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2005-11-09, 5:02 p.m.:
Notes to self: Bryan Dietrich's Superman poems in Krypton Nights, Linda Gregerson, Penelope Fitzgerald The Blue Flower, Kamau Brathwaite of Barbados, Joyelle McSweeney. Also: The sure thing is not that sure. And the unlikely event may be likelier than you think. 0 comments
2005-11-08, 11:31 p.m.:
Town Preacher Marquee Dept. (our first installment) It's the church just down the hill. Not sure what denomination. A low, rust-red mountain building, much like the St. Mary's down near the res and the P.O. Anyway, he has a marquee out front, just like a movie marquee. But more of a podunk marquee - like, not much taller than a man. And he puts out a different "gospell" on it each week. (I imagine him lying in bed late night, giggling to himself as a particularly cunning little gem comes to him.) Sometimes they're so long, you have to slow waaaayy down in your car to take in the whole thing. Or you only get it in the course of multiple drive-bys.
Halloween week's was: Heaven is no trick and Hell is no treat.
A few weeks before that:
Lord, help me become the person my dog thinks I am.
(Dogs and religion. Check. Yeah, it's a mountain town.) 0 comments
2005-11-07, 12:23 p.m.:
My baby can sit up now. This changes everything. Somehow yesterday I got myself embroiled in NaNoWriMo. What the hell, you ask. Because I'm not a fiction writer. And it's a week into the thing - only 22 days and change left. But. Let me tell you. I have decided to write my novel in verse this month. I am sure there will be much of the suckage in what I do produce. I'm shooting for 20 poems in these 22+ days (and haven't really sat down to figure out if that's too many or too few. It will depend on my cast of characters). But the point is: When else will this get done? This thing is not doing itself. I have noticed. So I'm considering the usual NaNoWriMo word counts as not applicable to me. They're not. This isn't The Illiad, after all. On top of the poem output, I've allocated 30-60 minutes a day to my research/parallel reading (because this is my 17th century gig here). I can't afford more than that. I haven't got those hours in the day. Well, I would if I forswore the Internet. But the Internet being my demon lover, I would never do that. 
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2005-11-06, 11:40 p.m.:
All this weekend it was windy and freezing and ridiculous. It was too cold even for ghosts. 0 comments
2005-11-03, 4:13 p.m.:
One new poem today. Still, the vacation continues. No revising. No looking at old things. Once again, the entire household sick. So we watch Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith in the middle of the day (we are very bad parents, yes), Att on a pallet on the floor, me drinking tea and furtively downing Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (from Halloween; we keep them in the liquor cabinet with the other dangerous substances) in the kitchen when no one's looking. We had one thousand errands but we cancelled them all. I sniff. I quaff tea. I chomp Reese's. I read snatches from The Red Bird (Joyelle McSweeney) and Voices from Chernobyl (the one book I will tell everyone this year they MUST read). I have my family here. I am thinking: I will sell all my lunchboxes and collect '50s toy robots instead. I am thinking: It's OK to feel sentimental in your head. I am thinking: Life is good. 0 comments
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