…are what I’ve been trying to finish, rough drafts anyway, but instead I’m needlessly procrastinating. (Go to Sulfur Album, then Pictores or Cine).

in animation.

…is lost, virtually.

…tomorrow I’m wearing fancy clothes, putting up all this massive mane, placing 3 1/2 in spikes on my feet–which will put me over 6 ft tall–I’ve been thinking about writers, women, and clothes.

… 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.