… of my book was sent to me via email tonight (thanks, B). Ah, I have such an ego this week!

…asked by the prof of a class this morning. (We’re still on DeLillo’s The Body Artist). After reading “The Strange, Sad Case of H.M.” last night, I wasn’t surprised to see the lecture reflect my overnight thinking. Questions, such as what does it mean to have a body? What is the relationship between the mind and the body? What does it mean to be imbedded in language? At what point does the mind become imbedded with the body? Essentially, what can words do to the body, even if the body moves without narrative? Or does it? Maybe these are simple questions and at 8:30 in the morning I’m just not caffeinated enough to comprehend them. Or maybe I still don’t have any answers because I’m rereading notes from 8:30 in the morning and just don’t get it/them. Granted, the body and the brain are connected, but… . What does it really mean to be imbedded in language?

…of Linda Gregg’s new book I’ve been listening to this celebration: An Evening of Poetry on Paros Island featuring Linda Gregg and Jack Gilbert. It’s fun to watch even though it takes a few minutes to load. Once I had it loaded I opened two windows and let them read simultaneously. I’ve been in awe of Gregg’s poems for years and it’s interesting to see her read them, even if it is only a small window on the net.

…wrote poetry. And why wouldn’t she? Here’s a list of some.

Butterflies had me searching tonight. First, for one obscure article on Margaret Laurence’s children’s fiction and then again when I encountered this word: lepidopterist. It seems Vladimir Nabokov knew butterflies well. Tonight as I search for more articles on Margaret Laurence, I’m wondering how much of a writer’s world does the reader need to know? How much does the reader need to know about what goes in to a novel or a poem to enjoy it/not enjoy it? Should there be more to the relationship of the reader/writer through the text? Like a word we don’t know, should we search for every detail to make the story complete?

…I came across this evening. I like reading writers writing to/about other writers.

…being on TV today. It wasn’t live, and it wasn’t rehearsed–although it wouldn’t have hurt–but all in all I think my less than 15 minutes of fame was fun. I don’t know yet what it looks like, or how I’ll sound, and I don’t know if I want to– I recall trying to listen to a radio show with only myself as the guest, and I couldn’t listen to the whole program. I believe I listened to only a few minutes of myself and then switched me off. It’s a bit odd to listen to my own voice, and I can’t imagine how critical I will be if I have to look at myself. But, then again, there’s nothing better in life than dissing yourself.

and I’m no closer to the finish line than the tortoise when it started–the tortoise and the hare? Or in my case, hair. Ha! My next essay is much more frightening as it involves Hegel’s dialectic, history and contingency in Richard Howard’s “Fallacies of Wonder” from his book Talking Cures. The poem deals with literary history, or more accurately, tradition, the tragedy of 9/11 and the individual. It seemed so simple of an idea. If there are any Hegel experts out there talk to me!

… is something I’m trying to do more of, and something I haven’t done enough. A friend recently remarked he’d like to be a rockstar/poet. I don’t think this is a new idea. (I think some rockstars think they’re poets but not many poets think they’re rockstars). Maybe I simply need to listen to poems differently, listen to the sound of the words rising from the page to understand this rockin music.

… about Stanley Burnshaw’s death in September of this year. (He was 99). September was about the same time I found a first edition copy of The Poem Itself at the local used book store. It’s a marvelous book of translations of 45 modern poets–pre 1960’s modern–along with “interpretative discussion” on each poem. Some of the poets included are: Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarme, Holderlin, Rilke, Brecht, Lorca, Neruda, and many I haven’t heard of, nor read, but that I’m eager to read. It seems like the thing to read as the sky blows snow at the house, again and again, piling it like poems at the back door, waiting for translation.