might as well. So he shambles down to my door, wheezing mightily, and after agreeing, yes, that key ain't coming loose, he goes to his truck and returns with a giant aerosol thermos of roach spray. He sticks the straw small nozzle into the lock and begins hosing it down.
Yes, he's lubing the doorlock with bug spray. Now it's me that will check in but not check out.
He soon concedes defeat. Now you know what not to do when faced with a similar crisis.
Later, I'll tell you about the soccer mom I caused to fly into a rage.
:)
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
5, count 'em
Five times I was stuck by a needle today. I had to get some bloodwork done this morning, as I've just signed up with a new doctor (the amazements of actual health insurance). It's my family's doctor, and before that, my great-grandmother's. That being the case, the nurses there have heard about me for years, without having met me. They've been falling over themselves the two times I've been there. Today, I knew how it'd go.
Sometimes nurses are nervous in dealing with me. It's fault of too much empathy in this case, their thinking going something like, I don't want to hurt him. They aren't going to. I'm no more fragile than you. But some think it just the same. So they're tentative, instead of just doing it with practised ease.
And what happens? They end up digging around in me, getting ever more nervous now, flustered, never finding the vein.
This happened three times today before the nurse, red-faced, decides she can't do it. That I'll have to go a clinic down the street where an elderly lady never misses.
And she didn't. Thirty seconds, one try, pow. While talking about her dog Wiggly.
That's four. The fifth? I get home only to have them call, saying she'd forgot to take a last needed vial. I have to go back the same day, or re-do all the samples. Aargh.
So I do. It reminds me of the time my old doctor's nurse dropped a vial on the floor and I had to go back.
I can't complain too much, really. Not about the first nurse's nerves. It's a natural instinct in some people. I've had people ask friends or family if I can talk. When I'm right there. I always want to say, "No, but I'm working on it!" But I don't. I would feel so bad. It doesn't happen that often.
So call me a pin-cushion today.
Sometimes nurses are nervous in dealing with me. It's fault of too much empathy in this case, their thinking going something like, I don't want to hurt him. They aren't going to. I'm no more fragile than you. But some think it just the same. So they're tentative, instead of just doing it with practised ease.
And what happens? They end up digging around in me, getting ever more nervous now, flustered, never finding the vein.
This happened three times today before the nurse, red-faced, decides she can't do it. That I'll have to go a clinic down the street where an elderly lady never misses.
And she didn't. Thirty seconds, one try, pow. While talking about her dog Wiggly.
That's four. The fifth? I get home only to have them call, saying she'd forgot to take a last needed vial. I have to go back the same day, or re-do all the samples. Aargh.
So I do. It reminds me of the time my old doctor's nurse dropped a vial on the floor and I had to go back.
I can't complain too much, really. Not about the first nurse's nerves. It's a natural instinct in some people. I've had people ask friends or family if I can talk. When I'm right there. I always want to say, "No, but I'm working on it!" But I don't. I would feel so bad. It doesn't happen that often.
So call me a pin-cushion today.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Space Mountain
My second class, God love them, is nuts. Just starkers. I think that's British for crazy. I like it. But I was talking about this motley crue I'm in charge of. Supposedly. I should just post a daily breakdown of the stuff that gets said in class. Context or not, it makes about as much sense. Today:
"Dude, I tried to catch a duck once and they are fast."
"I got kicked out of the National Honor's Society." Why? "I got the vice-president trashed out of her mind. We couldn't sit by each other in class anymore."
"I was the rhythmic one."
"She had some little bo-bo purse."
(Apparently, "bo-bo" is negative adjective. Now you know.)
***
The aforementioned bo-bo purse is in reference to Brooke Hogan, daughter of Terry Hogan. You may know him as Hulk Hogan. The Hulkster. The Hulkamaniac. Evidently, father and daughter were in Chattanooga this weekend, doing what God only knows. One of my students waited on their table ($75 tip). They were later sighted by yet another of my kids at Walgreen's, driving a stretched Escalade.
I will confess a certain pang that Hulk Hogan was prowling about my city and I missed it. Damn it all. I'd be positively morose had it been Ric Flair....
***
Cher and Hulk Hogan within a month. Who's next? Erik Estrada, I'm praying.
***
Time to order more books for my upcoming reading. I still have a few left from the last batch. Who wants one? What do I have to do to put you in a new book?
Preferably mine. ;)
"Dude, I tried to catch a duck once and they are fast."
"I got kicked out of the National Honor's Society." Why? "I got the vice-president trashed out of her mind. We couldn't sit by each other in class anymore."
"I was the rhythmic one."
"She had some little bo-bo purse."
(Apparently, "bo-bo" is negative adjective. Now you know.)
***
The aforementioned bo-bo purse is in reference to Brooke Hogan, daughter of Terry Hogan. You may know him as Hulk Hogan. The Hulkster. The Hulkamaniac. Evidently, father and daughter were in Chattanooga this weekend, doing what God only knows. One of my students waited on their table ($75 tip). They were later sighted by yet another of my kids at Walgreen's, driving a stretched Escalade.
I will confess a certain pang that Hulk Hogan was prowling about my city and I missed it. Damn it all. I'd be positively morose had it been Ric Flair....
***
Cher and Hulk Hogan within a month. Who's next? Erik Estrada, I'm praying.
***
Time to order more books for my upcoming reading. I still have a few left from the last batch. Who wants one? What do I have to do to put you in a new book?
Preferably mine. ;)
I am yet alive
Though moderately busy. But I am sporting a fresh haircut. Think: Grizzly Adams. Before the trim, I mean. Now, the non-giant bear befriending me. O weep, weep.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Throw my ticket in the wind
I was an official grandparent yesterday: at Molly's school, it was Grandparents Day, and a little inexplicably she asked me to attend with her. So there I am, running around with the Geritol set, seeing their classrooms and their cute little presentations. Just too cute. And she was so excited. She'd introduce me to her friends by pointing to me, saying, "Hey, Justin, look." And Justin would look. She's in kindergarden and it's all very "awesome" for her.
She did, however, point out Christina, the girl who is mean to her. I offered to run over Christina's little feet, but Molly just looked at me like I was nuts.
The typical response.
***
I mentioned the other day that one of my classes has discovered this blog, that I've a book, and that I have a reading on campus in a couple of weeks. Two of them, Taylor and Graf, are cooking up something. "We've decided what we're going to do for your reading," Taylor announced yesterday. Considering they were tossing around ideas like doing huge banners on Tuesday, I imagine, knowing them, they've progressed to something infinitely more rock and roll.
An anecdote: Graf is a few minutes tardy one day. He walks in, apologizes, saying he has "a bagpipe situation."
***
I've been showing A Touch of Evil to one of my classes over the past week. Orson Welles as Hank Quinlan, a ruined, corrupt near-corpse of a cop in a Texas border town, and, this is the best part, Charlton Heston as Vargas, a Mexican narcotics agent. Yes, Heston plays a Mexican, which meant wearing a lot of dark make-up. It's such a great movie. So noir, but utterly modern in its camera work. Welles was just a genious. Famously, the movie was taken away from him and re-edited, destroying much of the brilliant unbroken tracking shot's tension. He begged to be given the picture back, writing a 58-page memo on how to rebuild the film to its original status but was never allowed. Four or five years ago it was restored and restructured according to his notes and it's one of my favorite movies. Just classic. It was interesting to see which students got into it and which of them just zoned out.
***
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bagpipe situation that requires my attention.
She did, however, point out Christina, the girl who is mean to her. I offered to run over Christina's little feet, but Molly just looked at me like I was nuts.
The typical response.
***
I mentioned the other day that one of my classes has discovered this blog, that I've a book, and that I have a reading on campus in a couple of weeks. Two of them, Taylor and Graf, are cooking up something. "We've decided what we're going to do for your reading," Taylor announced yesterday. Considering they were tossing around ideas like doing huge banners on Tuesday, I imagine, knowing them, they've progressed to something infinitely more rock and roll.
An anecdote: Graf is a few minutes tardy one day. He walks in, apologizes, saying he has "a bagpipe situation."
***
I've been showing A Touch of Evil to one of my classes over the past week. Orson Welles as Hank Quinlan, a ruined, corrupt near-corpse of a cop in a Texas border town, and, this is the best part, Charlton Heston as Vargas, a Mexican narcotics agent. Yes, Heston plays a Mexican, which meant wearing a lot of dark make-up. It's such a great movie. So noir, but utterly modern in its camera work. Welles was just a genious. Famously, the movie was taken away from him and re-edited, destroying much of the brilliant unbroken tracking shot's tension. He begged to be given the picture back, writing a 58-page memo on how to rebuild the film to its original status but was never allowed. Four or five years ago it was restored and restructured according to his notes and it's one of my favorite movies. Just classic. It was interesting to see which students got into it and which of them just zoned out.
***
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bagpipe situation that requires my attention.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Uh oh
Just got an email from a reporter at the the student newspaper wanting to know if she could talk to me about whether or not UTC is meeting the requirements of the ADA.
Oh, boy.
Oh, boy.
Am reading two fine books right now: Epicenter by Wendy Wisner, who should be on somebody's crush list, well, in addition to mine--wait, did I say that aloud? Impulse management, son. And Lark Apprentice, by fellow New Issues labelmate Louise Mathias. Both are super-dooper, engaging reads.
***
On top of my pc are stacked three copies of my book. One, the very first I ever saw, is on my shelf. Another sits on my coffee table, its cover scuffed. It's weird to feel almost nonchalant about this prized, rare thing. If I stop to look at it, to see my name on the spine, the sensation is surreal.
***
Sleepy.
***
Here is an old poem in honor of Wendy and Louise:
A POEM TO GIRLS
Girls make me sad. When they are women I mope
incredibly, chewing a torn thumbnail.
When I could be pondering why pulsars spin
like a soccer ball flying towards the goal on a line
or a figure skater careening around on frozen water,
I am instead imagining your third birthday
and what was written in sweet icing on the cake.
Always wear a helmet. Come back soon.
You got lucky this time. It hardly matters, I suppose.
Except now in this smugly brisk autumn
it does matter. When I sleep alone and find
I’ve kicked the sheets down the length of me,
it does matter. If nothing else, I am warm
knowing my socks can be lonely
because they are just socks after all and have no life
apart from me. Last year my mother found
one of your socks behind a can of corn
on the shelf. I’ve been trying to devise scenarios
in which the orphaned bobby sock
landed there, made possible by Mike Blank,
a friend given to drawing upon napkins
diagrams of soft leather tackle, weights and pulleys,
gas powered generators, harnesses and helmets—
all meant to swing me high in love’s monkey bars
should we find one kiss too boring, the odd sigh
sad or melancholy. I’m crazy for frustrating myself so,
to love you as I do, to draw you up and say
I’m the bull who brought with him his own china shop.
October 21, 1998
***
On top of my pc are stacked three copies of my book. One, the very first I ever saw, is on my shelf. Another sits on my coffee table, its cover scuffed. It's weird to feel almost nonchalant about this prized, rare thing. If I stop to look at it, to see my name on the spine, the sensation is surreal.
***
Sleepy.
***
Here is an old poem in honor of Wendy and Louise:
A POEM TO GIRLS
Girls make me sad. When they are women I mope
incredibly, chewing a torn thumbnail.
When I could be pondering why pulsars spin
like a soccer ball flying towards the goal on a line
or a figure skater careening around on frozen water,
I am instead imagining your third birthday
and what was written in sweet icing on the cake.
Always wear a helmet. Come back soon.
You got lucky this time. It hardly matters, I suppose.
Except now in this smugly brisk autumn
it does matter. When I sleep alone and find
I’ve kicked the sheets down the length of me,
it does matter. If nothing else, I am warm
knowing my socks can be lonely
because they are just socks after all and have no life
apart from me. Last year my mother found
one of your socks behind a can of corn
on the shelf. I’ve been trying to devise scenarios
in which the orphaned bobby sock
landed there, made possible by Mike Blank,
a friend given to drawing upon napkins
diagrams of soft leather tackle, weights and pulleys,
gas powered generators, harnesses and helmets—
all meant to swing me high in love’s monkey bars
should we find one kiss too boring, the odd sigh
sad or melancholy. I’m crazy for frustrating myself so,
to love you as I do, to draw you up and say
I’m the bull who brought with him his own china shop.
October 21, 1998
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
On Christopher Reeve
It's bad form, really, to speak ill of the dead, especially the recently deceased. So I haven't mentioned the death of Christopher Reeve here. Not that I'd speak ill of him. Not exactly. But, today, over at Slate's poems forum, I noticed a friend there had revisited a discussion from a couple of years ago regarding Reeve. He'd attended a play on Broadway and there in the audience was Reeve, enjoying the play. He posted how much a hero he thought Reeve for basically appearing in public. And I disagreed. At that point, I'd only published one poem with Slate, though a third will appear sometime in the next few months. No one there knew I was disabled and in the course of things I mentioned that biographical tidbit. Here's what I posted over at Slate:
Hi everybody,
Any disagreements Reeve and I might have had were largely over rhetoric. It wasn't so much that I thought he wasn't a hero. He just wan't a hero for going out to see a play, as when Martin saw him. In many ways, he was a hero and made a lasting contribution.
However, Reeve lived in a near obsessive fantasia that revolved around regaining his old life. Which was impossible, in the sense that he would always be changed no matter how much he recovered. Now that he has died, I can only wonder about all the hours spent in physical therapy every day. By some reports, he would begin at 7a.m. Could those hours have been better spent?
I can only say, for myself, the answer is yes. His determination was admirable and more progress was made because of him than would have happened otherwise, but I think I could safely wager that had he lived another twenty or thirty years science would still not have given him the ability to walk again.
I have a better chance, perhaps, than him. My injury was not nearly so severe. The cord was not severed, as his was.
That said, it's something I rarely think about. No one is "confined" to a wheelchair unless he thinks he is. Reeve gave every indication he did.
That isn't peace. I wish he had found it in life. Maybe he has at last.
Paul
***
To read the whole thread:
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=12504556
***
So that's my take, more or less, really. From afar, what he endured bordered on the inhumane and it's hard not to wonder about his ravaged appearance in recent years. The loss of hair. He had no eyebrows, for God's sake. One can only imagine what, if any, medicines/treatments he reached ever after and what effects they had on a body that struggled to breathe, to keep going.
Still, it's an awful end to an icon. The first two Superman movies were some kind of wonderful.
Hi everybody,
Any disagreements Reeve and I might have had were largely over rhetoric. It wasn't so much that I thought he wasn't a hero. He just wan't a hero for going out to see a play, as when Martin saw him. In many ways, he was a hero and made a lasting contribution.
However, Reeve lived in a near obsessive fantasia that revolved around regaining his old life. Which was impossible, in the sense that he would always be changed no matter how much he recovered. Now that he has died, I can only wonder about all the hours spent in physical therapy every day. By some reports, he would begin at 7a.m. Could those hours have been better spent?
I can only say, for myself, the answer is yes. His determination was admirable and more progress was made because of him than would have happened otherwise, but I think I could safely wager that had he lived another twenty or thirty years science would still not have given him the ability to walk again.
I have a better chance, perhaps, than him. My injury was not nearly so severe. The cord was not severed, as his was.
That said, it's something I rarely think about. No one is "confined" to a wheelchair unless he thinks he is. Reeve gave every indication he did.
That isn't peace. I wish he had found it in life. Maybe he has at last.
Paul
***
To read the whole thread:
http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=12504556
***
So that's my take, more or less, really. From afar, what he endured bordered on the inhumane and it's hard not to wonder about his ravaged appearance in recent years. The loss of hair. He had no eyebrows, for God's sake. One can only imagine what, if any, medicines/treatments he reached ever after and what effects they had on a body that struggled to breathe, to keep going.
Still, it's an awful end to an icon. The first two Superman movies were some kind of wonderful.
4 down
and 1 to go.
I just need one more person to join up for my free iPod. Any takers? Going once? Support a favorite poet's digital music habit?
http://www.freeiPods.com/default.aspx?referer=7175032
I just need one more person to join up for my free iPod. Any takers? Going once? Support a favorite poet's digital music habit?
http://www.freeiPods.com/default.aspx?referer=7175032
Kentucky Rain
Well, Tennessee rain, here, but there's no awesome Elvis song called that. It's "Kentucky Rain," and I have this outsized loved for it. Give me the bloated Vegas Elvis everytime. I want a jumpsuit like that. And a velvet Elvis painting. My kingdom for a velvet Elvis painting! My father got me an awful one once, a few years ago, just hideous. It bore more of a resemblance to, well, anyone. And the funny thing is I'm not even an Elvis fan, really. Two or three songs I like. But what am I babbling about? What is mentioned once in my first book and twice in my second? The King. Weird. It's the open head wound talking, I swear it.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Tomorrow is gaining speed on you
So Ryan, my nine year old cousin of whom I often speak, spent the night last night. He discovered Halo, one of the games that came with my computer, and was transported out of the world. Zapping aliens large and small, driving all terrain assault vehicles with machine guns mounted on top -- c'mon, I'm even slobbering on myself. Heh. Kids are wacko. He comes to get me around 11, saying he's heard a noise on the backporch, which, depending on the various descriptions he offered, was either like someone walking back and forth, or a hammering noise. Which, of course, sound exactly alike. So I dispelled the evil by invoking the ancient lore of my ancestors. Which he did not appreciate, stomping off. Harumph, I say.
***
Nice email from Joel Brouwer, who has been teaching my book in his workshop. Which leads me to think of probably the last time I used the word lore. I was sitting in on a non-fiction workshop taught by Wendy Rawlings, his beloved now. We'd been discussing something, I can't even remember what, really, but I'm going to say it had to do with some meteorological phenomenon as it related to a piece we were reading. Someone spoke up with some bit of pertinent science trivia. And I said something like, in mock offense, "Don't you bring your occult lore in here!" Too much sugar, that day. But Wendy got really tickled by it, and kept snickering, and had to stop for a minute, kind of charmed.
So when my book came out, I signed a copy for her which read, "I hope you enjoy this occult lore."
It's too bad, in some ways, that things turned sour there. Ah, Sunday morning nostalgia.
***
But it is everywhere. It's autumn now and nostalgia's season is certainly signaled by the changing, the dying leaves.
I could go on. Other autumns, last year's, which seemed to open up to all possibilities. But I won't.
***
Nice email from Joel Brouwer, who has been teaching my book in his workshop. Which leads me to think of probably the last time I used the word lore. I was sitting in on a non-fiction workshop taught by Wendy Rawlings, his beloved now. We'd been discussing something, I can't even remember what, really, but I'm going to say it had to do with some meteorological phenomenon as it related to a piece we were reading. Someone spoke up with some bit of pertinent science trivia. And I said something like, in mock offense, "Don't you bring your occult lore in here!" Too much sugar, that day. But Wendy got really tickled by it, and kept snickering, and had to stop for a minute, kind of charmed.
So when my book came out, I signed a copy for her which read, "I hope you enjoy this occult lore."
It's too bad, in some ways, that things turned sour there. Ah, Sunday morning nostalgia.
***
But it is everywhere. It's autumn now and nostalgia's season is certainly signaled by the changing, the dying leaves.
I could go on. Other autumns, last year's, which seemed to open up to all possibilities. But I won't.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Milkweed
A letter today from Milkweed, expressing the obvious about their decision on my manuscript when it's a letter. Still, it's a real letter, not a form, which is both good and bad. Good when genuine praise is given, and bad when a little added oomph comes off forced, at least to my ears. "The imagery in this collection is so vivid and well drawn..."-- good. "Often drawing attention to those characters we so frequently overlook."--bad. Bad, in that it seems kind of borrowed from stock critical response. Still, I can't complain as it's obvious real attention was paid to it. I'm grateful Milkweed was interested in the first place.
Friday night. I'm watching baseball. Maybe the debate. Maybe not. Baseball is far more edifying.
Friday night. I'm watching baseball. Maybe the debate. Maybe not. Baseball is far more edifying.
Oh. My. God.
from Salon.com:
Oct. 8, 2004 Was President Bush literally channeling Karl Rove in his first debate with John Kerry? That's the latest rumor flooding the Internet, unleashed last week in the wake of an image caught by a television camera during the Miami debate. The image shows a large solid object between Bush's shoulder blades as he leans over the lectern and faces moderator Jim Lehrer.
The president is not known to wear a back brace, and it's safe to say he wasn't packing. So was the bulge under his well-tailored jacket a hidden receiver, picking up transmissions from someone offstage feeding the president answers through a hidden earpiece? Did the device explain why the normally ramrod-straight president seemed hunched over during much of the debate?
Bloggers are burning up their keyboards with speculation. Check out the president's peculiar behavior during the debate, they say. On several occasions, the president simply stopped speaking for an uncomfortably long time and stared ahead with an odd expression on his face. Was he listening to someone helping him with his response to a question? Even weirder was the president's strange outburst. In a peeved rejoinder to Kerry, he said, "As the politics change, his positions change. And that's not how a commander in chief acts. I, I, uh -- Let me finish -- The intelligence I looked at was the same intelligence my opponent looked at." It must be said that Bush pointed toward Lehrer as he declared "Let me finish." The green warning light was lit, signaling he had 30 seconds to, well, finish.
Hot on the conspiracy trail, I tried to track down the source of the photo. None of the Bush-is-wired bloggers, however, seemed to know where the photo came from. Was it possible the bulge had been Photoshopped onto Bush's back by a lone conspiracy buff? It turns out that all of the video of the debate was recorded and sent out by Fox News, the pool broadcaster for the event. Fox sent feeds from multiple cameras to the other networks, which did their own on-air presentations and editing.
To watch the debate again, I ventured to the Web site of the most sober network I could think of: C-SPAN. And sure enough, at minute 23 on the video of the debate, you can clearly see the bulge between the president's shoulder blades.
Bloggers stoke the conspiracy with the claim that the Bush administration insisted on a condition that no cameras be placed behind the candidates. An official for the Commission on Presidential Debates, which set up the lecterns and microphones on the Miami stage, said the condition was indeed real, the result of negotiations by both campaigns. Yet that didn't stop Fox from setting up cameras behind Bush and Kerry. The official said that "microphones were mounted on lecterns, and the commission put no electronic devices on the president or Senator Kerry." When asked about the bulge on Bush's back, the official said, "I don't know what that was."
So what was it? Jacob McKenna, a spyware expert and the owner of the Spy Store, a high-tech surveillance shop in Spokane, Wash., looked at the Bush image on his computer monitor. "There's certainly something on his back, and it appears to be electronic," he said. McKenna said that, given its shape, the bulge could be the inductor portion of a two-way push-to-talk system. McKenna noted that such a system makes use of a tiny microchip-based earplug radio that is pushed way down into the ear canal, where it is virtually invisible. He also said a weak signal could be scrambled and be undetected by another broadcaster.
Mystery-bulge bloggers argue that the president may have begun using such technology earlier in his term. Because Bush is famously prone to malapropisms and reportedly dyslexic, which could make successful use of a teleprompter problematic, they say the president and his handlers may have turned to a technique often used by television reporters on remote stand-ups. A reporter tapes a story and, while on camera, plays it back into an earpiece, repeating lines just after hearing them, managing to sound spontaneous and error free.
Suggestions that Bush may have using this technique stem from a D-day event in France, when a CNN broadcast appeared to pick up -- and broadcast to surprised viewers -- the sound of another voice seemingly reading Bush his lines, after which Bush repeated them. Danny Schechter, who operates the news site MediaChannel.org, and who has been doing some investigating into the wired-Bush rumors himself, said the Bush campaign has been worried of late about others picking up their radio frequencies -- notably during the Republican Convention on the day of Bush's appearance. "They had a frequency specialist stop me and ask about the frequency of my camera," Schechter said. "The Democrats weren't doing that at their convention."
Repeated calls to the White House and the Bush national campaign office over a period of three days, inquiring about what the president may have been wearing on his back during the debate, and whether he had used an audio device at other events, went unreturned. So far the Kerry campaign is staying clear of this story. When called for a comment, a press officer at the Democratic National Committee claimed on Tuesday that it was "the first time" they'd ever heard of the issue. A spokeswoman at the press office of Kerry headquarters refused to permit me to talk with anyone in the campaign's research office. Several other requests for comment to the Kerry campaign's press office went unanswered.
As for whether we really do have a Milli Vanilli president, the answer at this point has to be, God only knows.
salon.com
Oct. 8, 2004 Was President Bush literally channeling Karl Rove in his first debate with John Kerry? That's the latest rumor flooding the Internet, unleashed last week in the wake of an image caught by a television camera during the Miami debate. The image shows a large solid object between Bush's shoulder blades as he leans over the lectern and faces moderator Jim Lehrer.
The president is not known to wear a back brace, and it's safe to say he wasn't packing. So was the bulge under his well-tailored jacket a hidden receiver, picking up transmissions from someone offstage feeding the president answers through a hidden earpiece? Did the device explain why the normally ramrod-straight president seemed hunched over during much of the debate?
Bloggers are burning up their keyboards with speculation. Check out the president's peculiar behavior during the debate, they say. On several occasions, the president simply stopped speaking for an uncomfortably long time and stared ahead with an odd expression on his face. Was he listening to someone helping him with his response to a question? Even weirder was the president's strange outburst. In a peeved rejoinder to Kerry, he said, "As the politics change, his positions change. And that's not how a commander in chief acts. I, I, uh -- Let me finish -- The intelligence I looked at was the same intelligence my opponent looked at." It must be said that Bush pointed toward Lehrer as he declared "Let me finish." The green warning light was lit, signaling he had 30 seconds to, well, finish.
Hot on the conspiracy trail, I tried to track down the source of the photo. None of the Bush-is-wired bloggers, however, seemed to know where the photo came from. Was it possible the bulge had been Photoshopped onto Bush's back by a lone conspiracy buff? It turns out that all of the video of the debate was recorded and sent out by Fox News, the pool broadcaster for the event. Fox sent feeds from multiple cameras to the other networks, which did their own on-air presentations and editing.
To watch the debate again, I ventured to the Web site of the most sober network I could think of: C-SPAN. And sure enough, at minute 23 on the video of the debate, you can clearly see the bulge between the president's shoulder blades.
Bloggers stoke the conspiracy with the claim that the Bush administration insisted on a condition that no cameras be placed behind the candidates. An official for the Commission on Presidential Debates, which set up the lecterns and microphones on the Miami stage, said the condition was indeed real, the result of negotiations by both campaigns. Yet that didn't stop Fox from setting up cameras behind Bush and Kerry. The official said that "microphones were mounted on lecterns, and the commission put no electronic devices on the president or Senator Kerry." When asked about the bulge on Bush's back, the official said, "I don't know what that was."
So what was it? Jacob McKenna, a spyware expert and the owner of the Spy Store, a high-tech surveillance shop in Spokane, Wash., looked at the Bush image on his computer monitor. "There's certainly something on his back, and it appears to be electronic," he said. McKenna said that, given its shape, the bulge could be the inductor portion of a two-way push-to-talk system. McKenna noted that such a system makes use of a tiny microchip-based earplug radio that is pushed way down into the ear canal, where it is virtually invisible. He also said a weak signal could be scrambled and be undetected by another broadcaster.
Mystery-bulge bloggers argue that the president may have begun using such technology earlier in his term. Because Bush is famously prone to malapropisms and reportedly dyslexic, which could make successful use of a teleprompter problematic, they say the president and his handlers may have turned to a technique often used by television reporters on remote stand-ups. A reporter tapes a story and, while on camera, plays it back into an earpiece, repeating lines just after hearing them, managing to sound spontaneous and error free.
Suggestions that Bush may have using this technique stem from a D-day event in France, when a CNN broadcast appeared to pick up -- and broadcast to surprised viewers -- the sound of another voice seemingly reading Bush his lines, after which Bush repeated them. Danny Schechter, who operates the news site MediaChannel.org, and who has been doing some investigating into the wired-Bush rumors himself, said the Bush campaign has been worried of late about others picking up their radio frequencies -- notably during the Republican Convention on the day of Bush's appearance. "They had a frequency specialist stop me and ask about the frequency of my camera," Schechter said. "The Democrats weren't doing that at their convention."
Repeated calls to the White House and the Bush national campaign office over a period of three days, inquiring about what the president may have been wearing on his back during the debate, and whether he had used an audio device at other events, went unreturned. So far the Kerry campaign is staying clear of this story. When called for a comment, a press officer at the Democratic National Committee claimed on Tuesday that it was "the first time" they'd ever heard of the issue. A spokeswoman at the press office of Kerry headquarters refused to permit me to talk with anyone in the campaign's research office. Several other requests for comment to the Kerry campaign's press office went unanswered.
As for whether we really do have a Milli Vanilli president, the answer at this point has to be, God only knows.
salon.com
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Uh oh
I set up a blog the other day for the classes I'm teaching, just a goofy straight-forward thing where I can post assignments, links, reminders, etc., for my students, without having to go through the hassle of the Blackboard program UTC uses. Well, I didn't think until afterwards that it'd provide a direct link straight to this blog. Woops. Sure enough, I walk into my second class today and they're all a-twitter. So: hi guys! Amber, Brian, Kim, Antonio, Haylee, Ben, Graf, and all the rest of you knuckleheads, in 277 or 279.
It was too funny: they're commenting on various posts, asking about my mom, who's feeling better, my book, my Foghorn Leghorn sestina, and who knows what else.
I'm both amused, charmed, and chagrinned. Doh.
It was too funny: they're commenting on various posts, asking about my mom, who's feeling better, my book, my Foghorn Leghorn sestina, and who knows what else.
I'm both amused, charmed, and chagrinned. Doh.
Blue Mesa
Blue Mesa Review took two poems today, "Erasure" and "On Being Asked Who the You is in My Poems." Very excited about newer work being accepted. And I've never been published in New Mexico. Bonus points. Woohoo.
I'm feeling sleepy. Hence this ridiculous entry. Forgive me, forgive me.
I'm feeling sleepy. Hence this ridiculous entry. Forgive me, forgive me.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Letter to the editor
Sent today to the Chattanooga Times & Free Press:
Vice President Dick Cheney's performance in last night's debate was remarkable but for the wrong reasons. It has long been obvious that Cheney trades upon fear better than anyone; indeed, in his hands this has been raised to the level of art. But to hear him say he had never suggested a link between Iraq and 9/11 was astounding. Barely a public breath has passed from this man's mouth in the last three years that did not, in fact, loudly proclaim such a connection. That he denied this in last night's debate is breathtaking in its gall and cynicism. It is corrosive to that which is best about America and its citizens deserve leaders who understand and affirm basic truth. Dick Cheney is not one of those leaders.
Paul Guest
Vice President Dick Cheney's performance in last night's debate was remarkable but for the wrong reasons. It has long been obvious that Cheney trades upon fear better than anyone; indeed, in his hands this has been raised to the level of art. But to hear him say he had never suggested a link between Iraq and 9/11 was astounding. Barely a public breath has passed from this man's mouth in the last three years that did not, in fact, loudly proclaim such a connection. That he denied this in last night's debate is breathtaking in its gall and cynicism. It is corrosive to that which is best about America and its citizens deserve leaders who understand and affirm basic truth. Dick Cheney is not one of those leaders.
Paul Guest
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Random
- I wrote a probably too harsh reply to someone from UTC, one of the parties once involved in this whole imbroglio. Their reply to my recent e-mail: "I was told you had moved into Lockmiller in August." No, you guys washed your hands of me in August. There is a difference.
- Nice image from Mr. Stipe: "your drop like an anchor eyes."
- I like doing these bullet things.
- I missed out on Victoria's brief discussion of online journals, but here's my quick take. I prefer a mix of print and online for my poems. I've published poems in places like Slate, Diagram, Three Candles, Samsara Quarterly, In Posse Review and maybe one or two others. These have brought me more readers than probably all of my print publications. I edit my own online journal, Mot Juste, which has received since April somewhere around 16,000 hits. That kind of math is persuasive.
- You should drop by MJ to read the first issue, a .pdf file, which features new poems by Bob Hicok, Bruce Smith, Simone Muenche, Elaine Sexton, Eliot Khalil Wilson and others. Issue #2 is rapidly coming together. Send us poems at motpoems@aol.com. Read the issue at http://www.motjustepoetry.com.
- Holding off on sending poems for the next week or so. Amy Beeder from Blue Mesa Review solicitted some work last week and promised a quick turnaround.
- Still liking the bullets.
- Talking to Katey about her designing a new, rockstar home page for me. Dare I?
A Tennessee goth
Listening to R.E.M.'s new album, Around the Sun, just out today. Call me square, I still love them. I'd listened to the streaming version of it and had been disappointed, though it should have been obvious that it wasn't the best presentation. I'm really enjoying it. Since Bill Berry left, they've been too fussy with the studio production. Take Logic Pro away and put the effing Rickenbacker in Peter Buck's hands and turn it up to 11 and we're set. Still, they're great.
***
Argh. Can I say, argh? I haven't touched here upon the moderately long-running soap era of which I've been part since taking this job at UTC. It's old news so I'll give the super ultra-condensed version: I'd looked for a nice apartment near campus, found one, expressed some concerns for some modifications needed, to which all parties involved nodded in happy agreement. Five days before I was to move in, I dropped by to see what was up, as no one would ever return my phone calls. Well, nothing was up. Six weeks had passed and they'd done nothing. After enlisting the Dean on my behalf, it turns out a few low-level flunkies had been kicking me around all summer without ever doing anything, or talking to anyone higher-up who could actually make these decisions.
The end result is that, in October, I still have nowhere to live. Luckily, I have family in the area and have been commuting. And the plan is that I'll be moving into a dormitory. Yay. Yes, it's an apartment and it's ok, though inaccessible (a whole other tangle), but still, I'll be living around some of my students, which just bugs me.
And the most vexing thing is that I need to hire a couple of people to help with basic daily stuff, which is always hard to do, and now, in the middle of a semester when people already have schedules and jobs, is made that much harder, thanks to institutional ineptitude.
So I'm feeling discouraged today. This weekend I sent out an email to the faculty/staff listserv about it, where I'm essentially filed with COUCH FOR SALE and UT TICKETS NEEDED.
So, I have a couch to sell. And a conch. But you can't hear the sea at all.
***
Argh. Can I say, argh? I haven't touched here upon the moderately long-running soap era of which I've been part since taking this job at UTC. It's old news so I'll give the super ultra-condensed version: I'd looked for a nice apartment near campus, found one, expressed some concerns for some modifications needed, to which all parties involved nodded in happy agreement. Five days before I was to move in, I dropped by to see what was up, as no one would ever return my phone calls. Well, nothing was up. Six weeks had passed and they'd done nothing. After enlisting the Dean on my behalf, it turns out a few low-level flunkies had been kicking me around all summer without ever doing anything, or talking to anyone higher-up who could actually make these decisions.
The end result is that, in October, I still have nowhere to live. Luckily, I have family in the area and have been commuting. And the plan is that I'll be moving into a dormitory. Yay. Yes, it's an apartment and it's ok, though inaccessible (a whole other tangle), but still, I'll be living around some of my students, which just bugs me.
And the most vexing thing is that I need to hire a couple of people to help with basic daily stuff, which is always hard to do, and now, in the middle of a semester when people already have schedules and jobs, is made that much harder, thanks to institutional ineptitude.
So I'm feeling discouraged today. This weekend I sent out an email to the faculty/staff listserv about it, where I'm essentially filed with COUCH FOR SALE and UT TICKETS NEEDED.
So, I have a couch to sell. And a conch. But you can't hear the sea at all.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Today
My mom had surgery today, a fact she'd kept secret until today. She's private, in her way, especially when it comes to what she calls "female problems." This being one of those, though not an especially serious or invasive procedure. She's sore but doing ok, better than I'd have guessed, but still, it's cause for worry. I was on campus most of the day, meeting with a few straggling students, and then workshop tonight, which was good fun. But that worry was present.
***
I instructed one girl, reading her poem in her standard hyper-speed voice, to read as if we were "all riding on the short bus." Much laughter. I'll say just about anything. My eventual downfall.
***
I instructed one girl, reading her poem in her standard hyper-speed voice, to read as if we were "all riding on the short bus." Much laughter. I'll say just about anything. My eventual downfall.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Stop by
Wendy Wisner's brand-new blog at:
http://wendywisner.blogspot.com
And welcome her! She's a great poet, sweet girl, all around A-OK.
http://wendywisner.blogspot.com
And welcome her! She's a great poet, sweet girl, all around A-OK.
Ringo
Bittersweet story on Sunday Morning this, umm, morning about a book Ringo Starr has put together. Apparently, he loves receiving postcards and so John, Paul, and George always sent them while travelling. Japan, India, Hollywood, et cetera. There was a trunk filled with them. Some are covered in doodles, drawings, short notes, fourty-year old jokes ("Hiya, Toots!") that he doesn't even remember. The one that got me, though, from John shortly after the split, reads, "How could it have come to this?"
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Blowin' in the Wind
Literally.
Wednesday afternoon I went to have copies made of my manuscript and do other assorted errands, the bank, lunch, etc. A nice, low key day. The next morning, before heading off to class, I went to get the copies out of my backpack so I could mail them. Except the bag is missing. Vanished. Poof. No copies. Which was annoying. I knew I could print them out again in the department but I was out twenty bucks now. Fast forward to today. I walk down to the theater to catch Hero (pretty good) and what do I see blowing around? A sheet of paper. My poem "Needless Invocation." Well, here are the missing copies. Or here they were. Scattered over several blocks I found maybe 20-30 sheets, in parking lots, against fences, under a car's tire. I had four copies made, which would have been right at 300 pages total. So who knows where the rest got off to? I can't decide why I felt a little sad about seeing them blow around like the wrapper of a Whopper. Evidently, the girl had done a poor job of sticking the copies in the backpack that hangs from the back of my chair and they spilled out.
***
Kelli Agodon often does gratitude journals on her blog, which I think is healthy, and leads me into my last word on jealousy.
I wrote about someone's jealousy of me but didn't touch upon whether or when I feel jealousy. Sure, I feel the occasional flicker, usually when Eliot's written some corker of a new poem, but I can honestly say I've never truly felt a negative amount of envy. And, sure, that might be easy for me to say when my book was accepted the first time I sent it out, when I've had a lot of success in publishing my poems.
And that's the thing: I've been more successful than I ever dreamed I might be. I was 27, nearly 28, when Herb Scott called me to say they wanted my book. I can't imagine begrudging someone else some bit of good fortune when I'm living this blessed life.
That summer morning when Eliot called to tell me he'd just won the Cleveland State Press prize was far more meaningul, exciting than the day I got my call. We all went out that night and it was just great.
That I'm able to write poems that please me, sometimes, and that others seemingly want to read, that's not a bad life at all.
I'm grateful for it and for you all.
Wednesday afternoon I went to have copies made of my manuscript and do other assorted errands, the bank, lunch, etc. A nice, low key day. The next morning, before heading off to class, I went to get the copies out of my backpack so I could mail them. Except the bag is missing. Vanished. Poof. No copies. Which was annoying. I knew I could print them out again in the department but I was out twenty bucks now. Fast forward to today. I walk down to the theater to catch Hero (pretty good) and what do I see blowing around? A sheet of paper. My poem "Needless Invocation." Well, here are the missing copies. Or here they were. Scattered over several blocks I found maybe 20-30 sheets, in parking lots, against fences, under a car's tire. I had four copies made, which would have been right at 300 pages total. So who knows where the rest got off to? I can't decide why I felt a little sad about seeing them blow around like the wrapper of a Whopper. Evidently, the girl had done a poor job of sticking the copies in the backpack that hangs from the back of my chair and they spilled out.
***
Kelli Agodon often does gratitude journals on her blog, which I think is healthy, and leads me into my last word on jealousy.
I wrote about someone's jealousy of me but didn't touch upon whether or when I feel jealousy. Sure, I feel the occasional flicker, usually when Eliot's written some corker of a new poem, but I can honestly say I've never truly felt a negative amount of envy. And, sure, that might be easy for me to say when my book was accepted the first time I sent it out, when I've had a lot of success in publishing my poems.
And that's the thing: I've been more successful than I ever dreamed I might be. I was 27, nearly 28, when Herb Scott called me to say they wanted my book. I can't imagine begrudging someone else some bit of good fortune when I'm living this blessed life.
That summer morning when Eliot called to tell me he'd just won the Cleveland State Press prize was far more meaningul, exciting than the day I got my call. We all went out that night and it was just great.
That I'm able to write poems that please me, sometimes, and that others seemingly want to read, that's not a bad life at all.
I'm grateful for it and for you all.
Friday, October 01, 2004
On jealousy
So far in these far-flung conversations we've been having, we've mostly centered upon envy generated between peers who aren't necessarily our neighbors, who are poets we read about but don't always know. I'm going to turn the way-back machine all the way back to grad. school. What better breeding ground for ugliness, right? Well, not always. At SIU, the environment was healthy, supportive, and generally a good place to be. My last year there, my third, I took one last workshop, mostly to hang out with a friend who had just started her MFA there. So my expectations for the class were pretty low-key. And the workshop moved along for, let's say, the first two months without incident. However, one of the poets began turning in a series of poems in which a characted named Paul began dying various increasingly bizarre deaths. The first one was something I noticed, of course, something that raised an eyebrow, but not something I gave much more thought to. A few more followed in the weeks after that and with them that poet's critiques on my poems began to grow more and more personal in nature, nearly seething. The last night I ever attended that workshop his poem ended with the wack-o image of Paul popping a zit, getting brain fever, and falling over dead. In concert with that, he launched into the most blatant of his broadsides. I still remember the line that set him off:
Here comes the lapidary lank of summer
The alliteration drove him mad because no one was criticizing me for using it when it seemed every other time someone else used it it was criticized. Of course, there was no injunction against alliteration. He couldn't seem to grasp there were good and bad uses of it, of any poetic device, and that it was all in execution. Which is not to say the above line is particularly great. From there on, he began to rant about how "Paul is allowed to get away with things in his poems" that no else could and that there was a "double standard." He probably went on for five minutes while the workshop tried to steer him back towards talking about the poem. He fell quiet for a moment, then launched right back into his screed. Finally, I said, "Do you have some problem with the poem or is your problem with me?" He didn't say anything at first, then, unbelievably, began to start up again. I don't get angry easily. At all. Those of you who know me well know what I'm like. But I couldn't sit there anymore so I said, "Look, you've made your point. Very well. Why don't you shut your mouth." All the air rushed out of the room and we took a hasty break. I left and never went back to that workshop.
If only that were the end of the story. The next couple of weeks he went around telling people that I was a "tyrant" in workshop and that I'd stolen his lunch money and told a lot of jokes about his mama. Well, I'm kidding about the lunch money and the mama jokes. I didn't say anything in return. I didn't want to be any more involved in drama. Shortly thereafter, a friend had to talk this poet about some matter unrelated to all that. I can't recall what. He was agitated, saying he couldn't talk, he had to walk to X., the same place my friend was going. So he walked with him and it's here that the story turns truly strange.
All of a sudden, he spins around to face my friend, jabbing his finger in his face, his voice high.
"I want you to know that I pray every night for Paul to die."
My friend was taken aback.
"He will never be a poet, he is nothing, he is a crap-a-zoid in a metal container."
Italics are obviously mine. He stormed off. The tale of woe continues on from here, devolving into more absurdity: the department wanting absolutely nothing to do with it or about it, except pretend it didn't happen; the police showing up at my door after my neigbor, who I'd idly mentioned it to in a would you get a load of this sense, called, concerned; the department, only then, looking into it, scheduling a meeting with a University lawyer. The solution? We had to sign, in essence, a gag order, that we wouldn't talk about it to anyone or talk to each other. Which was ok by me and I held to that agreement. But he didn't, as people, who knew him, began to shun me, and those who didn't would ask me in the halls what was happening. I told them I couldn't talk about it.
All this helped ruin my last year of grad. school. It does not really contribute much constructive to this discussion except to say, jealousy between poets? I got that covered right here.
Heh.
What a nutty episode, and a touch disturbing. A crap-a-zoid in a metal container. An unwell mind, I suppose.
Here comes the lapidary lank of summer
The alliteration drove him mad because no one was criticizing me for using it when it seemed every other time someone else used it it was criticized. Of course, there was no injunction against alliteration. He couldn't seem to grasp there were good and bad uses of it, of any poetic device, and that it was all in execution. Which is not to say the above line is particularly great. From there on, he began to rant about how "Paul is allowed to get away with things in his poems" that no else could and that there was a "double standard." He probably went on for five minutes while the workshop tried to steer him back towards talking about the poem. He fell quiet for a moment, then launched right back into his screed. Finally, I said, "Do you have some problem with the poem or is your problem with me?" He didn't say anything at first, then, unbelievably, began to start up again. I don't get angry easily. At all. Those of you who know me well know what I'm like. But I couldn't sit there anymore so I said, "Look, you've made your point. Very well. Why don't you shut your mouth." All the air rushed out of the room and we took a hasty break. I left and never went back to that workshop.
If only that were the end of the story. The next couple of weeks he went around telling people that I was a "tyrant" in workshop and that I'd stolen his lunch money and told a lot of jokes about his mama. Well, I'm kidding about the lunch money and the mama jokes. I didn't say anything in return. I didn't want to be any more involved in drama. Shortly thereafter, a friend had to talk this poet about some matter unrelated to all that. I can't recall what. He was agitated, saying he couldn't talk, he had to walk to X., the same place my friend was going. So he walked with him and it's here that the story turns truly strange.
All of a sudden, he spins around to face my friend, jabbing his finger in his face, his voice high.
"I want you to know that I pray every night for Paul to die."
My friend was taken aback.
"He will never be a poet, he is nothing, he is a crap-a-zoid in a metal container."
Italics are obviously mine. He stormed off. The tale of woe continues on from here, devolving into more absurdity: the department wanting absolutely nothing to do with it or about it, except pretend it didn't happen; the police showing up at my door after my neigbor, who I'd idly mentioned it to in a would you get a load of this sense, called, concerned; the department, only then, looking into it, scheduling a meeting with a University lawyer. The solution? We had to sign, in essence, a gag order, that we wouldn't talk about it to anyone or talk to each other. Which was ok by me and I held to that agreement. But he didn't, as people, who knew him, began to shun me, and those who didn't would ask me in the halls what was happening. I told them I couldn't talk about it.
All this helped ruin my last year of grad. school. It does not really contribute much constructive to this discussion except to say, jealousy between poets? I got that covered right here.
Heh.
What a nutty episode, and a touch disturbing. A crap-a-zoid in a metal container. An unwell mind, I suppose.
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