Before mercury, my blood used to fill thermometers.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Meet solid bodies and glissade right through.


My profile of the poet Maria James-Thiaw is alive at HMag. A poem of hers, composed in Auvillar, "le Fleur," is enclosed and demonstrates her rollicking skills. She imitated for me the subject of the poem as he romanced the titular botanical AND a local schizophrenic. We first met when I made coffee for a living, and I made a joke about Winnie the Pooh and she ran with it - this is all I remember, except we became feeble but fervid correspondents and I read her manuscript that makes me shrink and faint with its greatness. Her greatness is amplified for how she withstood my journalism, the school of which is ajournalistic or even antijournalistic in its approach to the subject, the way I wrote down only names and no other details and bolted into the night. But I am genuinely trying to get good at this.


I have ten outstanding submissions. I have a manuscript of prose poems, a draft of which is done. I have a finished small novel. I have my sights on a collection of short stories, half of which are written. I am a quarter of the way through a novel draft. I am launching what I want to be a series, if not one weird, giant book. I am doing this while I write for HMag, while I am applying again to graduate programs, while I am applying for and interviewing for jobs, while I have a serious relationship with a non-cohabitant, while I contribute design to Seven Kitchens, while I engineer my own professional projects. While I have a book review due this coming month!

I was thinking of this in an interview yesterday when asked how I prioritize. Instinct. My lack of a day-planner is offensive to me. I never needed one in school, not even in college. My days were so regimented by external factors. It made me feel like a child to not need a day-planner, but I feel even more adult now. Now that I don't have one and I'm malting from the stress. Nothing makes one an adult like losing feathers.


I bought giant card prints of Henry Darger's work in New York. Tonight I finally framed several of them. The frame is hulking and the pictures are sweetly lopsided. The whole thing is propped on a rack-like thing that, like most of what populates this house, was not really meant for any kind of functionality. This has the appropriate effect on me.

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