Welcome To My Bed

The fever pitch, and swing.

1. My thesis is a giant, diabolical machine sweeping all in its path up into its arms like children lifted into Santa's lap: it's terrifying, and there will be pictures, and many people will be involved. Or I guess that's just my imagining of it this week. They FINALLY posted the list of faculty assignments for the Creative Writing department, and now I know for absolute certain that Nell is going to be my committee chair. That is a sigh of relief, one tiny box checked off the list, and counting. The next order of business: find a committee member. I suppose these things happen in increments, hence the time-based nature of life? I am rambling and hungover and unprepared to be fully in the day, even though it is nearly two o'clock in the afternoon.

2. Last night Corrina Bain featured at Slam Collective, and as has become our colloquial phrase for such seriously awesome poetic experiences, she melted my face off. I catch myself using this colloquialism most frequently in reference to female poets, maybe because this is my year of epic feminism and woman love (I say this tongue in cheek, but also mostly serious), but also because it is most appropriate to the synesthesia that I have during the very best performed poems. And lately the very best have been by women. Then on the page, so much Sylvia, and right this very minute I'm having tea with Sexton. John Berryman's Dream Songs is buried next to Clarabelle on my desk. I borrowed it from Cass months ago and have yet to read more than one because of how many ladies have taken up residence in my big hollow head. I lent her my James Tate and she's done much better with it, but she always liked men writers better than I did. Like I've said in several recent posts, men just are not a large part of my reading life. Sorry boys, step your game up maybe?

3. But the boys are not to be forgotten about either. I've been spending lots of time listening to wordy records while I live fully immersed in my thirty or forty library books (my nest has grown quite massive and beyond its usual, already overflowing, bounds)--Adam Falkner's hip hop album Control the Circle, Sean's Pornography Diaries, the 2009 Cantab team's CD, and Connor and Ian's album The Narwhal's Revenge Song (beats and goldfish, mmm mmm mmm). It just so happens that most of the wordy tracks in my library are by men, which is acting as a nice balancing force while I've crawled into the life of Sylvia Plath and refuse to relocate until after the actual end of the semester. Even though my paper is due in rough form this Friday. And I should not be so fully amenable to living inside Plath. I am way too comfortable with the vocabulary of her existence. I need counterweights to keep me from disappearing into the abyss.

4. Continuing to put off the remaining New Jersey posts. Hopefully I'll get to them before I'm back in New Jersey again. In lieu of going to Puerto Rico for break, Georgie may or may not end up staying at 82 Columbus with me. If it happens, I expect extra debauchery, along with lots of angsty poems that will probably never see the light of day. When the two of us are in a room too long, shit gets deep. Or giggly. One of the two. Either way, break is beckoning with long bony winter fingers. I'm excited. I feel like I might be in my childhood house for the first serious snow of the year.

5. As an after-thought, my new book (Spindle, which is described in greater detail here) came back from the printer yesterday. It's $5. Ask me about it when you see me, if you want.