eyetms of intrst

the good.

 

the bad (but so good):

 

Well, we’re still here.

You may have noticed I skipped out last Monday. WHOOPS.  MY BAD.

Part of that was me still recovering from being in New York for a week.  While there, I lost my favorite hoodie.  I bought a backpack with wheels in Chinatown for thirty-six dollars. And I got some good books, like this one:

So far it’s like hearing a creepy orchestra tucked in the walls, or crawling up from the basement.  Sometimes it’s too quiet for comfort and sometimes it accompanies a loud chill on my shoulders.  It keeps on bowing strings in a way that buzzes my bones.  An unresolved chord.

I got to hear Pete Davis and Jill Christman read at the Vouched reading the day after I got back.  I expected to laugh a lot during Pete.  I expected plenty of heart from Jill.  Expectations fulfilled.  But I didn’t realize how hilariously informative Jill’s essay would be, and needed to be reminded of the strange pinpricks of sadness and wonder that dot Pete’s works, especially when read aloud.

But I’ll admit:  I feel preoccupied.  Not with typical things, but because it’s May 23^rd and I’m not covered in boils I’ve been Googling phrases like “rapture news,” “rapture disappointment,” and “where the hell is harold camping.”

Google Images: "kickass rapture pix"

Things Are Nuts

Sorry for my no-show last Monday.  Things are nuts.

When this post goes up, I’ll be in New York.  Lord knows what I’ll be doing.  But I can tell you that no matter how exhausted I am when I get back after the week, I’m going to this, and you better be too.

During Our Easter Meal, I Mentioned That April Is National Poetry Month And My Grandpa Made Up A Limerick.

This is happening Thursday.

YEAH BUDDY

a) sorry I’m late. b) in lieu of an actual post.

Someone please tell me where in Indianapolis I can hold a baby deer in the palm of my hand before I die.

My Inability to Read the Word “Ego” Without Thinking “Eggo Waffles” Is Not Important Right Now

I was part of a spontaneous reading Saturday night held in a campus parking lot, which was one of the most personally enjoyable readings I’ve gone to/read at in a long time.  (I think Elysia might put up videos from it.)  No scheduled lineup, no real promotion (two text messages + word of mouth), no emcee, no stage or podium.  Just boozy kids yelling O’Hara and xTx and our own stuff from a concrete ledge down to our friends, who yell back FUCK YEAH and MUNCIE.  Or stand quiet not because we’re polite but because we’re wowed.

 

The lack of expectation or competition or domination of one or a few personalities was insanely refreshing, as was the goofy and genuine affection we all had/have for each other.  This, this shared love for words/stories and people who love them is what drew me to poetry in the first place, and eventually the contemporary indie lit creature with it.  This reading might have been the best thing for my wordy heart since the first reading I ever attended, held in a martini bar two years ago, my first experience hearing my peers’ poetry and wanting to create similarly laugh and thought-provoking writing.

 

In the past year my writing head has shifted from “how can I entertain people at a reading?” closer to “how can I get published in (this or that kickass journal)?”  (The difference between the two mindsets was especially clear to me Saturday as I was printing lyrics to Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” to close my set.)  I don’t think that’s necessarily good or bad so much as just something to be aware of and act accordingly, now that how I think about audience has changed.  And the change makes sense, given goals I have for myself.

 

This Was Way Bigger Than Skateboarding

Holy god.  This weekend I went to the University of Alabama with Elysia, Tyler Gobble, Jeremy Bauer, and Ball State creative writing faculty Sean Lovelace and Matt Mullins for the Slash Pine Writers Festival.  GOOD THINGS HAPPENED.

Sweet Things

First thing’s first:  our lady Ashley slam dunked at the Vouched Presents reading in Indy on Saturday.  She was funny, heartfelt, and even read by candlelight/eager volunteer-held flashlight during observation of Earth Hour 2011.  I wish we’d made out in the dark afterward.  For the environment.

 

I’m also pumped about xTx’s Normally Special, which I bought at the reading, being added to my ever-expanding need-to-read list.  Here’s the fifth story of the book, and just — yes.  I’m anxious to dig into more of that loveliness.

 

It’s Monday; Gonna Punch Some Banana Crème Cheesecake With My Mouth

So this poem is really fucking sweet, as are pretty much all the things here.  But I was way wowed by that one.  Just really dig this:  “just as i search for a pair of hands/or many pairs of hands/that will want to orbit me/and pull my clothing away from my body/moon or many moons:/we could accomplish something amazing/if you were willing to be obsessed/with how quickly i can dump blood into my genitals.”

 

This week is the sixth annual In Print Festival at Ball State, where among other neat things happening (like the Broken Plate release) I’ll have the privilege of introducing Paul Killebrew before he reads some cool-ass poetry.  This is one of my favorites from his book Flowers, which I got to interview him about for the Broken Plate.  His answers were excellence.  My questions were barely even questions a couple times.

 

A.S. Byatt Makes Magic, Is Worth Your Time

Thank goodness for used book sales.

 

Right now I have my biggest-ever backlog of unread books.  I don’t think about it too much because I’d go into binge-reading mode, and I’m having enough trouble getting things done already.  (My attention span will become even shorter when this happens.)   But this weekend I started A.S. Byatt’s Little Black Book of Stories and am roundly impressed.  And when I say “ roundly impressed,” I mean “Byatt squeezes my heart like grabbing my hand right before I fall off a cliff.”

 

From the second story in the collection, “Body Art:”