Wednesday, September 29, 2010

a ballad for September

We stayed in that ghastly pseudo-period piece for a good week, with its tepid showers and soggy toast and weak coffee and mattresses that seemed to be made out of straw that had been hauled in from ye olde barn in 1823, and during this week of programmed nuptial bliss we saw the Falls; we perambulated around the Falls; we boated through the Falls; we joined a geological tour group for a history of the Falls slideshow; we crossed a bridge over the Falls; we crossed the border and examined the Falls from a foreign identity; we attended movie showcasings of great moments of cinematic history filmed at the Falls; we listened to lectures about the Falls in the Guinness Book of World Records; and by the end of the week choosing between throwing myself or my beloved spouse over those goddammed Falls would have been too difficult a decision to make.

This Sunday! 4 pm! Neilson Library, Smith College!

Morning Edition : "[if you say:] 'Write something; write anything; you can write a story about anything you want,' they can't think of anything," says Hornby. "But if you say, 'Write a story about a crocodile, a pineapple and a stair lift in a hotel,' then it will spark something up."

alors, October!

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

ire / wrath / anger / heat / madness / rage / fury

The first inhabitants of the village after the tsunami were the travelers, itinerants moving between here and there and somewhere else without ever quite feeling the anchor of settling, amorphous communities which may have three mayors one month and no mayors at all the following six months, groups of three families living in proximity for a time, to be joined by a wandering group of young women, the families eventually continuing onwards as the women remained in the village, another week, three months, moving on again in their turn.

Bill Bryson / A Short History of Nearly Everything

{sob} the last day of summer

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

it was there

It was heavier than a brown paper sack would normally be, much heavier, the density of the contents pushing against the seams and threatening to spill out of confinement if given the slightest provocation. Which would have been a problem for more reasons than one, if that had happened, but there were no sharp edges to break through and no damp objects to cause weak spots in the paper, so the chances were not great. Still, it was much safer to hold the bag from the bottom rather than just grasping the folded-over top, and it was hard to not look suspicious carrying a small brown paper sack with its weight supported by the palm of the hand, or, worse, cradled in the crook of the elbow and held against the body: far too obvious, when the entire goal was to be so trivial, so innocuous, as to disappear.

a novel with a lovely title and far too many metaphors and similes

forty??? really??? already???

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

in a tent

Inside, inside is a sleeping bag that isn't really warm on top of ground that isn't really forgiving, next to the snores of companions who seem to find this sort of thing energizing and deeply spiritually fulfilling. Inside is a reminder that some people blossom under the strangest and most hostile conditions; inside is a pile of dirt encrusted camping clothes and various bottles of bug spray.
Outside is another rustle in the shrubs, closer this time, close enough to jiggle the corner of the tent a bit. There are ventilation windows made of mesh along the base, and if there were a moon it might reveal at least the silhouette of a chipmunk or a fox or a bear or a murderous escaped prisoner, and if the flashlight had more of a charge and I was less afraid of disturbing the ramblings of a bear and / or aggressive stranger and waking up those goddamned snorers in the process, and if I at least had a baseball bat or a pistol rather than the underwhelming flash of a sleek new camera, then all this would simply be local color, the charm and majesty of the great outdoors, rather than the least comfortable way to possibly spend several thousand dollars.

suddenly, a plethora of work, as commitments resume /// thus, no books

a box of utility peaches and a farewell to summer

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Oct. 3 : A Gallery of Readers

Save the date, if you know what's good for you. Apple pie and all that.

A Gallery of Readers
Marc Berman & Stephanie Gibbs
Sunday, October 3, 2010
4 p.m.
Neilson Library, Smith College

Nox / Anne Carson
autumnal apples

Wednesday, September 1, 2010


Oh, damn, I'm so sorry. I know I promised to walk your dog for you, that you were going away for the weekend with that new infatuation you contracted although if you ask me the infatuation is more delusional than anything else, and rather than put your high strung mutt in a kennel I was going to be friendly and neighborly and walk your dog several times a day. Couldn't be easier, you said. She's a low key affectionate sweetheart, you said. She is totally well behaved on the leash, you said. But the problem is that your self knowledge about your dog ranks right up there with your ability to judge potential romantic partners, and that dog threw such a fit when I tried to open the door that I just gave up and went back home, there was a game on and then it just seemed like too much trauma for the dog to interrupt it over the weekend, when it would be sleeping on the couch or whatever, and it just seemed best to wait for you to return.

omigod omigod omigod: there's actually a medical condition for this? I honestly thought I was just really, really flakey about people.

remembering the hot=summer, so hot=not depressed.

Kept Charlie. Using pheromones and psychotropics.