Don’t Be Fooled By The Rocks That I Got.

Y’all, that last entry was all different kinds of vague.  Forgive me.  To make up for it, here are two cat photos.

This is a photo of Alice B. Toklas sleeping, which, besides chewing on logs and scratching down the very walls of houses, is pretty much all that she does.

This is a photo of Alice B. Toklas sleeping, which, besides chewing on logs and scratching down the very walls of houses, is pretty much all that she does.

This is a picture of Gertrude Stein doing ... this.

This is a picture of Gertrude Stein doing … this.

Also, here is the video for “Jenny from the Block,” which is always important, though it is, disappointingly, not a song about geology.

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The Photobiography of Alice B. Toklas

People of the Internets, here’s the thing. Or, rather, here are the things. Whichever. So.

1. Circumstances persist.
2. Therefore, my hiatus also persists.
3. One great wish persists through circumstances and hiatus, and that is to have famous cats.
4. Therefore and thusly, I thought I’d take a brief break from my break to make a brief but incredibly important update.
About my cats.  Because this is the Internet, after all.

This is a story about Alice B. Toklas, and this story about Alice B. Toklas begins when Alice B. Toklas decided that she was tired of me petting her because I always, somehow, am doing it wrong.  She pushed my arm away to let me know just how wrongly I was doing it.

This is a story about Alice B. Toklas, and this story about Alice B. Toklas begins when Alice B. Toklas decided that she was tired of me petting her because I always, somehow, am doing it wrong. She pushed my arm away to let me know just how wrongly I was doing it.

However, she soon ran into a problem.

She decided to stay there, pushing my arm away, just in case I got any more ideas about doing anything else wrong. However, she soon ran into a problem.

A sleepy, sleepy problem.

A sleepy, sleepy problem.

And then she fell asleep, sitting up, pushing my arms away, snoring, and singing.

And then she fell asleep, sitting up, pushing my arms away, snoring, and singing.

Meanwhile, Gertrude Stein rolled around on the carpet in a fury of smouldering rage.

Meanwhile, Gertrude Stein rolled around on the carpet in a fury of planet-vaporizing rage.

The End.

Now we should all go read some of the leaked lyrics from Yeezus because, people, Kanye West raps about croissants like he means it.

 

“And on the radio you hear ‘November Rain;’ that solo’s awful long, but it’s got a good refrain.”*

People of the Interwebs:

Listen.

It’s April fourth.  I live in south Georgia.  Like, coastal south Georgia.  And it’s cold.  It’s cold and awful and rainy and generally so terrible weather-wise that Gertrude Stein has been inspired to spend all day and night singing her “Cold and Awful and Rainy and Generally So Terrible

This is a picture of Gertrude Stein, taken as I type.  She's this close to my face.  And singing.  It's a lot to deal with.

This is a picture of Gertrude Stein, taken as I type. She’s this close to my face. And singing. It’s a lot to deal with.

Weather” aria, which is the saddest song in Gertrude Stein’s entire repertoire, besides the “You Didn’t Set You Alarm and I Realize You Want to Sleep In But Hey, Treats?” aria.

However, it’s April.  It’s National Poetry Month, and if poetry celebrates anything, it’s anything that’s cold and awful.  Therefore, I’m making the best of the weather and looking for the best in today — and one of the best things is this announcement: I’m going to be on the radio tomorrow.

No, really.  Someone is actually going to let me talk on the radio without the FCC present.

That someone is the wonderful and talented and generally amazing Katrina Murphy, who’s invited me to join her on her wonderful and talent-filled and generally amazing radio show, Questions That Bother Me So.  The show will stream live tomorrow from 1:00 – 3:00 Eastern time (I think — Eastern time, right?  Like the one that the East coast is on?  Time zones are confusing and I can’t think about them too much because I start thinking about how time is just a construct and then I get confused).  You can listen along here (go to “shows,” then “Questions That Bother Me So”), and I’ll be live-Tweeting the experience from my Twitter feed.  There will also be a chat room.  It’s going to be totally meta.  Topics to be discussed may or may not include poetry, National Poetry Month, Maleficae, witches, witch trials, witch burnings, writing poetry about witch trials and burnings, cats, velociraptors, sloths, and more poetry.  It’s going to be awesome.  The last time I was on the radio, I had pink eye and a kidney stone, and I still managed not to drop an F-bomb, which was a major triumph, as you know if you’ve ever had a kidney stone or, like, been in a room with me.  This time, I probably also have a kidney stone, but hey, no pink eye.  Let the F-bombless awesome commence.

And there are other exciting things afoot, so please keep your eyes on this small section of the Intertubes.  In the meantime, here are some pictures of how I tried to make the best out of this gray and cold and awful day.

If there's one thing I'm very good at, it's losing my reading glasses. I had a gorgeous green pair that I left somewhere in the Charlotte airport, or possibly on an airplane.  Or somehow in the sky.  I still miss them.  I was thrilled when I came into my classroom today and found that my glasses were still where I apparently left them on Tuesday.  Rainy day triumph number ONE.

If there’s one thing I’m very good at, it’s losing my reading glasses. I had a gorgeous green pair that I left somewhere in the Charlotte airport, or possibly on an airplane. Or somehow in the sky. I still miss them. I was thrilled when I came into my classroom today and found that my glasses were still where I apparently left them on Tuesday. Rainy day triumph number ONE.

Seriously, the weather today? TERRIBLE.  I decided to make the best of it by making it into an exercise.  My students had to complete this sentence -- "The weather was ____" -- fifteen times.  If they used weather words, like cold and rainy and awful, they had to use a simile.  I did the exercise along with them and ended up with my poem for today.  RAINY DAY TRIUMPH TWO.

Seriously, the weather today? TERRIBLE. I decided to make the best of it by making it into an exercise. My students had to complete this sentence — “The weather was ____” — fifteen times. If they used weather words, like cold and rainy and awful, they had to use a simile. I did the exercise along with them and ended up with my poem for today. RAINY DAY TRIUMPH TWO.

A few months ago, Alice took this Purr Pad out of a chair and pushed it across the room, right next to the front door. Today I found out why: she sits here to wait for me to get home from work. RAINY DAY TRIUMPH THREE.  CUTENESS TRIUMPH INFINITY.

A few months ago, Alice took this Purr Pad out of a chair and pushed it across the room, right next to the front door. Today I found out why: she sits here to wait for me to get home from work. RAINY DAY TRIUMPH THREE. CUTENESS TRIUMPH INFINITY.

Chinese take-out once again proves it's the best boyfriend ever.  RAINY DAY TRIUMPH FOUR. Well, plus Chinese food in general, and food that's delivered to the door, both of which are always triumphs.

Chinese take-out once again proves it’s the best boyfriend ever. RAINY DAY TRIUMPH FOUR. Well, plus Chinese food in general, and food that’s delivered to the door, both of which are always triumphs.

* Bonus points to anyone who catches the reference in this post’s title!

Rejection: Winter Storm Saturn and AWP Boston

It all started a few months ago, when, during my bi-sometimes-tri-weekly trip to the local Rite Aid, I noticed a sad, rejected little shopping cart.  It seemed to be hiding behind the wall, almost as though it felt embarrassed, almost as though it didn’t want the world to see it in its sad, rejected state.

I call this "It's Still Rejection Even If You Try To Hide It, Cart Outside The Rite Aid."

I call this “It’s Still Rejection Even If You Try To Hide It, Cart Outside The Rite Aid.”

And then, as I drank my refreshing Diet Coke and made my bi-or-tri-weekly post-Rite-Aid trek to the Hobby Lobby, I saw it: they were everywhere.  Sad, rejected carts.  Abandoned half-smoked cigarettes.  Uncapped and half-spilled glitter.  I was surrounded by rejection.

And I continued to be surrounded by rejection, and couldn’t help but document it.  Anything, it seemed, could be rejected, and rejection, it seemed, was everywhere.  There was rejection at the Wal-Mart:

I call this "Rejection: Santa Claus by the Jarred Popcorn, Statesboro Walmart."

I call this “Rejection: Santa Claus by the Jarred Popcorn, Statesboro Wal-Mart.”

There was rejection on campus:

I call this "Rejection Outside of the Newton Building."

I call this “Rejection Outside of the Newton Building.”

There was especially depressing rejection on top of a random mailbox outside the K-Mart:

 

I call this "Rejection with No Further Comment Needed."

I call this “Rejection with No Further Comment Needed.”

There was even rejection at the happiest place on earth:

I call this "Rejection at the Kiwanis Ogeechee Fairgrounds Ring of Fire"

I call this “Rejection at the Kiwanis Ogeechee Fairgrounds Ring of Fire”

Over the past few months, I’ve become quite fond of rejection.  There’s something lovely about the objects that have been left behind, and about the story that led to them being left behind.

Tomorrow, I’ll be moving through our modern world’s greatest bastion of rejection, the airport, on my way to the AWP Conference in Boston.  I realized that there’s really no better place to look for rejection at a gathering of 10,000 writers, so I’m planning to post rejections as I come across them this week.

Get ready for abandoned Moleskines and Chuck Taylors, blogosphere.  Rejection’s about to get real.

Sometimes things are exciting …

… and when things are exciting, dear denizens of the Blogosphere, I like to share them with you.  One of the best things about the Internet, besides the seemingly endless and ever-regenerating number of photographs of cats wearing fruit on their heads and of sloths Photoshopped into the middle of the Crab Nebula, is that the Internet gives us the ability to share in IRL experiences we wouldn’t otherwise be able to attend IRL.  For people like

This is a photograph of me reading.  I'm taking off my reading glasses but it looks like I'm doing something dramatic and meaningful. In fact, forget the part about the reading glasses.  This is a picture of me doing something dramatic and meaningful.

This is a photograph of me reading. I’m taking off my reading glasses but it looks like I’m doing something dramatic and meaningful. In fact, forget the part about the reading glasses. This is a picture of me doing something dramatic and meaningful.

myself, whose bodies periodically refuse to work and who are, let’s face it, always like two and a half at the most seconds away from dressing all in white and living in somebody’s attic (because really, what’s the fun if it’s your own attic?), this is the definition of a blessing, a word that can so often feel insincere and general gives me a queasy case of agita, but which, in this case, absolutely applies.

Another part of The Great Blessing of the Internets (ugh, there’s the agita again) is that it allows people whose bodies periodically refuse to work, perhaps because they’re never much more than two and a half seconds away from Emily Dickinsoning up some unsuspecting nuclear family’s attic, to share with others the times they make appearances In Real Life.  Such is the case with my reading in the Indian Springs School Visiting Writers Series, which you can hear here.

The first reading in the recording isn’t mine, it’s Kate Greenstreet‘s.  If you listen to it, you’ll see why my knees were positively shaking because, seriously, how do you follow that?  You’ll also see why I’d ordered a copy of Young Tambling, her newest collection from Ahsahta Press, before I’d even left the building that evening.  I’ve been hungrily devouring the poems and people, this is one of Those Books — by that, I mean this is a life-changing book, the kind of book that leaves a reader wowed and restless and with a completely new way to look at poetry, books, art, life, everything.  That’s because, in many ways, the book isn’t really a book.  I mean, yes, it is a series of pages with words printed on them sewn together and bound.  But it doesn’t solely exist in that form, in that bound structure.  Greenstreet’s reading shows this: she re-orders the text and the text slips seamlessly into a new narrative, a new sequence of development.  Each re-ordering creates a new story, a new series of images, a new work of art.  Like she writes in the end of the collection, next to an insanely amazing oh my God seriously photograph of this book in a different incarnation, as pages of

This is a photograph of Kate Greenstreet's Young Tambling. It's been Instagrammed because its unfiltered awesomeness would make the Interwebs EXPLODE, and then where would Al Gore, astronaut sloths, and fruit-hatted cats be?

This is a photograph of Kate Greenstreet’s Young Tambling. It’s been Instagrammed because its unfiltered awesomeness would make the Interwebs EXPLODE, and then where would Al Gore, astronaut sloths, and fruit-hatted cats be?

typeset and photographs arranged (and, presumably, re-arranged) on the wall:

Although I was thinking in two-page spreads, at some point I realized that I wasn’t actually (physically) making a book.  I was making a

big rectangular piece of temporary art.

Which is SO RIDICULOUSLY INSANELY AMAZING OH MY GOD I CANNOT EVEN TALK ABOUT IT.  It’s like she’s created a work of code-based electronic poetry without the code.  Which, seriously.  AMAZING.

And there are MORE EXCITING THINGS, the first of which has to do with my actually leaving the house and going to another location, specifically Boston, where I will be talking about writing and working and how those things go together at AWP 2013 (HOLLAH).  I’ll be moderating a panel on the academic job market with three lovely friends and colleagues, Hannah De La Cruz Abrams (you should totally read her book, The Man Who Danced with Dolls, which is so beautiful I can’t even talk about it and is one of the few books I immediately read again after finishing), Sarah Domet (author of 90 Days to Your Novel) and Jared Yates Sexton (author of An End to All Things).  The panel’s called Navigating the Track: The Writer and the Nontenured Position.  It’s at noon on Saturday in Room 104 and should be pretty awesome.  You can find more information about it on the AWP Website, here.  Keep scrolling ’til you find it.  I’ll also be a’signing books at the Toadlily Press Table in the Bookfair on Friday at 11:30 am.  Come and find me and say hello!  I will probably desperately need some coffee too, so if you’d like to bring some my way, that would be great.

See?  EXCITING THINGS.  And God bless Al Gore for inventing the Interwebs so we can all share in them.