My Menstrual Self-Help Book
“Tampons & Crampons:
A Guide to Hiking With Your Period.”
I made you this internet collage comprised of (beautiful) images that remind me of you. I really hope you like it.
Happiest of days to you, friend. I hope your weekend is full of even better things than Ellie giving the sneaky middle finger to you in a photo, though it’s hard to imagine what’s better than that.
I went to AWP last week, for what felt like a week. For you nonwriters, AWP is the biggest literary conference of the year. Workshops, lectures, readings, a bookfair big enough to kill any sane person’s love of books, famous writers all around, lots of glasses, lots of beards, lots of notebook scribbling, lots of beers. I schlepped apricots, trail mix, water, my phone, notebooks, and about ten pounds of books around the city of Boston for three days straight. Other things that occurred: lattes, reunions, inspiration, Anne Carson, free chocolate, free pens, free buttons, literary journals, poet swoons (see: Anne Carson), and I met my pen pal for the first time, with whom I have been corresponding for a year. Magic! Below are some tidbits from the weekend too good (read: weird &/or awesome) not to share.
“I believe that the future of poetry belongs to dead poets.” -Valzhyna Mort (poet)
“I prefer myself to Charles Simic.” -James Meetze (poet)
“You’re some kind of something and I like it.” -Dara Wier (poet)
“They will try to make you choose between the things you love but you do not have to choose.” Muriel Rukeyser, as quoted by another passionate woman
THEY WILL TRY TO MAKE YOU CHOOSE BETWEEN THE THINGS YOU LOVE BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO CHOOSE.
“For nonconformity, the world whips you with displeasure.” -Emerson, as quoted by a college professor dude
“I am just another person in all normal regards except for my love of lemurs.” -James Tate (poet), as quoted by another poet
“Lanyards are a great way to humble people.” -Jacob Otting (poet & comedian)
“This wig is terrific.” -Terrance Hayes, reading one of his poems (SWOON)
And here are some patterns I am loving this week, by Phoebe Wahl.
And that is all for now. Besides for the joy of another friend engaged, the speed of a new (old) car, the sound of the rain (rain! not snow! woah!), the crunch of breadcrust littered with seeds, and the feel of a hot mug in my hands.
We’re headed to Burlington this weekend for the NOFA (Northeast Organic Farming Association for Vermont) conference. We are going to learn about growing shiitakes! About growing for our root cellar! About growing fruit! About DOWSING! I’ve only ever been to a writerly conference before, never one for farmers. But now I’m about to be a farmer! Misha and I are about to be farmers! Halleluyah!!!
(halleluyah squirrel via the animal blog. isn’t he just beatific?!)
Last week I met this man in the coffee shop. He was well-spoken and friendly and we chatted. Here he is:
(from Peter Money’s website)
I didn’t meet Allen Ginsberg; he’s dead and likely never visited White River Junction. The man I did meet recommended that I read Joanne Kyger. As it turns out, she’s great! She’s beautiful!
Then the other day I got in the truck and there were four pumpkins sitting shotgun. I put one out by the mailbox and two along the driveway and one is still riding shotgun.
(from this isn’t happiness)
It’s autumn and the mums are on display. I’ve been reading The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard and oh I love it so much I love it so much. Also, we’ve been drying sliced tomatoes, storing them in oil, stacking them in the cupboards where they’ll wait until they’re given as gifts. Here’s a painting by Joe Brainard, of a tomato.
(from The Met)
Outside, everything is in motion from the wind, the leaves flying to the ground like torpedoing birds.
(from Misha’s flickr)
One failure on
Top of another.
The sideyard was so much fun. I was this happy:
best thing about the sideyard poetry readings:
the folks walking past on the other side of the hedge
on their way to friday-night-party
catching clips of outloud poetry
and the quick image of
a writer in the light
as they pass
What was also wonderful was how many people there were (estimates are in the high 90s), and the flower bouquets with artichokes in them (made by Ellie of course):
and how everyone got so drunk that no one bought books like these:
and perhaps the greatest miracle of the whole event is that not a single neighbor yelled at us. And people bought Misha’s photographs! And I didn’t even have a hangover the next morning! And the next morning was Saturday, and Ellie and I split a mushroom and bacon fritatta covered with blue cheese with whole wheat toast and raspberry jam. The end.
When I was sixteen years old I was the only vegetarian around—I lived in a small town and I guess everyone ate meat.
I had three best guy friends; we were a bit of a foursome. We once made a short film with my video camera where one of them, Eoin, turned into a cigar Indian while trying to thieve objects in a house (including toilet paper). The house was my house and we still quote that movie; it’s called “Sitting Bull” and my parents still have that cigar Indian.
The point is, I was the vegetarian of the group. They used to sing this song to me constantly. Listening to it now, I feel good about being compared to Mary Moon. She’s an intellectual, but despite this fact, remains quite sexual. I’m down with that.
This one goes out to Tom, Eoin, and Schnibbe, who taught me this song, to speed up at yellow lights, and the meaning of a “rusty trombone.” Gross.