BTW, take a gander, if you would, at the spring schedule for the In Your Ear series. Rod Smith and Mel Nichols are leaving us for a spring sojourn in beautiful, corn-filled Iowa, so there will be no readings at Bridge Street this season. Alas! So IYE is the only game in town (except for the many other reading series, like Cheryl's Gone, and Mothertongue, the readings at the Folger, those at Busboys & Poets and many many more (scroll down)). But still, IYE is the only game in town hosted by yours truly! And I wear such darling mittens....
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Oh yes! We have passed the 50% point in the official First Week Back to Work. Last week, I lived in an ethereal dimension of travel and hotels and eating fudge. This week, I have to work and be on a strict diet and remember all kinds of things and call official-type people. Phooey! But lo! -- the weekend approaches. Softly, slowly, on little cat feet.
In the meantime, I shall away to the movies! Tomorrow, Jeff and I are going to see Avatar. I'm not too psyched about it. War + aliens = boring dude movie to me, even if there is love and speeches. I still haven't seen Titanic. On principle! Because I am an enormous and horrible snob. In a similar vein, I have never seen an episode of The Real World or Road Rules.
Jeff and I and many members of the Clan Eaton gathered to see Sherlock Holmes the day after Christmas and that was awesome, because it was R.D. Jr. + Jude Law + Mustaches + Greatcoats = Nerd Lady Heaven. A grand olde time. But tomorrow I will steel myself to watch the horrid peach/pink/brown humans fight and love and learn Very Important Lessons from the bright blue Na'vi. Perhaps Stan/Kyle from South Park will sidle on-scene toward the end and explained how he learned something today.... but it will probably not be that bad, because of the 3-D, which should be interesting no matter what.
BTW, I am very excited about the weekend, due to my plan to Write Stuff Down. I have been reading many poems and taking many notes over the past week or so, and I look forward to writing some of my thoughts in a typing-type fashion over the weekend, perhaps creating one or more of those what-have-you poem-esque things. It will, with any luck, be a super fancy creative fun time that will redeem me in the eyes of myself (oh I have been so bad about writing) and also I am going to bake eggs. In ramekins! Because I am secretly hosting my own secret and entirely pretend cooking show. Shhhhhh.....
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In no real or particular order:
Dick of the Dead by Rachel Loden
Hyperglossia by Stacy Szymaszek
Bluets by Maggie Nelson
Satin Cash by Lisa Russ Spaar
Also I have been reading Caroline Knox books at a fair clip but she frustrates me and delights me in equal proportions, so I am not sure whether to recommend her or just say AAGHGHTHAGHTHAHHHHHHH!
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Plan B Press is now accepting pre-orders for Full Moon on K Street, an anthology of poety about Washington DC, edited by Kim Roberts. There will be oodles of readings for the anthology, starting with a gala celebration of the 10th anniversary of Beltway Quarterly and the 120th anniversary of Poet Lore, at the Folger Shakespeare Library next Monday, January 11.
Here's a list of all the contributors to the anthology, including yours truly. Incidentially, I will be reading as part of the celebrations for the anthology in October. Woot!
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Last night I dreamed that I received about 500 pounds of Ugly Duckling Presse books care of the deli next to my work. All of the deli workers were extremely excited and they tried to steal the copy of Malilenas and take it home with them.
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One unanticipated effect of living with a dude-fella is that I cook more. When I lived by myself, I cooked rarely, because there isn't too much point to cooking for oneself. But now that there is someone to impress and to look appreciative, well, I find myself going to town (on weekends, at least).
I don't like cooking the same thing twice, so I am constantly in search of recipes. So I have been getting more and more cookbooks. Also, I like to look at food-porn photos of gorgeously plated risottos and baskets of crusty italian bread situated on cafe tables in Edenlike garden terraces.
In recognition of (and perhaps in an effort to encourage) my newfound habit, Jeff got me a very heavy, photo-laden cookbook for Christmas, and as I was looking through it, I realized a funny thing about cookbooks edited or prepared by a single person. A few ingredients invariably show up far more often than random chance would dictate, thus betraying the specific tastes and textures with which the editor is entranced beyond reason. The woman who edited my new cookbook puts jalapenos, chickpeas, and segmented citrus fruit in everything. I have made three recipes out of the cookbook so far, and while I have thus far avoided the chickpeas (not that I have anything against them), I have had to segment two limes, two grapefruit, and dice four jalapenos.
She also has an unaccountable love of whole sardines, anchovies, and mackerels. Does anyone in the entire world eat those things? I would never cook anyone an anchovy. I would never invite people to my home and serve them a whole fish. That's getting way too much into the look/skill of the thing and too little into the eating. One of the reasons I wouldn't serve such a thing is that I actually don't know how to eat them. How do you eat a whole sardine? A whole mackerel? I'm not sure I really care to know. Despite that, I just spent five minutes googling video tutorials on the issue, but I will not subject you to any of them. They are, how you say, ew.
Instead, try these silly books. Summer With the Leprechauns: A True Story is my favorite.
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Last night was lovely: Jeff and I took in dinner at the Brewer's Art, and then toted ourselves over to Loads of Fun, managing for once to be appropriately late enough to take advantage of Poet Time, arriving 5-10 minutes before the reading began, rather than 30-40 minutes.
And many of us read, in a poetical chain reaction. There was a sign-up sheet; I did not sign up -- Jaime G-P had already signed me in before I even got there. That gave me a sort of feeling of validation, as in "Maureen is not here, but we trust that she will be and thusly shall she read, and her part in the reading shall occur." And so it did.
Everyone read one or two things, but for Tom Orange, who regaled us with saxophone stylings. Each successive reader signed his/her name in a copy of the i.e. reader, and then consulted the sign-up sheet in order to nominate another reader. It was very organic.
I will let Ryan fill you in on details, but the whole atmosphere for me was one of easy camaraderie. Lot of poets who have been poeting together for many years, and who are big supporters and appreciators of each others' work. A happiness.
I have not written much of anything not-work related in a long while: not much poetry, or reviews, or even blogposts, and it is starting to drive me a bit crazy. Which is of course the signal that the hiatus is about to be replaced by frenzy. Already I am reading poems again, and starting to take copious notes. Good signs that the dry spell is drying up.
Also, I am going to buy a laptop. My desktop is old and starting to cough, and is necessarily stuck in place in the second-bedroom/office known hereabouts as the Big Game Room, which is not that great of a place to be stuck. It is small and has bad lighting and bad seating. One of our New Year's resolutions is to improve the room through new furniture and lamps, but I think it will also be improved (along with my writing) by a computer that allows me to work outside of the room. As it is, I find myself deciding not to write simply because doing so would mean I'd have to stay in a dark, uncomfortable room for some period of time. Right now, I am actually writing from Jeff's laptop, which is in the living room, a warm and inviting room with a great fire heaped up in the fireplace, nice comfy couches, and easy access to reference books. With my own laptop, I will be able to work while perched in this Elysian splendor, and not feel so much like Bob Cratchit doing sums in a cramped and underheated basement.
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