Quick Note Before Bed

Met up with Peter Pereira this evening. We had him up for cocktails in our lounge and had a wonderful time gabbing and sucking down cocktails. Peter is a total sweetheart. Jacob adored him. We then met up with some friends for dinner and then Jacob and I bailed on dancing. We were both exhausted. I also have a panel tomorrow morning, so I need to get to bed.

Live from AWP

So, I just finished up Victoria Chang's Asian American Poetry Anthology reading. It was a really good reading. Everyone read really great stuff. And I got to see a bunch of fellow poets in the blogosphere: Charles, Jennifer Thornton, Paul Guest, ODLP. Also ran in to Kelly Agodon. The reading was pretty amazing. Brenda Shaughnessy read some brilliant new poems. And Aimee Nez, that total sweetheart brought me bars of fabulous marine soaps! I could have just died from the excitement of smelling them.

Jacob and I are back in our room, and we are meeting up with Peter Pereira in a few minutes for a drink. It is really weird meeting fellow bloggers because you feel like you kind of know them, but you kind of don't! Jacob and I couldn't stop marveling at how much taller Charles is than we expected. And Eduardo is right: Charles has a VERY naughty grin!

Okay, time to stop blogging before Jacob starts giving me dirty looks.

Brewing

Why is it whenever I have to travel somewhere I am doing last minute things, like laundry and stuff? What the hell is wrong with me? Like I didn't know I was leaving for Vancouver tomorrow all week? Anyway, that is what I have been doing this morning: laundry. Sad.

And wouldn't you know that it is now, in the midst of all this crap, that a poem is brewing, seriously brewing. I have had a few lines of it now for over two weeks, but now the images and argument are solidifying. Quickly, too. Well I wrote a poem during last year's AWP, so maybe again this year. That poem, "Windows," will be in the spring issue of Georgia Review. I am pretty excited to see it there. I had been submitting to GR for twelve years!

And to all of you going to Vancouver for AWP (if not already there), remember it isn't Vegas. What happens there goes everywhere!!

Ha!

Favorite Quote from a Patient Yesterday: "You know, you doctors all kind of suck. Well (looking at me), some of you suck less than others." Well, Gee. Thanks, I guess. The irony of that statement!

The last few weeks at the hospital have been kind of rough. Very busy. I am counting the hours today. I am off tomorrow and then off to AWP on Thursday morning. We fly out around 8am and get to Vancouver around 10am or so. Not too long of a flight. If anything, I am excited just to not be at the hospital for five days straight.

For those of you going to AWP, I will be staying at the Fairmont (one of the conference hotels). You can reach me by picking up a house phone there or by emailing me. Or you can just swing by the NER / VQR table and say hi if I am there. It is supposed to be cool and rainy while we are there.

Flattery, It's the New Honesty

A friend of mine sent me this a few years ago. It is funny in a new age kind of way (with more than a touch of irony to it). Of course, it would be nice if your computer did this all the time, wouldn't it? Click on this link and fill in your first name only. Then be prepared for something wonderful!

Killing Williams

It was a good Easter Sunday. Jacob made a Ham (which was great despite the fact he is vegetarian and didn't eat any of it). The whole meal was tasty. If I look like a fat pig when you see me at AWP, just smile and pretend not to notice!

I walked in to my office this morning and saw the message light blinking. THAT is never a good sign on a Monday morning. Sure enough, there is an urgent patient consult. My day is packed solid, but the patient has to be seen, so no lunch for me today. But this may be a good thing (see previous paragraph).

Lots of conversation about rate of production, especially prompted by Peter and his pottery post. In the end, I take the following stance: we all do what we need to do. I don't need to write 30 poems a year to get 10. I just write what I can. I rarely give up on a poem. If it takes 7 years of revision, it takes 7 years. But that is just me. I think I am doing okay publishing the poems I write in magazines, if that matters. I publish almost everything I write. Again, this isn't that odd because I don't write much. Anyway, what I wanted to say is that it is all good. Some need to write a lot to work out the kinks. Some work them out in their heads over time. It may well amount to the same thing.

Had a weird dream last night where I was plotting to kill William Carlos Williams. No idea why. It was a disturbing dream (not while it was happening); when I woke up and thought about it I was really disturbed. I happen to like Williams' work, so this is kind of odd. Anyway, time to play Doctor!

The Connections

Last night, although a wonderful night, was totally unplanned. It was one of those weird evenings where things went wrong and, by so doing, went right. Jacob and I met our friends Ron and Geri for Mexican food. It was great. Can we say mole sauce is divine? While at dinner, we had a lot of odd conversation about poetry stuff, film, etc. It led to someone bringing up the movie, "Sylvia." We decided to just walk down the street, rent it, and then watch it at our place. Well, here is where things went wrong. We get back to our place, sit down, put the DVD in and then as we are about to press play... the electricity went out! Just like that.

We ended up lighting a bunch of candles and sitting in the living room waiting to see how long the power would be out. After 15 mins, Jacob suggested, half-seriously, that we just read each other Plath poems, instead. For almost two hours, we sat in the candle-lit room reading not just Plath poems out loud, but Whitman, Bishop, Justice, Donne, Eliot, Ginsberg, Ashbery, Yeats, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, etc. It was electrifying in a very strange way. I read "Song" and the room was suddenly darker, the air stopped moving, you could hear us breathing. At the end of the night, we read Stevens. Geri read "The Idea of Order at Key West," and suddenly, there in that room, we all realized why John Ashbery is a true student of Stevens. We could hear the conversational asides Ashbery uses so often in Stevens. We realized a friend of ours (I will not name him here) is, without his direct knowledge, the direct successor to Ashbery without sounding like an imitation of Ashbery. I dare not say his name here for fear he read it. And we heard, in a Justice poem, the odd details in a Bishop poem. It was as if, in this darkened room by candlelight, all the connections in poetry started showing themselves. We really are all connected.

In the end, the power came back so late all we could do is postpone the movie until today. But it was, in many ways, the perfect night for a poet. Sitting there listening, I realized how much I love poetry. I love it so much it seems to be a part of me. Yes, it sounds sappy and Romantic, but I think I write poems because I cannot not write them. I think about poems all the time. It is like a sickness.

The New Decadence

Well, I am no Tony Robinson. I am no chef gourmet, but I do love food, especially French food. To cheer me up, Jacob made reservations for us last night at Bistro Chapeau!. It was just what this doctor needed.

We started out with a tasty Kir Royale each. Jacob started with a crusted Brie over a carrot and leek shredded thing with a wine reduction dressing. I started with a mesclun salad topped with a small chunk of almost-melted Camembert, grape halves, pistachios, and a balsamic vinegar dressing. Palates were then cleansed with a lemon-ginger sorbet infused with citrus vodka. Damn! My palate has never been so cleansed!

Main Course followed: Jacob had a crazy looking tower of vegetables topped with artichoke. It had lentils and grains and all kinds of odd looking things. He raved about it though, so it must have been good. I had a Filet mignon and frites, the filet topped with a selection of fresh mushrooms and a cabernet reduction. The owner brought us the last bottle of 1998 Chateau Olivier Pessac-Leognon (Bordeaux) they had. It was exquisite. It showed beautifully and had those classic Bordeaux legs. The nose was pungent, earthy, and as Jacob rightfully pointed out, somewhat "barn" smelling. The wine was earthy and forward on the palate with an interesting tannic evolution after the initial sip. It was divine! Yes, I know, we are soooooooooo gay!

Desert was amazing. Jacob had profiteroles, and I had a warm chocolate cake with banana flambe and a tiny scoop of rum raisin ice cream. They also brought us a slice of the pear tarte grande. I couldn't even have more than a bite because I was so full. After 3 hours of eating dinner, we went home and went straight to bed. Amazing how much the whole experience cheered me up. Yup, I am a true Aries, born to experience decadence!

If you are ever in the Bay area and have the chance to go to Bistro Chapeau!, you simply must go. It is a very small place, but it is amazing. And, compared to other French restaurants in San Francisco, it is quite reasonable and affordable (except for some of the wine!).

Surprises

Hard to believe it is Good Friday. But with patient after patient telling me their weekend plans, it has to be. I got Jacob his Easter present a few days ago. Of course, he keeps asking me what it is, to which I respond: "It is a surprise." This drives him nuts, or he at least pretends it does to make me feel excited for him. Let us just say he is going to love his Easter present.

Have a good weekend, all of you! Enjoy the Holiday.

Vague Explanations Are Best

Thanks for all the good words, folks. I cannot say much because I don't want to make the situation worse. Let's just say if you take a good look at my blog profile you might figure out why I am not so happy right now.

And to those who emailed: No, Jacob didn't leave me or anything dramatic. Thank God. He keeps me sane. He has helped me significantly with the overwhelming disappointment I am feeling right now.

Apology

My apologies for my rant of yesterday. I should admit I am not in a very good mood. As a consequence, I won't even think about reading a submission to NER right now. Some not so good things going on. I can't really say more than that. But I am definitely not happy right now. I am definitely not happy.

So Much Bitterness

Why is the Poetry World so bitter? I swear, the bitterness spans every generation writing. I hear things constantly from poets that simply reek of bitterness. It seems that so many poets are crippled by jealousy, crippled by constant competition. So many of them now teach that they write and publish merely to get tenure or to get a raise. It is all so sickening. What the hell do poets expect to "win" in the end?

And now, I meet younger poets whose discussions about grad school, etc. sound more like careerist bozos starting out at Merrill Lynch. Their dialogues are filled with schemes and plots, the poets and editors one needs to know, the awards one needs to win. What ever happened to writing good poems? I'll write it again: what ever happened to writing good poems?

Now, I can already hear the haters saying: "Oh pu-leeeze! This coming from that networker-bitch, C. Dale!" Well, poetry is a small world. If you hang around in it long enough, you cannot help but end up knowing a lot of people. It is kind of inevitable. But I don't have TIME to run around networking. Up until the past few years, I didn't really even have time to do readings. I couldn't get the time off. I guess I have a truly odd perspective. Being an editor places me in the publishing weirdo world of Poetry, but being a physician also places me far outside of the Academy. I don't rely on poetry/teaching to pay my bills. When you do, I guess all these publications and prizes and stuff translate into more pay, a better house, etc. I think this is bad for poetry.

Now I do not usually agree much with Dana Gioia, but maybe he is right. Maybe Poetry should not live so ensconced in the Academy. 100 years ago, very few poets taught. Now, the vast majority of them do. Small talk at AWP almost always begins with: "So, where do you teach?" Maybe I make so few friends there because I answer something like: "God help me!" This just before I walk away.

I am losing myself here. I am just riled up because a young poet told a friend of mine yesterday how he HAD to go to Columbia because if he didn't he would never be famous. What the hell!? What is going on in the backyard of Poetry?

The Birth of John Ashbunny, etc.

That Jimmy, he has started up a new cartoon called, of all things, John Ashbunny. Jimmy is truly out there. And if you missed his last WTHIUWYAP, check it out. He did Maxine Chernoff. Too funny for words.

I am still recovering from all these guys who sleep on their sides. Can you ALL be nice, generous men? What the hell? Where are all the on your back sleepers? Am I alone out here?

All my patients are pissed off today because it is raining. I can always tell the weather outside by how the majority of them act. No windows down in the radiation oncology department, but I can always kind of tell the weather. Yes, I am a little weird that way. Okay, let me finish inhaling my lunch before afternoon clinic starts.

Almost Hot Off the Press

The Winter Issue of NER finally came out late last week (and I point out that although late, it was still winter when it came out). We are in the process of updating the NER website, so stop by and check it out if you are interested. Shameless begging follows: Maybe you could subscribe for a year? If you order on-line it is only $20.

In the new issue, poems by:

WILLIAM LOGAN

KATHERINE LUCAS ANDERSON

PATRICK PHILLIPS

REGINALD SHEPHERD

SUSAN HAHN

EVE ADAMSON

SARAH MURPHY Letter to My Better Self, Neglected, Rejected, Allegedly Dead

SEBASTIAN MATTHEWS Coming into Lexington, Virginia

ANDREW FELD

AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL

I have listed links to the poems we have up at the site as samples. Check them out if you have a chance. Very different from each other, they are. Sarah Murphy continues to astound me. I know virtually nothing about her, but I am pretty sure I "discovered" her a few years ago. Time after time, she has sent me amazing stuff. Does anyone know her? I think she is a student of some kind at Indiana.

Invitation

Well, I got an email from Victoria Chang: Sue Kwock Kim has dropped out of the reading lineup for the reading/panel at AWP to promote Victoria's anthology. She asked me to step in, and I said yes. Weird to think of myself filling in for Sue. Should I wear a black dress? Should I learn how to pronounce Korean words? Just kidding. It should be fun though. If any of you are at AWP and want to hear a bunch of young Asian American Poets and "half-breeds" like me read, come on by. I will be representing the Happas.

AWP Asian American Poetry Anthology Reading and Launch Party: 3:00-4:15 PM at the Fairmont Hotel, Vancouver. Featuring poets Timothy Liu, Brenda Shaughnessy, Nick Carbo, Tina Chang, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and C. Dale Young: Pacific room, C-Level, 3rd Floor.

Sorry, for Guys only

So I took the Bedtime Body Language Quiz, and this is how I scored. Not sure what to think of this. This is a weird quiz! For all you guys out there who are brave enough, take the quiz and report back. Sorry ladies (I mean REAL ladies, as in having two X chromosomes), but this one is apparently for guys only. I will have to see if there is one out there for women.


Take the quiz: "Your Bedtime Body Language (PICS)(Guys Only)"

On Your Back
You are confident and may have a vain streak. Of all the positions, this one exposes the most skin. You crave being the center of attention. The good news: You are open and eager to embrace new experiences and challenges -- in and out of bed.

The Emperor of Fog

I have finished Ashbery, and the rain has stopped. The sun is out, finally, and I now feel regal, dare I say it, Imperial. Yes, I am the Emperor of Fog and all things beautiful but deceptive. In this spirit, I do hereby proclaim that:

First off, I read/check a lot of blogs that are not in my blogroll (many of you know I liberally comment on all kinds of blogs not in my blogroll, and I link to blogs in my roundups that are not in my blogroll). Second of all, my blogroll is small because I feel an overwhelming compulsion to check whatever is on my blogroll at least once per day, sometimes twice. So, I purposely keep the blogroll small because otherwise I couldn't keep up. No, they aren't ranked. No, I am not trying to slight anyone by not listing them over there. And lastly, if you are in my blogroll and don't post often enough, I will delete you from it (see previous sentence about me checking these blogs daily). I don't want to constantly check blogs that get updated once a week.

So, with that introduction, it is now Spring and I am cleaning. Some in the blogroll are gone. Like that! See how mean I am. I, like the Emperor Tiberius, have issued a decree and the orders have been carried out. Sorry folks, you didn't post enough. I will still be checking your blogs, just not daily (or twice daily as I really do with most in the blogroll). Oliver de la Paz, you are on probation as of today! If you slack too much, you are gone from the blogroll! I don't care if you have papers to grade or icicles the size of Kansas to knock down, I expect posts!! Jeff Bahr, you have redeemed yourself in the last two weeks. Prior to that, you were dangerously close to elimination!

I have added Anthony Robinson, Lorna Dee Cervantes, and Woody Loverude to the blogroll. I am a demanding Emperor. Now, where did I put my compound? And where are my servants? Gag!

Ezra Pound? Nope, I am definitely not Ezra Pound.

First off, let me make clear my previous post was not made to elicit a firestorm of commentary. To those who sent me anonymous emails with addresses like biteme@hotmail.com, you can simply fuck yourselves. My post was simply an observation. I do NOT hate themed books; I just find it odd that there are suddenly so many of them. Some are quite good. Some are not. I rather enjoyed and appreciated Nick Flynn's Blind Huber, which is certainly a themed book. My point is that it seems these kinds of books are what now win contests because they stand out in a sea of manuscripts. Anyway, whatever. I don't visit the blogworld to incite anything. Some will agree. Some will not. Such is life. I am not Ezra Pound, and I have no intent or desire to direct the critical consensus about anything. Jeez, people. Moving on...


I am about 2/3rds of the way through Ashbery's new book, Where Shall I Wander. It is breathtaking. I think it may his best book in the past 5 years (and he has had quite a number of books in the past 5 years, I might point out). His beautiful way of generating familiarity is still there; you know, the way you read his lines and think: "Yes, of course. Of course, it is that way." But still, you reach the end of an Ashbery poem and suddenly realize you aren't so sure what the hell just happened. But still, you want to read more. In this book, there is, dare I say it, an element of the elegiac. The poems seem more heartfelt (for Ashbery). And what do I truly appreciate? The fact Ashbery never forgoes clarity and precision of his lines, his images, his syntax. Some younger poets would do well to study Mr. Ashbery who knows that ambiguous and shadowy verse does not necessitate ambiguous and shadowy language and poems. No matter how wiley you think an Ashbery poem is, you cannot fault them for lack of clarity and exacting language. Maybe THAT is why his poems have a certain familiarity. Who knows? Some of my favorite lines in the book are the opening ones, from his poem "Ignorance of the Law Is No Excuse":

We were warned about spiders, and the occasional famine.
We drove downtown to see our neighbors. None of them were home.
We nestled in yards the municipality had created,
reminisced about other, different places—
but were they? Hadn't we known it all before?

More on Ashbery to come. Publishing Tip Number 5 to come. A new episode of "La Familia." Revision Tip Number Three. So much to come. And of course, what would this blog be without an occasional rant? Ha!

Overabundance

Whatever happened to books composed of good poems? You know, a variety and variation of themes. Where are these books? It seems lately every book I pick up, especially first and second books, are "theme" books. I find this really odd. Is it a result of contests and the fact these kinds of books stand out more in a sea of hundreds of manuscripts? I find it kind of sad, really. I am beginning to think our messed up marketplace is now affecting our finished products in a terrible way. It is so bad that even submissions of 3-6 poems are all themed. Why? Why not show me your range? Why not let me hear the various inflections of your imagination? Are we now afraid to do that? Are we now so caught up in having a recognizable "voice" that we have begun to substitute theme for it?

I wrote this once before: many of the poets in my generation have very distinct "voices", but now when I look back at them, these poets don't write "theme" books per se. Doug Powell, Cate Marvin, Pimone Triplett, Sarah Manguso, Matthea Harvey: their unifying thing seems to be affect and aesthetic manifestations of craft. What is up with all these "theme" books? Am I crazy in saying this? Is this situation not really that predominant? Am I just running in to these books?

Today, I spent much of my morning reading submissions. But the highlight of my day will be sitting down to read the new book by Ashbery. I am excited, like a school girl. I am even kind of giggly. It is still a little rainy here, so what better day to curl up with Ashbery. I am ready to have my socks knocked off!

Round 'em up

Watched The Incredibles last night. I am now totally in love with Edna Mode. Okay folks, time for the weekly roundup. There has been a lot of sticking going on in our neighborhood, and I have now lost track of who is sticking whom. I have roamed the blogosphere (mark you, less so this week because I have been hellishly busy at the hospital) and have culled these just for you:

1. At the top of the list this week, Jim Behrle. Yes, that Jimmy has done it to Robert Frost. I so LOVE this. Take that, Frost!

2. Charles is getting all anxious over the line. That Charles. Eduardo and I are now having to take turns guarding ADT from him.

3. Kelli teaches us that "cookies" aren't just bits of data on your computer! My God, the things women wear! Brings new meaning to "lifts and separates."

4. ODLP brings us the new Darth Vader (Idaho Style).

5. Emily talks about spanking. Hey folks, I don't make this stuff up?

6. David Koehn breaks the story on "inspiration" and the fact the government in now investigating it. You thought steroids were bad! Well, this stuff is terrible.

Okay all, another week down.

Trying Not to Smile

On my way home yesterday evening, I stopped at Target and picked up the newly-released DVD of The Incredibles. Jacob simply had to have it. He is one of those Disney/Pixar freaks. I have to admit, however, that I really liked The Incredibles. My favorite character in the movie? Edna Mode. She is hilarious. I love it when she describes the models in Milan with the puffy lips. Too funny. Also picked up Spidey 2, a sequel that was actually better than the original. What can I say? I have always loved movies more than F-I-L-M.

Today, I had a patient say: "It is a good thing you don't smile too much. If you did, you would probably get raped." I mean, what kind of thing is that to say to your doctor?! And what kind of sicko am I in that all I did was smile? Good God, people say the strangest things. My nurse just about fell over and died laughing after hearing about this.

The Big (Rotten) Apple

Warning, warning. Bitchfest follows!

So, I am reading in New York in April and went on-line to book a room for us. I should mention it has been four years since I actually stayed in a hotel room in NYC. What the hell! There is something very wrong when a Hilton is $300 a night. The Hilton is not the Four Seasons. And, as Jacob put it, there is no reason to make Paris Hilton any wealthier. For God's sake, she has more money than one could shake a stick at, and all it did was encourage her to run around on TV with her friend looking and sounding like a total moron. Anyway, back to the NYC dilemma. I used to stay at the Carlyle whenever in NYC. Now, the regular room there is $545 per night. I am sorry, but the bellhops better be doing more for me than bringing me extra towels for that amount of money!

Somehow, in the past four years, hotel rates in NYC have skyrocketed. Now, I am not crazy (well, a little bit); I do remember NYC being expensive, but this is ridiculous. I am going to New York to give a poetry reading for which I will get paid virtually nothing. To do this reading I have to spend some ungodly amount of money. I don't care how much I can write off for taxes, it is the principle of the matter.

I wish the reading were in New Orleans. There, for a lot less money, I can live like the freakin Duke of Orleans. Hey, anyone want me to read in New Orleans? Jacob and I love that city. All that squalor and that lovely decaying city. Where else do men yank down their jeans to show you their goods on a Tuesday night? Even straight men do it! Anyway, I am getting sidetracked. What the hell is up with the Big Apple?

The Stick

Well, I half wish, with a post title like that, that this were going to be a funny post. Sadly, it is not. Someone recently wrote that memes were like chain letters you didn't have to do. Well, now some genius has come up with "The Stick." Jeez. Anyhoo, Suzanne has passed the stick to me and two others. Well, Suzanne asked for it. But once I pass this stick, I will not accept it again from anyone. Do you hear me, people? I aint doin' this thang again!

Okay, here goes:

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be? Dante's Inferno.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? Yes, Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. I know, how completely geeky.

The last book you bought is: Elegy on Toy Piano by Dean Young.

The last book you read: The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World. I was curious.

What are you currently reading? Principles of Genitourinary Oncology.

Five books you would take to a deserted island:

NONE! If I am on a deserted island, the last thing I want are books. I want Jacob with me and a cabinet filled with fine wine.

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

Peter Pereira, because he is on vacation, and I am not.

Chuck Jensen, because he is a wild man and supposedly has a naughty grin.

Reb Livingston, because she hasn't been blogging much and I know hers will be hilarious!

Diva!

A few years ago, my good friend Rick and I wrote down a list of the top ten diva requirements. I cannot for the life of me now remember why we did this. I think it started because we were pointing out the various diva moves of some poets we know. Anyhoo, here is the list. I found it again in an old email of mine.

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The Top 10 requirements for being a Diva

1. Wear Black or Couture

2. Never remember anyone's name

3. Never, NEVER be seen eating anything

4. Liberally say no when asked to do virtually anything

5. Never throw parties but make sure you are always invited to everyone else's

6. Have a cell phone that rings loudly at the most rude times (ie. in Church, during poetry readings)

7. Only fly First Class

8. If dating is unavoidable, date someone 10 years younger or ten times richer

9. Cultivate and use a look somewhere between boredom and disdain

10. Always have the windows on your cars tinted

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Do you know anyone who qualifies to be a diva-in-training (someone who already does 5 or more of these)? A full-fledged diva does 8 or more of these things!

Show Me What You Got, Son

I have mentioned before the act of encountering the "one," the poem that changed you forever, the poem that made you stop and think twice about poetry. But a writing life never has just one poem that spurs you to write. There are always others.

Picture me, the 22-year old graduate student fresh out of college. I have landed somehow in the MFA Program at the University of Florida. I have landed there partly because I wanted to study with Donald Justice and partly because Justice and William Logan have fought for me to get a 2-year deferment from the medical school at UF so that I can study in the MFA Program. Although I have read most of English Poetry (from Chaucer to the Modernists), I have only taken one poetry workshop. Up until 18 months prior to that, I would never have dreamed I would be writing poems much less studying poetry in a graduate program. I had applied to three MFA Programs and been accepted to all three, but I had chosen Florida on a weird hunch that that was where I was supposed to be. In my year of the workshop are four other poets. The year ahead of me has five poets as well. In the first workshop, Debora Greger has us read Amy Clampitt's poem, "A Baroque Sunburst."

Even now, I remember resisting that poem. I wanted to hate Amy Clampitt. But Greger then handed us an assignment based on that poem. We were to write a poem of 14 to 16 lines in which the title of the poem lead directly into the text of the poem. In the poem, we were to include at least one bird, a foreign country, a precious or semi-precious metal, a season of the year, a plant, a flower, a large building. If possible, the entire poem was to be one sentence but no more than three sentences. The seventh line was to pivot on a colon and shift after that. The requirements went on and on and on. I became panic-stricken.

What the hell had I signed up for? Was I crazy? Would I be crazy at the end of this "training"? I spent days working on that assignment. What I produced was a terrible poem about people making a pilgrimage to worship the Devi in India. It was a truly horrible poem. Nothing of it remains. But I worked and worked on it wondering what the hell I was supposed to be learning from this "futile" assignment. I mean, what could possibly arise from such a ridiculous assignment?

The next week, in workshop, we turned in our assignments. We spent the class looking at a handful of poems by Mark Strand. And our next assignment was based, in part, on a Mark Strand poem. The following week, just before workshop, I picked up the workshop packet. My poem was not among the ones up for discussion. But there in the packet of five, mostly mediocre poems was this poem:


"What Vallejo Calls Notre Dame Bridge"

will not let him cross in peace,
its stones breaking into chatter
like parrots, the smell of eucalyptus

seeping from the ice
as if it were summer, Lima,
ten years earlier, as if Vallejo

were not yet Vallejo:
the lush greenery of bronze
on the cathedral, the market

alive with peppers, coffee beads,
fried octopus on a vendor's cart,
Europe still a budding orchid,

the prize of a florist's stand, white
as the Madonna's marble throat,
moist as a sponge dipped in vinegar.


This was what my classmate, Andres Rojas, turned in. I stood there in the copy shop completely shocked. How could someone produce something this exquisite from such a ridiculous assignment? How could this be? I was both spellbound and incensed. What was I supposed to do? I knew it right then and there that I was out of my league. Should I pack it up and leave? I mean, how could I ever compete with something like this, with someone like this?

I went to workshop two days later. When Andres' poem came up, there was silence. No one had anything to offer, not even Debora Greger. We sat there and played with the paper. I felt shamed and humiliated, which I realize now was completely irrational. But sitting there, I realized Andres was a real poet, the real thing. For God's sake, English wasn't even his first language! But, surprisingly, that poem was a challenge to me. That poem said, "Show me what you got, son." Since that day, I think I have always written poems with that poem in the back of my head. It taunts me. It says "A real poet can take anything and make something phenomenal out of it." It says "You better work hard or you will always be a pale imitation." To be honest, I may still be a pale imitation of Andres Rojas, but I always push myself to be better as a poet. I read more even when I am sick of reading. I think about the poems of the past. And I never forget that poem by Andres Rojas. Years later, I wrote to Andres and begged him to let me have that poem for NER. We published it and it was the first poem of ours to be picked up by Poetry Daily. Even to this day I carry that poem around with me in my head. I typed it out just now from memory. After twelve years of carrying it, it almost feels like my own.

Spin Around the Block

Kelli won a $125 for a sestina! That is awesome. Considering how many magazines pay free copies for a poem when they publish it, this is great. I am not sure if I even got that much from Best American Poetry. Can't remember now. Anyway, stop by and say congrats when you have a chance.

And it is also Paul Guest's birthday!

And for a good laugh as always, check out Jimmy Behrle's "What the Hell Is Up With Your Author Photo?" This time, Lorine Niedecker.

Monday Monday

This is going to be a busy week. One of the other doctors in the group is off this week, and this is the doctor I work with every day, for the most part. So, I am alone for the week at a site that typically requires two doctors. But, as Gloria Gaynor says, I will survive.

I am started to get excited about Vancouver. Jacob and I love Vancouver. He ran the Vancouver marathon almost two years ago, and we fell in love with that city. It is just so incredibly beautiful there. Hopefully, we will be able to sneak away enough to check out some of the sights. In Chicago, we were expert at sneaking away, to the Art Institute, the Chicago Symphony, for dinners, etc.

I hope to get Publishing Tip Number 5 up this week.

Revision Tip Number 2

Sometimes when I look at a draft of a poem, the language seems appropriate but lacking. The lines say what I want them to say, but the language doesn't feel sharp, interesting, torqued. Well, a trick I have learned over the years is to then change the form. By form here I am referring specifically to metrics.

An easy form to revise with is syllabics. I like to use tetrameter to revise, but syllabics work just as well, sometimes better. I take the poem with the not so interesting language and squish it into the following, a poem with the following stanza syllabic scheme:

5
11
7
13
7

I sometimes use other schemes, but this one works pretty well. Notice I always use odd-numbered syllables. Even-numbered syllables are too encouraging for iambic lines; this I learned from Donald Justice years ago. Using odd syllable-counts forces one away from pentameter. Now, no one expects you to leave the poem in a bunch of five-lined stanzas with this syllable count, but having to squish the poem into this form will force you to trim out words or select new words to convey your meaning using this form. When you have squished the poem into this shape, you can then re-lineate the poem into lines that make more sense to you.

Again, like the tense change in tip number 1, this is a means to re-enter a poem in a generative way so revision doesn't seem like a chore. Revision should be a challenge, something fun for that part of your brain that likes to mess with words. It need not be a chore or something onerous. I have used the "syllabic squish" many times over the years. In my first book alone there are at least 5 poems that found their final lines via this exercise. None of them are syllabic poems.

Mahler, Dangers, & Pushups

We went to hear the San Francisco Symphony perform Mahler's Seventh last night. Of course, it was being recorded, so there was no intermission. Michael Tilson Thomas and the SFS have been recording all of Mahler's Symphonies over the past few years. Several of these recording have won grammy awards. That said, I was reminded last night that the Seventh has to be my least favorite of Mahler's symphonies. Not to mention I was tired, so everything became a kind of hazy experience.

On deck today three batches of submissions (a mere 270 poems) to read for NER. And this afternoon, I am definitely heading to the Japanese Hot Springs to soak and steam and get massaged. I haven't been in weeks.

I got a formal acceptance and contract from Sarabande Books today. My poem, "Torn," has been selected for an anthology they are doing entitled Legitimate Dangers, due out in early 2006. It is to be a largish anthology of younger contemporary American poets. I think the goal of this anthology is to replace the now long-outdated Morrow Anthology. All the "younger" poets in that volume edited by Dave Smith and David Bottoms are now mid-career poets. So many anthologies, so little time.

Ilya Kaminsky has also invited me to read at the San Francisco Main Library as part of his Poets for Peace series. I am still working out the details, but I am pretty excited to do it. Ilya is one of those rare poets that makes just about everyone feel good about poetry. He is the real thing.

The Napa Valley Writers' Conference is now taking applications. I think it should be a great conference in terms of poetry. People have told me great things about this conference. I intend to run my workshop like a boot camp! 10 pushups for a cliche. 20 for a subject-verb agreement problem. Just kidding. There are really amazing poets on faculty like Brigit Kelly and Sandy McClatchy and Jane Hirshfield. So sign up now. Added bonus: beautiful Napa Valley to inspire you. And wine!

Convergences

There seems to be a convergence lately of people I know and people in the blogosphere talking about translation. I occasionally toy with the idea of translating a volume of poems from Spanish, but I have to be realistic. I just don't have the time. And I do enough to avoid writing my own poems as it is. But I do think it would be very cool to translate poems. I am intrigued by the idea of entering the mind of the other poet. Of course, I am probably romanticizing this, but it does seem like a worthy and interesting thing. I have friends who translate other Romance languages, and I have a few that translate Russian and other languages as well. I often wonder how much this affects their own poems. I know reading poems from other languages, even in translation, has profoundly affected my own poems.

I am busy getting Publishing Secret Number 5 ready for you all. Not sure, in retrospect, if any of these little things is even remotely helpful to anyone.

Lastly, it has been a while since I posted famous birthdays, so here are a few:

Born today:

Carl Ruggles (Composer and former teacher of Donald Justice)
Lawrence Welk
Bobby McFerrin
Douglas Adams (Sci fi writer)
Rupert Murdoch (Publisher)
Sam Donaldson (news reporter)
Antonin Scalia (Supreme Court Justice)
Nina Hartley (porn actress)
Lisa Loeb

X

Driving from Redwood City to South San Francisco today for a Cancer Conference, I saw the most incredible thing. Two separate contrails crisscrossed to form a giant X in the sky above 280. It looked somewhat surreal, this large x marks the spot floating about the highway. It was huge. An Omen? We'll see. X marks the spot. X the roman numeral 10. X a feeble but legal signature.

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P.S. If you have a chance, Jimmy Behrle is at it again with his now renowned series, "What the Hell Is Up With Your Author Photo?" Up on deck in Jimmy land: Bob Kaufman and Eleni Sikelianos.

Back from the Valley of the Moon

Back to work today. We had a wonderful time driving through the Valley of the Moon yesterday. Tried a few new wines. Mostly, we enjoyed the weather. It was gorgeous up in wine country yesterday. It was clear and sunny and the valley just shimmered in the light. We swung by the winery where we are having our ceremony and picked up the contract. It all seems so official.

Looking forward to the weekend. I just got new stacks of submissions to read for NER. So, I know how some of my weekend will be spent. I am hoping for a repeat of a couple weeks ago where I found a bunch of poems that were wonderful.

Missed American Idol last night. Missed Tuesday night, too. I guess we are down now to the final twelve. Somebody please tell me they eliminated Scott.

And if you haven't heard the news: Eduardo won the "Discovery"/The Nation prize. Stop by and tell him congratulations, if you have a chance.

Hump Day

Off today. Jacob and I are taking his brother and his brother's girlfriend up to Sonoma for a bit so they can see the wine country.

Got my rejection from The New Republic yesterday. Oh well, you win some and you lose some. The one thing that ticked me off? They returned my cover letter! That always annoys me because it is as if they didn't even read the submission and just stuffed it in my SASE. Now, I know it was probably done by mistake when some poor person was charged with stuffing rejections, but still. Anyhoo....

Finalized my hotel reservation for Atlanta. Need to get ready for the marathon day of April 14th when I give three readings in that one day. I have never done anything like that, so we'll see. Wishing I were in Mazatlan!

La Familia, Episode 2

Previously on "La Familia":

Quick shot of Sam Witt in the blue room: "But I am going to win, no matter what it takes."

Flash to the mysterious letter: "Today is the day you will find out your task. Here in St. Louis, guarded under lock and lock, your goal is hidden from view." Peter looking excited. C. Dale yawning. Charles staggering away for another martini while cackling maniacally.

Flash to Eduardo with curtains billowing out around his naked self.

Cue up the music once again. Yes, the Coldplay is playing, and there are images of St. Louis (yes, St. Louis) flashing in and out of focus. We get head shots of each of our poets: Peter, Charles, C. Dale, Eduardo, and Sam Witt.

------------------------------------

In the blue room: Charles says: "I am never drunk. I just pretend to be drunk to throw off those fools. They just don't get it, that THIS is a competition. And damn it, what exactly are we competing for here?"

In the living room, Peter is re-reading the letter. The doorbell rings. Is it Tyra Banks? Is it Simon Cowell? For God's sake, who is it? Well, it turns out to be a plain old courier. He blows a silly horn and announces:

"Here in St. Louis, under lock and lock, is the studio of Carl Phillips. Your task is to break into this studio and steal Phillips' next manuscript before he can deliver it to FSG. The poet who is able to deliver the ms. to us will receive a book contract with Alfred Knopf, a world-wide reading tour, and a $500,000 contract to lecture once a year at Yale for five years."

Peter passes out. C. Dale says: "Gag! Only $500,000." Charles disappears. Sam Witt looks confused. No one has seen Eduardo. The page/courier guy disappears but the front door has not been opened.

Shift of scene, the room/vault, papers flying everywhere. Shift again, Charles running down an alley and ducking into an open doorway. Shift again, the page/courier places a piece of paper on a nightstand with a crude map drawing on it. The camera pulls back. The nightstand is in Eduardo's room! Fade out.

Peter is pacing in the kitchen. He grabs Charles' vodka bottle and decides to make a quick cocktail. He takes a sip and looks surprised.

In the blue room, C. Dale announces: "I need access to a phone, people. What is up with limiting communication? How am I to call up Carl and ask him to let me into his studio if I cannot make phone calls? And what is up with you camera folk following us everywhere? Do you really need to follow us into the bathroom?"

Peter is in the living room whispering to Sam Witt. The page/courier exits Eduardo's room. Sam Witt looks confused. C. Dale runs into his room and pulls a box out from under his bed. He opens the lid and the glint of light confirms there is a gun inside. Fade out.

A doorway opens in an alley. Charles steps out looking shocked. Fade out.

Tongue In Cheek

I got the following as a comment to a previous post. I started writing a comment reply but it got too long, so here it is instead.

Ginger said...

I'm curious, with two books under your belt does it change the way you approach new poems? I see you wrote about "Torn" as "from yet to be finished third book." And while I realize that might be a bit of off-the-cuff irony, I wonder if you feel as though anything changes, even subtly, if each new poem is potentially part of an eventual collection. I just helped my fiancé put together a manuscript for his first book. It was really something trying to fit together and order the poems, because he hadn't thought of them as pieces of some larger whole when he wrote them. And so I'm curious if having done the same twice yourself it influences--again not radically, but subtly--how you think about and work through the new stuff?

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Ginger,

I am probably not the norm in this either; but as I said before, I have never been normal. I don't write poems with books in mind. My comment about "from a yet unfinished third book" was a bit tongue-in-cheek. I have poems that have been published in magazines that never appeared in either my first or second books. I have poems I didn't include in my first book that I included in the second. I am sure there are poems I didn't include in the second book that may appear in the third. I write poems and then when I have a certain volume, I sit down and see what I have in terms of a book. If I have something, I have something. If not, not. Sometimes things work together, sometimes they don't. I am a pretty obsessive guy, so a lot of poems fit together because I return to the same subjects the way at night a hand returns over and over again to a bruised muscle. I joke about 6-7 years for a book because it usually takes that long for me to have enough poems to even look to see if I have anything approaching a book. I am not a project writer. The idea of some grand design for a book before one even writes a single poem seems either completely fabricated by poets or something real but revolting. It works for some, but I would have a meltdown if I sat down to work on a poem and had even a slight expectation nagging in the background that a new poem need conform to a "book" or the idea of a book. Seems a bit nauseating to me. I am beyond ecstatic just to write a good poem. A book comes far down the road, for me.

Quick Note

Last night, after watching Carnivale, we watched "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle." A lot of people described this movie to us as gut-wrenchingly (is that a word?) funny. Well, it was fun, but it really wasn't that funny. I felt it was just another variation on the whole Bill and Ted thing. Anyhoo, to each his own.

Alone today in clinic, so it will be a pretty busy day. Need to get started.

Found in Translation

Since I am on-call from home and cannot leave the area, I couldn't go with Jacob and his visiting family down to Pescadero to have brunch at his Aunt's house. I spent the day mostly reading selections of poems by various poets. I have been reading off and on for the past 8 hours. Re-read some wonderful stuff as well as read some poems for the first time:

Yves Bonnefoy
Nicanor Parra
Bei Dao
Miroslav Holub
Ryuichi Tamura

Mostly I read selections of translations. But I am always amazed at how much of a poet's imagination is based on their culture. Reading these poems gave me new possibilities. Mostly, they gave me pleasure.

In less than two hours, Carnivale! I just can't wait. This is the best freakin show on TV right now. I am so terribly addicted. I could miss an episode of many shows, but not this one.

In the coming week: Episode 2 of "La Familia" and Revision Tip Number 2. Stay Tuned.

Selected Poems

At 8:38 AM, Rebecca Loudon said...

Write something, dammit. I have a hankering to read one of your poems.

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Well, sadly, I don't have anything new that is done enough to share. I am a shy guy, you know. ;)

Anyhoo, here are a few of my poems, published over the years. I have listed them in order they appeared in magazines and by which book of mine they appear in:

from The Day Underneath the Day:

Broughtonia

On Privilege

from The Second Person (forthcoming):

Variation and Prayer in Blue-Black

Night Air (opening poem for the collection)

Maelstrom (the only pantoum I have and likely the only one I will ever write!)

August (this is housed in NYU "Literature and Medicine" database, a very cool database)

The Tree Frog

∑

Proximity

Cri de coeur (last poem from the collection)

from yet to be finished third book (I only have about 20% of it written and don't expect to finish it for probably another 6-7 years)

Torn

Anyway, this selection should hopefully appease any of you curious about my work. I am a slow writer. I don't want to work on poems all of the time. I need the down time, the time away, the time to empty my mind before I can write poems. I realize, from talking to many poets, that this isn't the norm. But hell, I have never been normal in any way!

Watch Out, Drunken Mob!

Jacob's brother Zach is in town along with his girlfriend, Autumn. We picked them up from the airport this morning. We then had some lunch at Cafe de la Presse, followed by a leisurely stroll through Chinatown. It all seemed to be quite picturesque until... Well, I have now seen it all in SF. Yes, running down Grant through the middle of Chinatown came a herd of drunken people pulling shopping carts. As best I could make out, the lead person in each team was dressed up to look like a dog and the others on the teams were wearing some messed up outfits. One group was wearing white and black stripes with the words "Prison Bitch" on them. They screamed and hollered and they reeked of beer. There were close to 200 of them running along. This right after Jacob and I told Zach and Autumn that SF isn't really that weird of a city. It was bizarre. A few minutes later, a full fledged Chinese funeral procession, incense and all, came through. The drums, the single string cello-like instruments, the long trailing silk banners. It was a little surreal.

We just couldn't take any more of Chinatown. We had to get back to the real world, so we went shopping in Union Square. Face it, we are shopping whores. As usual, I bought a bunch of things but nothing for me. Gag! Why is that? I need to start buying things for me!

Tonight, we were originally going to go grab dinner and then go dancing in the Castro. But now we are exhausted. We are opting to stay in, cook dinner, play poker. I should be working on a few lines of poems, but there are enough bad poems in the world. No need to add to the stack, right? After all, it is all about avoiding the muse.

Friday Evening Round Up

Congratulations to Bruce Snider! He is the new Jones Lecturer in Poetry at Stanford.


Okay, time for the weekly roundup:

1. Kelli absolutely does not want an Oprah puppet. Oprah has already gained some weight because this has made her so sad.

2. Katey got accepted to Iowa. Congratulations! If you haven't sent good wishes, stop by her site.

3. For all of you out there who wanted to know exactly where Charles came from, check this out. I had no idea both serial killers and Jorie Graham were so close by!

4. Rebecca Loudon talks back to her horror scope. It was not amused.

5. Even the usually placid ODLP has a rant occasionally. This one rocks! You go ODLP.

6. Aimee Nez brings new meaning to the term "flight from hell." This is one of the funniest posts I read this week.

7. Teresa has serious regrets about not watching American Idol. Shame on her! The AI gods got her back though. Don't mess with the AI gods or who knows what they can do!

8. Lastly, for those of you who didn't see this at Eduardo's blog, Lorna Dee Cervantes has a blog! Stop by and welcome her to the blogosphere.

La Familia, Episode 1

Cue the NRG remix of "Clocks" by Coldplay. The camera scans across a room with books everywhere, papers flying in the air. As the camera backs up, you eventually see the door leading into this room with no windows. Suddenly the doorway is covered, a huge metal door slams and the large wheel turns and locks. This room of books and papers is a vault of kinds. Suddenly, a large living room is on the screen and then scenes one by one flash up. Charles is shaking a martini shaker, C. Dale is lying on a couch looking forlorn, Peter is cooking Penne Pasta, Eduardo is lying on a bed, Sam Witt looks confused. Voiceover begins: From the Producers of The Real World and Road Rules, "La Familia." Tonight, meet the guys and find out their outrageous challenge. The screen fades to black.

Fifty billion commercials follow. Most of the commercials are for MTV. You think, why does MTV play so many commercials for itself?

"Clocks" begins again. There is a shot of a churchyard, pigeons fluttering in slow motion. Wait, is this NYC? Is this San Francisco? Dear God, no! No, it is... St. Louis! The narrator tells us this is no ordinary reality show. They have placed five poets in a loft to live together for 10 weeks. What the contestants don't yet know is their challenge. Again we see the metal door and the wheel spinning.

Flash, C. Dale is still on the couch looking forlorn. Peter yells something about Eliot and C. Dale looks directly into the camera and says "Gag!" We see Peter in the kitchen fretting over some kind of Penne a la vodka. Next to him, Charles is shaking up a martini. Charles: Well, it is almost noon. Time for my signature martini, vodka with a splash of gin.

Eduardo's room door opens and out walks a preppie looking undergrad adjusting his shirttail. C. Dale says: "Gag!" Sam Witt looks confused.

A letter arrives: "Today is the day you will find out your task. Here in St. Louis, guarded under lock and lock, your goal is hidden from view." Peter looks excited. C. Dale yawns. Charles staggers away for another martini while cackling maniacally. Eduardo is still in his room. Another undergrad leaves Eduardo's room. Sam Witt looks confused.

Suddenly, shot of thin white curtains blowing away from a window. The camera starts to back up. Wait. Oh My God! A gratuitous ass shot, Eduardo in the buff standing at the window with the curtains billowing at his sides. A terrible techno song is in the background. Charles is cackling in the background.

In the blue room, Sam Witt says: I have no idea why I am here. I mean, I think all these guys are gay. I am SO not gay. But I am going to win, no matter what it takes. Again, in the background, Charles cackling. The blue room fades to black. Commercials follow, but no commercial for the next episode of "La Familia."

Revision Tip Number 1

I have been thinking a lot recently about revision. Well, to be honest, this isn't a new thing. I think about revision all the time. What strikes me as interesting is how many people see revision as a chore, as something onerous. But the key to revising effectively is really, I think, understanding revision as a challenge to the imagination. If it is a challenge, you are less likely to see it as awful. What I am trying to say is that revision is not just fixing comma splices and line breaks.

Peter Davison, who passed away last year, famously said that poets today are in love with the present tense. He is right. We love the present tense in an almost unnatural way. Why that is, I have no idea. But we miss so much when we are unaware of the powers of past and future tense. The present tense is incredibly limited. It is very difficult to layer time in a poem if all you do is write in the present tense. One way I have of revising poems that just seem to be lacking something is to change the tense. I take a poem and place it in future tense or past tense and see what starts to play out. Many times it helps me eliminate excess verbiage. It helps me to play with the story lurking beneath the surface of the poem.

The past tense is brilliant thing because it helps to imply self-knowledge in your poem's speaker. It can also tactfully broach issues of loss or regret. And the future tense? Watch out! It does some truly funky things to a poem when revising. It brings an authority we associate with the "Oracle." Future tense, with its predictive qualities, can completely revamp a sagging, failing poem. It has to be the least used tense in American Poetry. Have you played with the future tense lately?

I have a whole bag of tricks relating to revision. In many ways, they have become almost a version of "writing" for me. It is why it takes me so long to finish poems. That hands in the mud fun of playing with language is always enough for me. In the moment, revision is as generative as drafting the poem in the first place. I thank Donald Justice every day for teaching me that one simple thing. Revision doesn't have to be deadening. It can be as exciting as when the first word hit the page. It just takes a shifting of the mind to experience that.

Teacher from Hell

Well, it looks as if I will have the time off. And so, I accepted the faculty position at Warren Wilson. I will be there teaching this summer. And then I will be tormenting 3 poor souls for a semester. Can you imagine me as a teacher? I am VERY demanding, scary even. Mooh-huh-whah-ha-hah-ha! Okay, enough of that.

Aaron Baker reviews second books by Wunderlich, Manning, Davis, and Spaar. An interesting bunch of books, and a thoughtful review, the kind you rarely see anymore. It seems the more popular thing today is to write a bunch of mini-reviews of one to two paragraphs. Sadly, many of these reviews are mean-spirited and end up sounding silly over such a short span of space. A good example of these can be found in Poetry. Short sniping reviews that seem silly in the end. If you only get one to two paragraphs, why write bad reviews? I am sure someone can give me a good answer to this, but I still think a review of one to two paragraphs that is a bad review ends up being far too easy to dismiss as trivial and foolish. Okay, enough of my time on my soapbox. Step away from the soapbox, Dr. Young, step away. Put down the L'Occitane Lemon Verbena bar, and step away.

The Plot Thickens

So, you know I took that gay icon test and it told me I was "The Very Gay Bert and Ernie." Well, Jacob took the test too. Last night, he told me he got "Bert and Ernie" too. I find this bizarre. The funny part? We both immediately knew I was Bert and he was Ernie. This made me both laugh and become suspicious at the same time. I kept saying, "I mean, why am I Bert?" But I know I am definitely a Bert and not an Ernie. I have begun my ode to fabulous striped shirts.

10,000 Visitors, and still going...

I am not quite sure what to say. Today marks my two month anniversary blogging. And today, I hit the 10,000 visitors mark. I am slightly flabbergasted. Don't get me wrong, I am flattered, but I am still flabbergasted. Well, to all those who visit here, thank you. For those just stopping in for the first time, welcome. Not quite sure what else to say. Thanks!

Of Many Minds

Thank you to all of those who emailed to tell me to accept the position at Warren Wilson. Don't worry, it isn't a matter of interest or lack of interest. I just need to make sure I can get the time off for the ten-day residency. My Medical Practice is about to lose one of our doctors who wants to return to being a full-time Mom. We are quickly trying to re-learn how to cover with one less doctor. We have done it before. Thankfully, the doctor leaving is only part time. And guess who will be doing the practice's schedule from now on starting in a month or two? Yup, moi. So, I am now overly conscious about scheduling issues.

A couple of emails brought up my use of time. Well, I have always been a good juggler. Even as early as high school. In college, at one time, I was working part-time as a DJ for a local radio station, working in the ER at Mass General, Editing the college literary magazine (Gee, that is a surprise), taking a full course load, and interning for a national magazine. I am one of those people who has to be busy. And I am one of those people who feels fairly useless if I am not busy. I know it isn't, ultimately, a healthy thing. But it is just the way I am.

I think Warren Wilson is an excellent opportunity. I do miss teaching at times, but I cannot teach full time with my current responsibilities. The chance to teach 2 people (at max 3 people) in a semester would be perfect for me. And the chance to do so long-distance works out really well. I am working to make this happen.

On a final note, it is now official. I will commit myself to Jacob on April 29, 2006. The winery approved our date for our commitment ceremony. A lot of work to be done.