I'm off in the morning for Sewanee, my first of two writers' conferences this summer. The Sewanee website has the list of fellows and scholars, and I say with no false modesty that it's a bit intimidating--there are a number of writers who will be there whose work I've been reading and admiring for a number of years.
Since I'll have plenty of things to occupy my time for the next two weeks, I won't be doing any updating to this little blog-type thing while I'm away. That's right, no "I'm on my way to this or that class or lecture" posts. No "I can't believe I got a cold sore on my first day" ramblings.
Instead, y'all can leave notes in comments or something.
I hesitate to say that, since I doubt many of you will do it. The truth is, I don't quite know what this blog-type thing is all about. Mostly, it's me mentioning things that I've been into lately: TV shows, books, stories I've read online. What's surprised me over the past year and few months, though, is how many people have shown up at it. Some of you leave comments; others send emails. And I know, thanks to a little stat-counter-type thing, that there are quite a few lurkers who stop by, too. I don't mind lurkers. I lurk all the time. And sometimes, while lurking, I've seen posts in which bloggers ask people to de-lurk. I've considered doing that in the past, but mine seems to me just the kind of blog where it's perfectly all right to lurk, since it's not terribly interactive or, really, personal, so I haven't ever done it.
How about if instead of de-lurking, everybody who reads this post leaves some little anonymous comment. You can say how you came across the blog, or whether or not I know you in "real" life, or what your favorite book or color or song is. You can say, really, whatever you like.
You don't feel like it?
That's cool, too.
I'll see y'all in about two weeks.
Stay gold and all that.
7.16.2007
The Cubs
Those of you who were around this blog last year may be wondering why I haven't yet brought up the Cubs this summer.
Well...Back in May when they were finding innovative ways to lose games, I kept telling myself that I was done with them. I wasn't going to watch the games, listen to them on the radio, check the box scores. I was going to allow them zero brain space.
But, of course, the pull was too strong, and I've continued to pay attention. I just can't help myself.
What I want to know now is, who the hell are these guys? What's going on?
Here's hoping this little post, like the goat, doesn't manage to curse them in some way.
In the Mail
Thanks to wireless internet access in the house and frequent emails from iTunes, I've become addicted to the pre-order--books, music, whatever. It's true: I may have some impulse control issues, but what I like about the pre-order is that there is no instant gratification. Rather, the gratification comes weeks, sometimes months later, and almost always unexpectedly.
When J.C. and I got back from Michigan the other day, I had Claudia Smith's The Sky is a Well and Other Shorts, a book I pre-ordered three or four weeks ago, waiting in my mailbox.
I haven't yet read the book, though I've read, I would guess, well over half the stories in it already, and I've even taught a couple of them. The reason I bring it up now, besides the whole pre-order business, is because it is probably the most beautiful chapbook I have ever seen. Really. I think I've bought ten or so chapbooks in the last year, and it seems to me the people who are putting them together are usually, obviously, not in it for the money. They're doing it because they love books, and because there are some stories or poems that they want to put out into the world. And so, most of them look very very good. In fact, chapbooks have become, like the pre-order, a minor obsession of mine.
But this one, the first from Rose Metal Press, is truly stunning. It's gorgeous. It's so pretty, in fact, I'm scared to take it on the plane with me tomorrow, because I don't want to mess it up.
When J.C. and I got back from Michigan the other day, I had Claudia Smith's The Sky is a Well and Other Shorts, a book I pre-ordered three or four weeks ago, waiting in my mailbox.
I haven't yet read the book, though I've read, I would guess, well over half the stories in it already, and I've even taught a couple of them. The reason I bring it up now, besides the whole pre-order business, is because it is probably the most beautiful chapbook I have ever seen. Really. I think I've bought ten or so chapbooks in the last year, and it seems to me the people who are putting them together are usually, obviously, not in it for the money. They're doing it because they love books, and because there are some stories or poems that they want to put out into the world. And so, most of them look very very good. In fact, chapbooks have become, like the pre-order, a minor obsession of mine.
But this one, the first from Rose Metal Press, is truly stunning. It's gorgeous. It's so pretty, in fact, I'm scared to take it on the plane with me tomorrow, because I don't want to mess it up.
Reading
I'm right now about a third of the way through two novels:
Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson
&
The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis
On the surface, they probably seem like very different books, but so far they don't seem all that dissimilar to me--because both have so much to do with loneliness and alienation. That is, up until the point where I've read in each.
Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson
&
The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis
On the surface, they probably seem like very different books, but so far they don't seem all that dissimilar to me--because both have so much to do with loneliness and alienation. That is, up until the point where I've read in each.
Vacation
I'm glad I put up the recent political posts, but it kind of bugs me that they've been up so long. Just so y'all know, my leaving them up wasn't some kind of additional political statement. I've been absent because J.C. and I were on vacation--her first one in three years.
We stopped at a friend's place in Granger, Indiana, and spent the night with his wife and kids on Monday and then spent Tuesday and Wednesday in New Buffalo, Michigan, walking on the beach, visiting wineries. A tad yuppie of us, I admit, but relaxing, pretty, all that.
Then we spent the next few nights at my parents' lake cabin near here, eating good food and playing, of all things, gin rummy. Yes, gin rummy. It was the first time we'd ever played together, but we ended up sitting on the deck and playing for about ten hours.
I would put up some pictures of the trip or something, to make this post a little more interesting, but I honestly don't think we took any. Odd, I know, but I've never been one to document trips with a camera. I did, however, in the guest book for the suite we stayed at in New Buffalo, write a couple of haiku. One was about Lake Michigan, and the other was about, fittingly, wine.
We stopped at a friend's place in Granger, Indiana, and spent the night with his wife and kids on Monday and then spent Tuesday and Wednesday in New Buffalo, Michigan, walking on the beach, visiting wineries. A tad yuppie of us, I admit, but relaxing, pretty, all that.
Then we spent the next few nights at my parents' lake cabin near here, eating good food and playing, of all things, gin rummy. Yes, gin rummy. It was the first time we'd ever played together, but we ended up sitting on the deck and playing for about ten hours.
I would put up some pictures of the trip or something, to make this post a little more interesting, but I honestly don't think we took any. Odd, I know, but I've never been one to document trips with a camera. I did, however, in the guest book for the suite we stayed at in New Buffalo, write a couple of haiku. One was about Lake Michigan, and the other was about, fittingly, wine.
7.05.2007
Impeach
I know this blog-type thing isn't usually the place any of you comes for political commentary, but...
In addition to watching the Keith Olbermann video below, you should go and read this post by Deron Bauman over at clusterflock.
To quote Mr. Bauman: "If you're not furious enough at this point to speak up, I respectfully suggest you aren't paying attention. "
In addition to watching the Keith Olbermann video below, you should go and read this post by Deron Bauman over at clusterflock.
To quote Mr. Bauman: "If you're not furious enough at this point to speak up, I respectfully suggest you aren't paying attention. "
Shelter
I started a little side project last week. For now, I'm calling it a chapbook; working title: Shelter.
Here's a one-sentence story from it:
Self-Evaluation: Scooby
When asked whether or not he had a problem with drugs and/or alcohol, he wrote down, “Sometimes I burn my fingers smoking crack.”
Here's a one-sentence story from it:
Self-Evaluation: Scooby
When asked whether or not he had a problem with drugs and/or alcohol, he wrote down, “Sometimes I burn my fingers smoking crack.”
On Internet Addiction--The Mac Version
Yesterday, while watching TV, I tried to ctrl-click the remote control.
Then, I actually waited for a second television screen to open up just below and to the right of the real one.
I was disappointed when it never showed up.
Then, I actually waited for a second television screen to open up just below and to the right of the real one.
I was disappointed when it never showed up.
7.03.2007
Independence Day--Libby Style
I'm a bit late with this, as is the case most of the time with me, living in a bubble as I do.
"As Independence Day nears, we are reminded that one of the principles our forefathers fought for was equal justice under the law. This commutation completely tramples on that principle," said a frequent Mr. Bush critic, New York Democratic Sen. Charles Schumer.
I'd like to see this get as much coverage as all of that Paris Hilton crap.
"As Independence Day nears, we are reminded that one of the principles our forefathers fought for was equal justice under the law. This commutation completely tramples on that principle," said a frequent Mr. Bush critic, New York Democratic Sen. Charles Schumer.
I'd like to see this get as much coverage as all of that Paris Hilton crap.
7.02.2007
One-Liners From J.C.*
While passing a motorcycling couple on the road in front of Wal-Mart:
"What is it with trashy people and fringe?"
While eating at a family diner in Knoxville on Friday night:
"I've seen small-town America, and it ain't pretty."
*Who, despite being the person eight years ago to say that she wanted to make the Midwest the cultural capital of America, is not always as kind as I am to our fellow Midwestererners. I am, however, guilty of taking the above photo at last fall's scenic drive.
Fish Girl*
OQUAWKA—An eight-year-old girl whom authorities feared drowned with her grandfather in a boating accident startled searchers when she emerged from the woods on Tuesday, naked and carrying blackberries.
Anna Grabowski’s lips and teeth were stained dark purple. Her tongue, she would say later, felt as big as a horse’s in her mouth.
Crews had pulled her grandfather’s body from the Mississippi River just hours earlier.
“I saw her walking toward me,” Henderson County Sheriff’s Deputy Dan Fontenot said. “But I didn’t think it could be her. I went up to her and asked, ‘What’s your name?’”
I was like something out of a fairy tale. Coming out of the woods not wearing any clothes, my feet and arms and legs scratched, bearing fruit in my tanned, cupped hands.
I had watched the Frog Men search for grandpa and eventually pull him from the water. It took hours. The sun was split in half by the horizon and then it was all of it in the sky and making its way up until it was directly overhead. The divers wore sleek black suits and goggles. The divers gleamed. So bright they were hard to look at for more than a second or two. My eyes wouldn’t adjust.
Grandpa was a different story. He’d spent almost a full day at the bottom of the river, was fat and bloated, almost colorless. A big pale hairy fish. Dead as anything, he jiggled. It wasn’t so hard for me to look at him like that.
In fact, once the Frog Men found him and pulled him out of the water, I watched the EMT’s arrive, and then the coroner. They all put a hand or two on his pale and jiggling body, and each time they touched him, even though I knew he’d spent all night at the bottom of the river—among bullheads and suckers and broken bottles and whatever else is down there at the bottom of the Mississippi—I worried he might come back to life. I watched him hard, squinting my eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun with a hand cupped at my eyebrows. More than once, I realized I’d stopped breathing, afraid he would move first a finger or two, and second a stupid, wide, flat foot. Finally, he would stand up and shake the water off of himself like a big dog. First thing he’d want to do, I knew, was come looking for me. So I waited there in the woods and watched him not moving—afraid every second that he would—through squinted eyes.
*This is an excerpt from the story I'm working on and hope to finish by the end of the week. The italicized portion borrows from yet takes liberties with an actual AP story, as do the other italicized bits of the story.
Anna Grabowski’s lips and teeth were stained dark purple. Her tongue, she would say later, felt as big as a horse’s in her mouth.
Crews had pulled her grandfather’s body from the Mississippi River just hours earlier.
“I saw her walking toward me,” Henderson County Sheriff’s Deputy Dan Fontenot said. “But I didn’t think it could be her. I went up to her and asked, ‘What’s your name?’”
I was like something out of a fairy tale. Coming out of the woods not wearing any clothes, my feet and arms and legs scratched, bearing fruit in my tanned, cupped hands.
I had watched the Frog Men search for grandpa and eventually pull him from the water. It took hours. The sun was split in half by the horizon and then it was all of it in the sky and making its way up until it was directly overhead. The divers wore sleek black suits and goggles. The divers gleamed. So bright they were hard to look at for more than a second or two. My eyes wouldn’t adjust.
Grandpa was a different story. He’d spent almost a full day at the bottom of the river, was fat and bloated, almost colorless. A big pale hairy fish. Dead as anything, he jiggled. It wasn’t so hard for me to look at him like that.
In fact, once the Frog Men found him and pulled him out of the water, I watched the EMT’s arrive, and then the coroner. They all put a hand or two on his pale and jiggling body, and each time they touched him, even though I knew he’d spent all night at the bottom of the river—among bullheads and suckers and broken bottles and whatever else is down there at the bottom of the Mississippi—I worried he might come back to life. I watched him hard, squinting my eyes, shielding them from the glare of the sun with a hand cupped at my eyebrows. More than once, I realized I’d stopped breathing, afraid he would move first a finger or two, and second a stupid, wide, flat foot. Finally, he would stand up and shake the water off of himself like a big dog. First thing he’d want to do, I knew, was come looking for me. So I waited there in the woods and watched him not moving—afraid every second that he would—through squinted eyes.
*This is an excerpt from the story I'm working on and hope to finish by the end of the week. The italicized portion borrows from yet takes liberties with an actual AP story, as do the other italicized bits of the story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
