Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Hot
Packing today, though I'm only traveling 90 minutes or so down the interstate, so it's no ordeal. Excited. If you see me, say hello.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Let's go to the beach
Phew: I couldn't find anywhere confirmation of my reservations at the Hilton. Not on this computer and not on the old one. Did I hallucinate making them, I thought. But, no, no, I didn't, because I surely didn't hallucinate the bounced check I made after I forgot to account for their already charging for the first night. That kind of sting you don't forget. So I called and all was well, like I knew it had to be.
***
So Scorsese won, finally, an Oscar for The Departed after two straight films of begging for one. I really like The Departed, bought it on dvd, in fact, but it strikes me as minor Scorsese, with moments of his trademark whiplash kineticism but it's never quite Goodfellas.
Still, it's not a bad choice and long overdue.
***
So Scorsese won, finally, an Oscar for The Departed after two straight films of begging for one. I really like The Departed, bought it on dvd, in fact, but it strikes me as minor Scorsese, with moments of his trademark whiplash kineticism but it's never quite Goodfellas.
Still, it's not a bad choice and long overdue.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Chump
All the planning for AWP is in full swing: the invites are streaming in, the meet-ups for drinks, and so on. I haven't been since Vancouver, two years, and I'm starting to get excited. With recent frenzies and heartbreaks, I haven't had much capacity for enthusiasm. But I'm coming out of that now, thankfully.
***
The coming of spring helps. Yesterday it was 70 here, gorgeous, and it's funny how quickly you become adjusted: today it'll be 60 and I'm already catching myself grousing a bit about those 10 degrees.
***
Is anyone planning on hitting this place? If you're in Atlanta, you have to. I'm not sure why that is, but you do.
***
The coming of spring helps. Yesterday it was 70 here, gorgeous, and it's funny how quickly you become adjusted: today it'll be 60 and I'm already catching myself grousing a bit about those 10 degrees.
***
Is anyone planning on hitting this place? If you're in Atlanta, you have to. I'm not sure why that is, but you do.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Buy
Just received the descriptive copy for Notes for My Body Double. This is for the press catalog, and also bookstore buyers and book reviewers. It needs a couple of revisions, but here it is:
Winner of the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry
Notes for My Body Double
By Paul Guest
Who would guess that Godzilla, Goofy, the Invisible Man, Elvis, Donald Duck, Ted Williams, and the Three Stooges might have something to say about the love and loss that shape the way we see the world? And yet these are the pop-culture coordinates that chart the emotional life brilliantly mapped out in Paul Guest’s third book of poems. Winner of the Prairie Schooner Prize in Poetry, this collection plumbs the depths of nature and culture (how, for instance, “gar” in Old English means “spear,” and an octopus can lose a limb during mating) to give form to the darkness and the light that make us human.
In poetry whose tone is largely one of lament tempered by a wry and intelligent humor, Paul Guest does what a poet does best: he gives us the moments of his life refashioned to reflect the larger arc and meaning of our own--of life, that is, writ large.
Paul Guest is the author of Exit Interview and The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World, winner of the 2002 New Issues Poetry Prize. Coeditor of Mot Juste and contributing editor for Words on Walls, Guest has taught poetry and writing at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and the University of Alabama since 2002.
“The primary tone of this book is lament, but it’s tempered with large doses of pointed humor. Notes for My Body Double resists every attempt to romanticize misery--the author’s and anyone else’s. An elemental longing pervades these poems which reward multiple readings.”—Peggy Shumaker, author of Blaze
“Notes for My Body Double has the utmost integrity: all its parts interconnect and clearly relate to an overarching theme. The poet underscores this by arranging the poems in a continuous rush forcing the reader into the skin of the one whose future has altered in an instant. Whatever redemption the speaker experiences arrives primarily through love of language and imagination (‘In praise of the fat moon, in praise of my howl’). This relentless collection is not easy to read, but its rewards are manifold.”—Carole Simmons Oles, author of Waking Stone: Inventions on the Life of Harriet Hosmer
Winner of the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry
Notes for My Body Double
By Paul Guest
Who would guess that Godzilla, Goofy, the Invisible Man, Elvis, Donald Duck, Ted Williams, and the Three Stooges might have something to say about the love and loss that shape the way we see the world? And yet these are the pop-culture coordinates that chart the emotional life brilliantly mapped out in Paul Guest’s third book of poems. Winner of the Prairie Schooner Prize in Poetry, this collection plumbs the depths of nature and culture (how, for instance, “gar” in Old English means “spear,” and an octopus can lose a limb during mating) to give form to the darkness and the light that make us human.
In poetry whose tone is largely one of lament tempered by a wry and intelligent humor, Paul Guest does what a poet does best: he gives us the moments of his life refashioned to reflect the larger arc and meaning of our own--of life, that is, writ large.
Paul Guest is the author of Exit Interview and The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World, winner of the 2002 New Issues Poetry Prize. Coeditor of Mot Juste and contributing editor for Words on Walls, Guest has taught poetry and writing at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and the University of Alabama since 2002.
“The primary tone of this book is lament, but it’s tempered with large doses of pointed humor. Notes for My Body Double resists every attempt to romanticize misery--the author’s and anyone else’s. An elemental longing pervades these poems which reward multiple readings.”—Peggy Shumaker, author of Blaze
“Notes for My Body Double has the utmost integrity: all its parts interconnect and clearly relate to an overarching theme. The poet underscores this by arranging the poems in a continuous rush forcing the reader into the skin of the one whose future has altered in an instant. Whatever redemption the speaker experiences arrives primarily through love of language and imagination (‘In praise of the fat moon, in praise of my howl’). This relentless collection is not easy to read, but its rewards are manifold.”—Carole Simmons Oles, author of Waking Stone: Inventions on the Life of Harriet Hosmer
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Flea
MY LIFE AMONG
I’m beginning to dream again of my life among
the ornamental, the vaguely functional,
the doorstops and paperweights, my tenure
in the legion of lawn gnomes, my brotherhood
with novelty decanters, my solidarity
with the generally useless, the inscrutably devised,
the deformed idea, the Elvis clock,
the flea market phantasm, the broken
stapler clicking toothlessly, the pen caddy unpenned,
I am walking towards nowhere,
I am listening to the station
broadcasting the weather,
I am forgetting the weather,
I am shutting my vinyl coat in the car door,
I am leaving it there in the door
like a strange maroon pelt,
I’m dreaming of all the use I could have been
but was not, the clock repairman
lost in the Swiss coils of time,
eyes ruined by the hours
and the hours, the antiquated milkman
leaving frost rimed bottles
on the doorstep of a 1950’s educational film,
that burred boy at the door
terrified by the split atom,
by Sputnik, by his mother’s zombie absolution,
that was not me, no, not so
specific as that, not this morning
which is not the same
morning in my dream, strange
to think now there are two
of them, one in which my name is Paul Guest
and one in which I cannot read
the tag pressed to my chest
or the name on my birth
certificate, nothing in this morning
speaks any language
I know, maybe I have fallen into the mind’s endless
Russia, maybe this dream
has piled against my mind
like snow and the cold
radiates everywhere,
through the windows and the door
it comes like a battering
ram, announcing itself with splinters,
but no dream ever lasts,
not even the terrifying ones,
the ones from which all floors have fled
and everything is gravity
and velocity and at the dream’s end is death.
I’m beginning to dream again of my life among
the ornamental, the vaguely functional,
the doorstops and paperweights, my tenure
in the legion of lawn gnomes, my brotherhood
with novelty decanters, my solidarity
with the generally useless, the inscrutably devised,
the deformed idea, the Elvis clock,
the flea market phantasm, the broken
stapler clicking toothlessly, the pen caddy unpenned,
I am walking towards nowhere,
I am listening to the station
broadcasting the weather,
I am forgetting the weather,
I am shutting my vinyl coat in the car door,
I am leaving it there in the door
like a strange maroon pelt,
I’m dreaming of all the use I could have been
but was not, the clock repairman
lost in the Swiss coils of time,
eyes ruined by the hours
and the hours, the antiquated milkman
leaving frost rimed bottles
on the doorstep of a 1950’s educational film,
that burred boy at the door
terrified by the split atom,
by Sputnik, by his mother’s zombie absolution,
that was not me, no, not so
specific as that, not this morning
which is not the same
morning in my dream, strange
to think now there are two
of them, one in which my name is Paul Guest
and one in which I cannot read
the tag pressed to my chest
or the name on my birth
certificate, nothing in this morning
speaks any language
I know, maybe I have fallen into the mind’s endless
Russia, maybe this dream
has piled against my mind
like snow and the cold
radiates everywhere,
through the windows and the door
it comes like a battering
ram, announcing itself with splinters,
but no dream ever lasts,
not even the terrifying ones,
the ones from which all floors have fled
and everything is gravity
and velocity and at the dream’s end is death.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Dim
MY ARMS
My arms are mostly cosmetic. If I say this
to a stranger, often he will wince,
he’ll look like he wants to hide
inside his eyes, be made to vanish
from that day. I shouldn’t say it,
shouldn’t laugh, should be tired twenty-one
years into the telling of what
is a poor joke, made of pain,
nerves snuffed like wicks. Back
then, I was a boy. No secret
that I fell through that
summer like a star. And here I am
anticipating spring, my ears
slave to birdsong after a long
winter. I look to the clouds
and think how once I prayed
my arms might serve me
again, roll toothpaste from the tube,
dump rice into boiling water,
swat dead the mosquito
drilling its derrick of a face
through my skin. That sum of symmetry,
left and right, one and one,
it’s not a math I know
much of. Not anymore
though there are days I want
to lament the broken
glass or put my fist
through the cheap door
or throttle the blue sky’s long, silent
throat. There are nights
full of ache, full of
nothing nimble. No music
but smashed guitars
would suffice. How many clasps did I try
with my teeth and at this
fail until she put
her hands to my raw
work? Untrue to say I lost count
of what I never wanted
to keep. Untrue to say that when we loved
and for me she put
my hands to her hips
to hold her body there above mine
that I loved such need,
that I did not hate us both.
My arms are mostly cosmetic. If I say this
to a stranger, often he will wince,
he’ll look like he wants to hide
inside his eyes, be made to vanish
from that day. I shouldn’t say it,
shouldn’t laugh, should be tired twenty-one
years into the telling of what
is a poor joke, made of pain,
nerves snuffed like wicks. Back
then, I was a boy. No secret
that I fell through that
summer like a star. And here I am
anticipating spring, my ears
slave to birdsong after a long
winter. I look to the clouds
and think how once I prayed
my arms might serve me
again, roll toothpaste from the tube,
dump rice into boiling water,
swat dead the mosquito
drilling its derrick of a face
through my skin. That sum of symmetry,
left and right, one and one,
it’s not a math I know
much of. Not anymore
though there are days I want
to lament the broken
glass or put my fist
through the cheap door
or throttle the blue sky’s long, silent
throat. There are nights
full of ache, full of
nothing nimble. No music
but smashed guitars
would suffice. How many clasps did I try
with my teeth and at this
fail until she put
her hands to my raw
work? Untrue to say I lost count
of what I never wanted
to keep. Untrue to say that when we loved
and for me she put
my hands to her hips
to hold her body there above mine
that I loved such need,
that I did not hate us both.
Monday round-up
Liz Phair, Somebody's Miracle: terrific guitar pop rock.
Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby: stellar.
The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema: ditto.
Ghost Rider: not so much.
Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby: stellar.
The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema: ditto.
Ghost Rider: not so much.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Heart
BELATED VALENTINE
Days late this word and this word and all the ones
I think to make a part of these lines
and in thinking of apology I’m thumbing
through my fake dictionary,
the one in my brain, whose pages crisply turn
in the first breeze of spring,
this season that is not here yet,
not really, but there you go
in short sleeves,
your skin a dare to the world
and to me,
you have always been a dare,
like kissing butane
or shaving
with a chainsaw
or voting Republican.
So I am thinking of the many exquisite dangers
present in this thing
we have made,
this world, this life,
and everything
you have heard is true,
I can’t get next to you,
I’m no Al Green,
not even close,
not even falling like a dream into Memphis,
your city on a river,
not even knifing
down through clouds
to be hustled
through your unremarkable airport
could I be near you
there in that city
in which you toil,
where there is no better word
for what your days
comprise, trust me,
all afternoon I fossicked for some verb
in which
the honey of consolation abides
but I found nothing better.
So that is one
failure I give you,
to say nothing
of this one,
which makes two.
I could count higher
like a trained child
spooling numbers from her mouth like white ribbon.
I have all my fingers.
All my toes.
Maybe graph paper,
an abacus,
a calculator powered by the sun.
In the moon’s
splintered light
I could count
each mistake and by dawn be easily done.
This word and this word
say nothing,
they march across
the page
serving no purpose
but somewhere in all the ones I carry in my head
like stones,
like flowers,
there is the right one
and when I find it
I will not wait, I will give it to you for always.
Days late this word and this word and all the ones
I think to make a part of these lines
and in thinking of apology I’m thumbing
through my fake dictionary,
the one in my brain, whose pages crisply turn
in the first breeze of spring,
this season that is not here yet,
not really, but there you go
in short sleeves,
your skin a dare to the world
and to me,
you have always been a dare,
like kissing butane
or shaving
with a chainsaw
or voting Republican.
So I am thinking of the many exquisite dangers
present in this thing
we have made,
this world, this life,
and everything
you have heard is true,
I can’t get next to you,
I’m no Al Green,
not even close,
not even falling like a dream into Memphis,
your city on a river,
not even knifing
down through clouds
to be hustled
through your unremarkable airport
could I be near you
there in that city
in which you toil,
where there is no better word
for what your days
comprise, trust me,
all afternoon I fossicked for some verb
in which
the honey of consolation abides
but I found nothing better.
So that is one
failure I give you,
to say nothing
of this one,
which makes two.
I could count higher
like a trained child
spooling numbers from her mouth like white ribbon.
I have all my fingers.
All my toes.
Maybe graph paper,
an abacus,
a calculator powered by the sun.
In the moon’s
splintered light
I could count
each mistake and by dawn be easily done.
This word and this word
say nothing,
they march across
the page
serving no purpose
but somewhere in all the ones I carry in my head
like stones,
like flowers,
there is the right one
and when I find it
I will not wait, I will give it to you for always.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Birth
Born Magazine is celebrating its 10th anniversary. If you aren't aware of it, Born pairs writers with Flash artists to create a multimedia piece. They've selected some of their favorites from the past and one is my pal Eliot's "Designing a Bird from Memory in Jack's Skin Kitchen."
It's a great poem and a great piece. I did two pieces with them but neither turned out quite so well: in one case, the artist didn't have time, and in the other, well, it's kind of cool but the mechanism made the poem too difficult to read.
Also, check out Sophia Kartsonis' "About the Other Animals."
And this classic, "Tokyo, My Love."
For the sake of completeness, here are mine: "Apogean" and "Popular Romance."
It's a great poem and a great piece. I did two pieces with them but neither turned out quite so well: in one case, the artist didn't have time, and in the other, well, it's kind of cool but the mechanism made the poem too difficult to read.
Also, check out Sophia Kartsonis' "About the Other Animals."
And this classic, "Tokyo, My Love."
For the sake of completeness, here are mine: "Apogean" and "Popular Romance."
Thursday, February 15, 2007
This love is killing me
You get knocked down, you get back up, right?
That's life, indeed, John. I'll buy you a drink in Atlanta.
***
To that end, I spent some time tonight assembling poems for my third manuscript. The last few months have been so hectic I haven't been thinking much about the poems in the context of a book length manuscript.
But, lo and behold, they come out to 50 pages.
It's called One More Theory About Happiness.
Maybe I'll get lucky.
That's life, indeed, John. I'll buy you a drink in Atlanta.
***
To that end, I spent some time tonight assembling poems for my third manuscript. The last few months have been so hectic I haven't been thinking much about the poems in the context of a book length manuscript.
But, lo and behold, they come out to 50 pages.
It's called One More Theory About Happiness.
Maybe I'll get lucky.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I read the news today, oh boy
I've been hush-hush here on the blog regarding specific details, and I figure I will continue to be, as it seems more professional somehow, but I've been in the running for a position in a creative writing program. I first interviewed at MLA in December and soon afterwards was invited for a campus visit. I very much liked everyone I met in Philadelphia and this good feeling was only confirmed during my visit. These visits are grueling, two solid days of socializing, talking, meeting new faces, being always on, but even so, I felt very good leaving that Friday afternoon. I had other interviews but none that seemed to click half so well.
Today I got the letter saying I wouldn't be offered the position. So it goes. I'd be lying if I said I weren't incredibly disappointed. So I won't say that.
In some ways, it's good to have resolution, even a bad one. Because the whole process is too stressful, too fraught with potential to have your hopes dashed.
But that is cold, cold comfort. I don't know what else to say, except that I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't have a lot of options, even less than the average person, and so I'm more than a little stuck. I'm a lot stuck and at a loss.
I won't even begin to think about the obscene amount of money the whole process requires just to begin, to participate. Or the lost sleep. Or the small children I barked at like a Russian wolfhound.
So that's that, my friends. It may not be long before you find me, unannounced, on your couch or rifling through the fridge.
Today I got the letter saying I wouldn't be offered the position. So it goes. I'd be lying if I said I weren't incredibly disappointed. So I won't say that.
In some ways, it's good to have resolution, even a bad one. Because the whole process is too stressful, too fraught with potential to have your hopes dashed.
But that is cold, cold comfort. I don't know what else to say, except that I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't have a lot of options, even less than the average person, and so I'm more than a little stuck. I'm a lot stuck and at a loss.
I won't even begin to think about the obscene amount of money the whole process requires just to begin, to participate. Or the lost sleep. Or the small children I barked at like a Russian wolfhound.
So that's that, my friends. It may not be long before you find me, unannounced, on your couch or rifling through the fridge.
LAWS
There is this apology I polish like an apple—
it never goes soft and maybe it never
has left the tree. It will be good forever,
this fruit, this apology, but not forever,
not so long as that. As long as I last,
it will last. In that way, I am delicate and sweet,
full of sun. I am thinking of you,
your head of dark hair, the gray
over which you worry the mirror,
and I'm thinking of the crimes
I would have undertaken to make you
mine. All of them fill me
with rabid glee. Jaywalking
in the name of larceny
and usury and buggery and rolling a bed
down San Francisco streets
or carrying ice cream
in my pocket, though where
that is illegal I can't begin to recall.
I don't care. I'm filling
my jeans with vanilla
and cookie dough
and setting out to be set upon by constabulary
force. I'll apologize
later. First I'll say
that I love you. I will carve
your name in something
dark and varnished,
an antique, because I can't bear timelessness
to go unchallenged
by the simple fact
of you. Some people will tell me
this is a strange idea
on their way to some place
they hate. Look at what you've done,
they'll say, and aren't you
just soaked in shame
and this word in my mouth like an apple
will come falling out
and shining
I'll say I'm sorry I'm not sorry
at all, that's how the machine of love operates,
nobody understands it
the way nobody understands
calculus or Baptists
or vegetarians but that's the way it is
and nothing about the world
is bound to change
very much at all,
not while I am loose in it
carving the silhouette of your breasts
into the table holding
up my breakfast. You should see the likeness.
They who have known
the luck of your breasts
as I have
say words like uncanny or exactly so
or masterwork
and all I can do is smile
and continually plot a new way of making you
naked and mine and here
and married to this lucky world
in which we keep waking
despite the brokenness of it all,
the fractured laws, the fallen fruit, how far I've yet to go.
There is this apology I polish like an apple—
it never goes soft and maybe it never
has left the tree. It will be good forever,
this fruit, this apology, but not forever,
not so long as that. As long as I last,
it will last. In that way, I am delicate and sweet,
full of sun. I am thinking of you,
your head of dark hair, the gray
over which you worry the mirror,
and I'm thinking of the crimes
I would have undertaken to make you
mine. All of them fill me
with rabid glee. Jaywalking
in the name of larceny
and usury and buggery and rolling a bed
down San Francisco streets
or carrying ice cream
in my pocket, though where
that is illegal I can't begin to recall.
I don't care. I'm filling
my jeans with vanilla
and cookie dough
and setting out to be set upon by constabulary
force. I'll apologize
later. First I'll say
that I love you. I will carve
your name in something
dark and varnished,
an antique, because I can't bear timelessness
to go unchallenged
by the simple fact
of you. Some people will tell me
this is a strange idea
on their way to some place
they hate. Look at what you've done,
they'll say, and aren't you
just soaked in shame
and this word in my mouth like an apple
will come falling out
and shining
I'll say I'm sorry I'm not sorry
at all, that's how the machine of love operates,
nobody understands it
the way nobody understands
calculus or Baptists
or vegetarians but that's the way it is
and nothing about the world
is bound to change
very much at all,
not while I am loose in it
carving the silhouette of your breasts
into the table holding
up my breakfast. You should see the likeness.
They who have known
the luck of your breasts
as I have
say words like uncanny or exactly so
or masterwork
and all I can do is smile
and continually plot a new way of making you
naked and mine and here
and married to this lucky world
in which we keep waking
despite the brokenness of it all,
the fractured laws, the fallen fruit, how far I've yet to go.
Monday, February 12, 2007
K
Bought This Clumsy Living, Bob Hicok's new book this weekend. I liked his thank you to those who looked over the manuscript: "you fools." I'm going to steal that.
Good book, of course. Bob makes it look easy.
***
C. Dale recently posted about not bothering to send in poems for a Pushcart nomination. I understand that, to an extent. I just got two nominations in the mail, the nominations from previous winners, and though I've been coming up empty for six years now, I'll keep sending in.
***
Listening to Late Registration by Kanye West. Before that? Regina Spektor.
***
New poem this weekend. The first on the mac. Didn't feel any different.
***
Valentine's Day.
Good book, of course. Bob makes it look easy.
***
C. Dale recently posted about not bothering to send in poems for a Pushcart nomination. I understand that, to an extent. I just got two nominations in the mail, the nominations from previous winners, and though I've been coming up empty for six years now, I'll keep sending in.
***
Listening to Late Registration by Kanye West. Before that? Regina Spektor.
***
New poem this weekend. The first on the mac. Didn't feel any different.
***
Valentine's Day.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Call
Anna Nicole Smith is dead. How bizarre, though not exactly unexpected, I guess.
***
It's time to make the AWP. Plans, that is. I'll be there. Haven't been thinking much about it.
***
I haven't watched the Grammy's in years, though I think I'll tune in to see The Police open up.
***
The waiting....
***
It's time to make the AWP. Plans, that is. I'll be there. Haven't been thinking much about it.
***
I haven't watched the Grammy's in years, though I think I'll tune in to see The Police open up.
***
The waiting....
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
It's just like a mini-mall!
My dad is having surgery this morning. He was diagnosed some time ago with severe sleep apnea and was determined to be a good candidate for corrective surgery. So he's having his tonsils out, something done to his uvula, his nose redone for a deviated septum, and God knows what else. Four different procedures, all at once. I'm not sure that clicked with him. Any one of those would be bad enough.
***
Installed Open Office yesterday, painlessly. It seems pretty cool and it's free, which is beautiful. The manuscript for Notes seemed to lose some formatting here and there, mainly with page breaks, but otherwise everything appeared unchanged.
***
Because I missed it on Monday, this poem.
***
Installed Open Office yesterday, painlessly. It seems pretty cool and it's free, which is beautiful. The manuscript for Notes seemed to lose some formatting here and there, mainly with page breaks, but otherwise everything appeared unchanged.
***
Because I missed it on Monday, this poem.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
Cold
The Super Bowl on my brother's 60 inch widescreen television. Which makes everything almost lifesize. Prince was great. In the rain, even. Bizarre transition from All Along the Watchtower to the Foo Fighters' Best of You, but I liked it. Maximum rock and roll in front of, what, 80,000 people or more, in the driving rain, performing with a giant marching band. That is pretty cool.
***
Still adjusting to my conversion. No second thoughts -- just learning a new thing. Transferring my music from my iPod is proving difficult. There's a kink somewhere.
***
AWP = soon.
***
Still adjusting to my conversion. No second thoughts -- just learning a new thing. Transferring my music from my iPod is proving difficult. There's a kink somewhere.
***
AWP = soon.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Testing
I got the iMac and it's like a work of art, of course. Amazing to only have one power cord. Just one. Of course, partly that's gained by having fairly mediocre speakers built into the Mac's chassis; the sound quality, compared to the mini-home theater system my previous pc had, is my one demerit. I might have to get the Airport gadget to stream music to my stereo. We'll see.
I have only glancing experience with Macs so it's a little disorienting. I have decades now of DOS/Windows time put in and so know a zillion tricks and shortcuts. It'll take time before I feel as comfortable with this.
What do you Mac users use for word processing? It seems like I've got a trial for Office 2004. Suggestions?
I have only glancing experience with Macs so it's a little disorienting. I have decades now of DOS/Windows time put in and so know a zillion tricks and shortcuts. It'll take time before I feel as comfortable with this.
What do you Mac users use for word processing? It seems like I've got a trial for Office 2004. Suggestions?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
