Tourism

I have no idea what I'm doing in this picture, other than looking so so crotchy, but let me draw your attention to the painting above me. It is Famous David, he of the huge head, of the tiny thighs, of the hyacinth loins. He raises a turkey leg to his lips; it is the Renaissance. A lady stands on the surface of a lake; she is on fire. It is Art.

WHITE BIRD

I purchased this totally unacceptable antique for two dollars. Its body is made of milk glass, its head is a futuristic space helmet. It is labeled simply: Perfume, 1974, WHITE BIRD. This delighted me. Madame, what is that ravishing scent? WHITE BIRD. Lady, you smell as good as...as good as a white bird. It is basically the highest compliment a woman could be paid.

The head unscrews, of course, because it is classy. And the body of the bird is filled with this intoxicating substance, so...solid, and so...thick, and so full of...of smell.


WHITE BIRD! It brings his worm to you.

Alien vs. Pooh! SO GOOD.

The Motherpanic Morning News: Gator Edition

My mother is visiting. She is a messenger from the future, sent to open our eyes to the signs of the apocalypse. Here is a representative quote, about the killer gators running loose on a nearby island, the killer gators who hibernate in red mud and emerge from the mud the color of murder:

"They opened up one of the gators to see how he died, and they found 22 DOG COLLARS INSIDE HIM."

I stared at her. I grasped her gently by the shoulders, and repeated, "They opened up one of the gators to see how he died, and they found 22 DOG COLLARS INSIDE HIM."

She paused. "Well, now that you say it that way, it doesn't seem very true. Still, what a bad gator."

On Writing Outside the Establishment

Elegant Choice and I have a fond disagreement about cover letters: he thinks I should make note of the fact that I have no formal education in my cover letters, and I REFUSE. Refuse! "It's so unusual to have no education that it's worthy of mention," he says. "It would be the same if you were a pig farmer." I wanted to be a pig farmer, briefly! I tried to make my mother buy a pot-bellied pig from Charles Manson for my twelfth birthday. If she had done what I wanted, my cover letters would be so much more interesting today.

And it's true, people do love an author bio that's all, "Kevin Crood-Mons has worked as a garbage collector, a taxidermist, a pretzel vendor, and a blood-bagger." But I always thought those bios played to the worst instincts in readers--snobbery, voyeurism, and total incredulity that a Blood-Bagger could ever have ascended into the Literate Class. As far as I can tell, the only truly necessary qualification for the Literate Class isn't money or background or even education, but intellectual curiosity. Granted, people who are intellectually curious tend to pursue more schooling, but some of us have...problems...paying attention. Some of us get a monster in our stomach when someone starts to Explain. Some of us have ass-imps that make us unable to sit still. And some of us, when asked to write a Serious Paper, end up writing, well, something like this!

(Me: Before you say anything--no, I don't have ADD. My brother has ADD, and he got kicked out of Montessori for escaping to the basement and peeing secretly all over the floor.

You: Well, everybody's different--you can have ADD without peeing secretly in a Montessori basement.

Me: Shut it, no you cannot! Peeing secretly in a Montessori basement is a primary ADD symptom. I read it in a college book.)

My other issue is one of authenticity: how uneducated am I really? How far outside the academy am I really? I'm not a gross coarse dwarf in a jewel mine, shut away from sunlight and Blonde Jesus--I know what's going on. I read much of the same material that MFA students read. Can you really say that you're outside the academy if you spend your days poring over books?

What I'm mainly missing, I know, are mentorship and connections, things that I would love to have. I'm sure I would thoroughly enjoy an MFA program--all that time and all that talk. I'm not opposed to MFAs on principle; I just lack money and an undergraduate degree, so an MFA is out of reach for me at the present time. Is it really so unusual, in the current climate, to have only a high school diploma and be pursuing poetry "seriously," whatever that means? Anyone else out there? I admit I never even thought about it until last year, when I was a finalist for a Ruth Lilly fellowship and a Discovery Award, or a Discovery/Boston-Nation Prize Review Award, as I like to think of it. I knew for a fact that I wouldn't win either of those things, but when I looked up the winners and saw how heavily credentialed they were, I had a sad sinking feeling. Not an "I deserved to win and they didn't" feeling--they were very talented and I firmly believe that we're all in this together--but a sudden understanding that I was at a disadvantage in certain ways. That had never occurred to me before, because I have the mind of a child.

Any thoughts? I have to get back to the pigs.

United States v. One Book Called Ulysses

Do you ever stare at your computer so hard that you lose all depth perception, and then when you go to take a drink of water, you just pour it all over your face? That's been happening to me a lot lately. Elegant Choice comes home from work and sees a wet shirt and says, hopefully, "Is it erotic?" and I sigh, "It depends what you like--I was trying to think of a good synonym for shinny."

I saw the parade yesterday! My favorite float was the orthopedic surgeon's, which featured crutches and walking casts and a walker decorated with shamrocks. I also picked up a copy of the local paper, which was printed on nauseous green paper, and came across a YOU MIGHT BE IRISH article which featured the following gem:

"You might be Irish if you've actually read James Joyce's 'Ulysses'--and think it's funny and true."

You might be Irish if you've actually read James Joyce's "Ulysses"--and think it's funny and true. I read it out loud several times, trying to wrap my head around it. I repeated it to myself throughout the day whenever I wanted to feel insane. You might be Irish if you've actually read James Joyce's "Ulysses"--and think it's funny and true. It gets weirder and weirder the more you think about it. It makes me feel like I live in a parallel universe where Ulysses is not a seminal modernist novel but actually, like, a Bathroom Reader written by the Irish equivalent of Jeff Foxworthy. Ulysses! So funny and true!

Munch and Munch, Kiss and Hug!

I watched Ponyo last night because I need Underwater Feelings while I work on my underwater poem; I've been making do with Mr. Limpet and The Little Mermaid which is way pervier than I remember it being. Anyway, I loved Ponyo so much, it was marvelous and lyrical and emotionally intelligent, which made it all the more unnerving when the movie ended and the theme song began to play.

AMERICA I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS

The Rejection Files

Strange week. I've never posted a rejection here before, but I'm going to make an exception in this case.

Dear Patricia,

As stunning as some of the writing is in this poem, in the end we're not quite convinced of the success of the whole thing. We'd love to read more of your work, though, whenever you care to send it.

All best,

Christian Wiman
POETRY

Now, that made me so tingly; when I finished reading I was all WHOA YES I AM FILLED WITH A VICTORY SENSATION. Elegant Choice, however, had a different reaction.

Me: Read this rejection!

EC (reads, frowns): Oh no, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?

Me: Of course I'm okay--I'm stunning, lol. Wait, why wouldn't I be okay?

EC: Because they thought your poem was an unconvincing failure?

Me: That's a bald reading, very bald! Way to behead my happiness, you guillotine!

EC (soothingly): It's not a big deal. Some people fail a lot in their lives. Just try harder next time.

The Right Kind of Person Would Be Embarrassed by This

I checked a bunch of movies out of the library today, and when I got home I realized they hadn't been unlocked. So I ran like horses to the small branch on Bay Street, ten minutes before they closed, and was all, "Hi, yes, can you please unlock Season One of TaleSpin for me? I really need to watch it today, for research."

Oh man, go read this interview with Amy King over at HTMLGIANT. She absolutely billows with brains.

The Legendary "Pockets" of Naked Pierce Brosnan

I got the super-greatest email from Hayden's Ferry Review on Sunday, accepting my poem "The Too-Long Grass, the Silverback, the Legendary Pockets of Naked Crusoe" for use in the Fall/Winter issue. And they mentioned in passing that they found the poem funny, which made me so happy. Reenactment!

Me: Thank you for saying that! I secretly thought that poem was funny too, but nobody else ever did.

HFR: I wonder why?

Me: I blame that Pierce Brosnan movie. Nothing funny there, just gross long hair and magnificent Acting.

HFR: Pierce Brosnan starred in a Robinson Crusoe movie?

Me: OH MY GOD YES LOOK AT THE POSTER

RIP Mark Linkous

He got dragged by a donkey
through the dirt and the myrtle
but he was once a little fat baby

Add Your Own!

This review in the New York Times made me actually laugh out loud. People, it would maybe be cool if we could discuss a woman's poems without calling them "as slim as runway models." Here are some other options:

These poems are at once see-through and opaque, like the hose a Hooters waitress wears.

Her poems pirouette effortlessly across the stage of the page. The reader never detects a scent of sweat emanating from their Ballerina Author, and never guesses at the hideous, twisted feet that must enable her to leap so high.

These poems are deeply attenuated to their surroundings. If Emerson was a Transparent Eyeball who was able to see all, this poet is a Pink Nipple who is able to feel all. She stands stiff in the air-conditioned room of the world.

These are rich, decadent poems--so rich and decadent that I imagined the author groaning aloud as she wrote them, like a woman eating yogurt in the bath.

Couples Time

On Monday Elegant Choice and I went lunatic and attacked my copy of Cabinet of Natural Curiosities with an x-acto knife, which I think is the most satisfying art weapon. We tore in like it was a gazelle and ripped deep steaks out of it and cut them up, and then we spent the night making freaked-out collages in our bathroom. We went through a whole can of spray glue in two hours! It seemed like such a good idea at the time, but for the last three days I have had a severe Brain Headache. I wonder if this is okay?

We hung the collages above our bed but now I am afraid that all the Biology will get me pragnent. I must guard against this. I will use the most antiquated birth controls I can find--goatskin scrolls and sea sponges and the open jaws of a rattlesnake all up inside me. A little reef of fire coral. The orange and sudden Scare Frill of a lizard!