Friday, January 27, 2006
I don't mind your opinions, but what I don't what are effete pronouncements accompanied by a vaporous penumbra of pseudo-wit. You're not Oscar Wilde. Stop pooh-poohing into that hanky, yo.
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Thursday, January 26, 2006
VillainelleShafer Hall and I have been writing villanelles, in a project we call "Villanelles Are Retarded." They are, you know. Anyway, we write them a line at a time, by email, and he has posted
our latest, written over the past couple of days. Behold, the villanelle!
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Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Readin' about Jack Spicer and spooks.
Fun fact: I contemplated dipping a pork chop in paint and making meat prints for "The Spectacle of Meat." But then I realized that my books might begin to, well, rot if they actually incorporated pork fat.
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Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Our planet has a really stupid name. Earth? What's that? The word even looks dumb.
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Monday, January 23, 2006
You should write Mark a
terrorist poem.
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The batteries on the smoke detector in the hall outside my apartment have begun to wear out, causing the smoke detector to emit an ear-splitting beep every thirty seconds. It began this behavior sometime last night, waking me up from fevered dreams involving fabulous spa facilities and the installation of fake ginkgo trees all over the University of Virginia campus. Couldn't sleep with all that beepiness, but I couldn't get rid of the smoke detector; this old Victorian has those high ceilings that realtors love. They're quite lovely, and have only one detraction -- their spectacular height meant that getting to anything on the ceiling, like a light bulb or a smoke detector, involves an artful arranging of every piece of furniture you own on top of every other piece of furniture you own, with yourself on top, perilously clutching at light sockets, like some kind of deranged human replica of the Watts Tower. I'm okay with doing that in my apartment, but outside in the hallway? I can't get my furniture out the door without help, plus there's the hideous, narrow, steep stairwell, over which one might fall to a Hitchcockian death.
In addition, the landlord, who owns a very tall and trusty ladder for performing lightbulb and smoke detector maintenance, is out of town, subjecting me, as I thought, to beeps for the foreseeable future. On the way home from work tonight, I even stopped by ye olde CVS to purchase some earplugs. But upon arriving home, I found that one of the more enterprising residents of my building had knocked the smoke detector right off the ceiling with some carefully hurtled projectile, Davy and Goliath style. Now all that's left is some wires hanging out of the ceiling and blessed silence. Huzzah!
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Always tickled when people call me "Red" . . .
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Sunday, January 22, 2006
Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair . . .As I predicted, I didn't stick with the cover design I did on Thursday. I had a design epiphany the next morning, and hurried home after work to create a meaty clip=art collage. I love the way the new cover looks, but man, I am going to have to learn to stop myself from adding paint and glue and glitter and all sorts of other stuff to a simple, printed cover. It's lovely, but I need to learn to design things so that they don't take, like,e more steps to put together than the space shuttle. When you're making seventy-five of something, all those steps add up to a whole weekend.
So, I didn't get any editing work done at all (beautiful covers . . . but the poems for the inside? Meh.) Instead, I made it to the point where the smell of Elmer's glue makes me nauseated. Tres magnific! Oh well.
Behold, the Spectacle of Meat!
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