Welcome To My Bed

Be excited, be very excited.


So since I am in a poetry mood as of late, here is something that poets everywhere should be excited about. That people in general life should be excited about. Cameron Crowe says, ""Infinity Blues is Ryan Adams at his personal, unforgettable best. Strong and beautiful and funny and pure. Like all his work, it's soul poetry of the highest order." I cannot wait. One month from now, and I will have it in my hands. Too wonderful. Just in time for holiday reading. I have a feeling that I will retreat to my cave and devour it in one sitting, and then reread it many times over.

How could you not want to be inside the brain of this man?


I am endlessly fascinated and inspired by him.

Also, I printed out another chapbook, this one full of family poems. I wish my stapler didn't hate my life, or it would be completely finished without the aid of thumbtacks.

At last.

I procrastinate. It's just in me. But when I get going on something, it is difficult to stop me. Take tonight for instance. Caroline Harvey's feature blew my mind like it hasn't be blown since the first time I saw James Caroline perform. I wrote half a new poem during the feature, drove around with Sam after the diner for at least two hours, and then I came home with two other poems in my head. So I wrote them. And then a third. And then I decided it was time for a chapbook.

Now, I have been talking about such things since last fall when I first started writing poetry seriously. Maggie tells me that if I get famous one day, I will have a more heavily recorded life than Buckminster Fuller on the day that I die, and she's probably right. I journal every day without fail. Sam reminded me tonight that as the most prolific poet he knows, I had the material for a whole library of chapbooks, and that it would be best to get underway before it became too difficult to start. And so I did, because tonight (of all nights) I have adopted some of James' recent insomnia. My brain is too full for me to stop.

Here it is, in all its glory:


It's called Welcome To My Bed, after this old blog, because Grace always used to tease me last year that if I ever had a chapbook, it would be called that. I adopted the insult and made it my own, which makes me proud. If you look closely, you can see that the cover photo is the header photo (a little different) from the top of this page. Oddly enough, I don't think I've ever posted any of the poems in it here. Anyway, table of contents:

Someone Else's Driveway
Crystal Methadone
Drive Me Home
Tight Jeans
Bali Shag
Quiet All Talk
Epilogue (or, Someone Else's Driveway Pt. II)

Most of the poems were slammed at various locations over the course of last year. I know for a fact that most people in New England have heard Someone Else's Driveway and got sick of hearing it, because it was the one piece I had that was almost guaranteed to score well no matter where I was competing. Epilogue is a bookend for it, a little closure for the thought I started in writing the first piece at all. And the rest have their own stories.

James always says that it's impossible for me to write anything that doesn't come from a place of love, and I think that this book contains the poems that made me realize that. Next project, making more than ten copies of this thing. I desktop published using Word and my now-sleepy Canon Pixma, so I had to limit myself. After I make more copies, I will assemble my next effort, which was actually in the works since before this one, entitled Name Without a Place, which is mostly comprised of pieces from last spring through this summer and early fall, although the mental line-up I have for it changes almost daily, especially with all the new stuff I wrote today.

I don't know how I'm ever going to get to bed. I cannot wind down from this day.


Tomorrow is a big day. My first presidential election that I can actively participate in. I'm not at all sure how I feel about it. Just scared. Hopeful. Too many things.

I have about 102 pages of Mrs. Dalloway to read for tomorrow at two, and I'm trying to decide if I should go to bed now, or finish it before falling asleep. I read the book years ago. I could give up altogether, but that would be careless of me. I could just truck for an hour and see how far I can get. Yes. That's what I'll do. Instead of watching Michael Palin's BBC special on the Himalayas. Which I really wish I was watching still. There were yaks at the end of the last episode. They were so weird and wooly.

Here he is with an elephant.


I give up on doing work. I feel over-encumbered lately. At least there are barely six weeks left until winter break.

Morning caffeine.


I woke up hours ago and have been doing homework, but I am just now brewing coffee. I always forget I have a huge canister in my fridge waiting for me. As well as two boxes of Gevalia that my grandma gave me in September. With such a supply, I should really be drinking more of it.

At any rate, last night was the first featured poet at Slam Collective I've really responded to in awhile. Marty McConnell, I bought two of your chapbooks, and I wanted you to read for at least another hour. It was on par with, if not more intense than, the first time I saw James Caroline. They are my favorite spoken words poets, I have decided. I've seen a lot of people perform, but even though people like Patricia Smith and Jack McCarthy and their ilk have come to Hampshire, I just didn't get it. Sure, they're talented. But I just didn't feel connected.

Anyway, Halloween in two days. That means Maggie in two days. I have to spend a hefty chunk of my day today cleaning my room in preparation. Which will be easier than usual, because James is writing all day. His script is due Friday. It's only a preliminary draft, but it's still really exciting. We start shooting in January or February. We will be freezing, but it will be fun. I'm sure I'll be making lots of coffee then. Good thing, cos I have no idea who will be drinking all of this with me.




Finishing up a rough draft for a paper, and there are more post-its in my book than I had expected to put there. I doubt I will remember the information I intended to quote once I turn to the page. Whoever invented post-its is obviously not into living green, because it is much easier to underline the quotes you want in pencil and then just flip through.

Speaking of living green, today in my seminar on Black Mountain College we talked about Buckminster Fuller, the inventor of the geodesic dome. He wore three watches; one for where he was, one for where he came from, and one for where he was going. I like to imagine that was the least strange of his quirks. He kept everything he ever wrote in an exhaustive chronological file, even the napkins he drew on. Signed, dated and filed. I have so many shoeboxes full of my paper life, I feel as though I border on such obsession sometimes. I would not wish to align myself with crazies if they didn't happen to be so interesting.

Speaking of, my Cage book came in the mail this morning. I am very excited. I have yet to open the package. I am waiting for when I have some time to spend with it.

And now it's time to write about homosexuality in the Middle East, reformatted into APA style. Which I have no experience with. Awesome.


James and I just had a zombie double feature: Night of the Living Dead and Shaun of the Dead. We have so many movies left on our list of things to watch and only three weeks left before we leave for the summer.

This is an amazing short animated film by Yuri Norstein called "Hedgehog in the Fog". I am in love.

True Love.


John Cage. His anecdotes make me feel so very zen. Everyone must read his lecture on nothing. I used to think the mid-twentieth century experimentalist people centered around Black Mountain College were tedious, but that was really just my opinion of Ezra Pound.