Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.

�� Arthur C. Clarke, "The Nine Billion Names of God" ��






My chapbook, The Language of Exile, is available from Main Street Rag. I like to trade chapbooks. I want yours. I want it now ....

ME ME ME
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2005-11-12, 1:49 p.m.:
Three hundred Tang poems, in Chinese and English. Saturday afternoon reading.

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2005-11-12, 12:38 p.m.:
Yesterday: Tea and melancholia. And later, poker.

Today: Hangover and snow-sleet.

"Attack of the Clones" and bowtie pasta with veggie crumbles in ricotta, parmesan and creamy red pepper sauce. The power had been off for about four hours by the time I woke up: No coffee, no Sesame Street. All the rooms unnaturally quiet. No power tools at work on the house being built (for 18 months now and counting) kitty-corner across from us, no air purifier. No wind. The snow silences the wind, somehow. Which is what makes snow friend not foe. Two shots of espresso. I hate the wind. Reading Cocktails and rereading The Blue Bird. And the baby (He Who Sits Up) is discovering an all-new vocal world: Squealing, yelping, grunting, shrieking. Appliances or no, it can sound like bloody murder in here.

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2005-11-10, 8:50 p.m.:
NaNoWriMo update: Oh, it's the usual story with this same project. I throw myself into it, which inevitably means a spate of refresher and research reading. I do this early in the day, become somewhat entrenched in it and ultimately am almost powerless to pull up my head again, as from a 'Buffy' marathon ("Just when you think you're out of it, 'The Wish' or 'The Body' comes and pulls you back in!") More research, more reading, more preparation. By nightfall - it's finally time to get something down on the page - I am tired and twisted. And bitter, too. Overwhelmed. No words on paper. This is the reason this project has not moved an inch forward since 2002 or so.

Do I really want to do this thing, or do I just wish that I did? Am I mythologizing my own writing ambitions? Do not my 'keepers' write themselves, disempowering me, at least in the initials stages, the birthings? Do not the babies usually like to decide themselves when they will arrive? (So many rhetorical questions - you know it must be a bad state of affairs.)

Maybe in 10, 20 years, when I look back, I will recognize this thing as my great pipedream, the book that was not to be, that was never meant to be actually finished, my unwritten Wide Sargasso Sea,

Fuck that. I'm getting something on the page tomorrow. I will welcome the most outrageous drivel with open arms (hear that, muse of shite verse?). Damn it all to hell. 21 days and counting.

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2005-11-10, 3:44 p.m.:
Obi, Artoo, Ree-o, Window, Anni-In, Mahmay, Owly (now morphing into 'Bu-ddha,' which is just lovely), Han, Tsu-Ba-Ka.

The Jedi Obi, Anni-In, Window and Owly fight, of course, using their "hott die-bits."

Today has also brought a lot of singing of the Sesame Street song, aka "Nonny Day!" Atti sings very nicely in key and mostly hits all the notes and rhythms.

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2005-11-10, 12:43 p.m.:
OK, I've enabled comments, so please - knock your selves out.

2006 USAA calendar is here ("Some photos have been altered to meet DoD standards"). Someone out there knew I didn't have enough fighter-jet-and-West-Point-cadet-related artwork on my walls. January comes with an oleaginous quotation from Cheney, July a staged reenactment (a la the tableaux vivants of Laguna Beach, one might think) of Iwo Jima against a spray of fireworks. But there is no Bush as a fighter-pilot action figure. I almost expected this. Then again, at least two of the quotes could be construed as anti the politicians who drag us into wars and pro the people fighting them (Schwarzkopf, Powell). And there's a hero quote from our own (i.e. we the civilians) Joseph Campbell.

Full disclosure: My dad was career Army (medical discharge from active duty with the rank of Colonel), my brother went to West Point, my grandfather was Navy (reenlisting for the fight in WWII though he was over forty, with four children). My stepfather another West Pointer. I myself always wanted to be a Jedi, like my father .... The West Pointers are damn good bridge players, is all I'd like to add. Super-shiny sharp tacks. But my mom and I still came in second and made 7 No Trump.

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