flooding

today i'm wearing a nightgown. still. at 1.59 p.m.  friday i wore my two favorite colors (as ingrid says):  leopard and red.

i hear it's flooding in arizona, where my family lives, and where i grew up.

it's also flooding up in provo, utah, where i have more projects on my plate than i can handle this week.

& i will handle them, although.

friday got crazy.  i read and wrote a lot, but had no time to report in:  finished olson's call me ishmael, a worthy, worthy read, and read some other stuff.  lots of psalms.  both kjv and robert alter translations.

most notably, i finished the second installment in the god fugitive, my moby dick puppet opera that everyone seems to think is just a gimmick BUT IT'S SUPER NOT--it's my current spiritual home.

gave the libretto to christian on saturday morning at 11.30 am.  he spent the day and night composing, and stayed up most of last night writing.  we rehearse this afternoon, perform on wednesday night at the avant garawge.

sunday i sang with the raddest musicians i know.  a dream team of people who love creative music and early music just as much as i do.  we sang machaut, hildegard, and asplund.  all thrilling.  it's seriously celestial.  splendid gems in those manuscripts.  and my soul feels like it's back in my body now that i'm doing music again on a more regular basis.

one of the things that struck me hard during the reading phase of my doctoral program was how inseparable musical and poetic practices are for me.  and the question of how they became so opposed to each other is one i haven't really answered, but wish to explore for a long time yet to come.

today i'm writing in my nightgown, still.  just finished my lunch of cheese & tomato sandwich and diet coke.  no more pecan sandies with dark chocolate chips.  i'm trying to wean myself from those, so i made do with a spoonful of nutella for dessert.

began susan howe's the birth-mark, recommended to me by this fine poet, and i'm gobbling it up.  i wrote a stupid poem based on "the candles" chapter of moby dick (i may have already told you that christian's mom, aka bammy, the funniest woman i know, calls it "mobile dick," right?).  i was quite taken with the image of the crew of the pequod frozen during a scary typhoon in which the ship is struck by lightening "in enchanted attitudes" like the skeletons of pompeii--in mid-stride, or jump, or run, or walk.

also, this from my shero susan howe:

"emily dickinson's writing is my strength and shelter.  i have trespassed into the disciplines of american studies and textual criticism through my need to fathom what wildness and absolute freedom is the nature of expresssion. . . . poetry unsettles our scrawled defences; unapprehensible but dear nevertheless."

aaaahhhhh-men.

long work day, quick blog post

so rad.  literally.

my report for friday 29 august 2014:

reading:

• finished part 2 of charles olson's call me ishmael
• read "resisting amnesia: history and personal life," adrienne rich's 1983 speech at scripps college collected in blood, bones, and poetry
• read audre lorde's poem "afterimages"
• read sandra tsing loh's essay "the bitch is back" from the best american essays 2012, ed. david brooks
• read chapter 83, "jonah historically regarded," and "the doubloon" from moby dick

writing:

• wrote the poem "from the sun. . . " 
• wrote the poem "god's world is nothing. . . "
• FINISHED revising the lapidary's nosegay, and i must never touch it again until it is in press

business:

• submitted the lapidary's nosegay for publication with two days to spare before deadline passes

accountable to cyberplace

i wore my favorite betsey johnson nightgown for reading time, and my favorite target merona black dress for writing time.  i think a peignor set would be more inspiring, though.  like proust, i work best in bed.  i'm not going to be ashamed of that no more.  no more.

in an effort to be true to my new schedule of uber-productivity, here's today's report.  on wednesday 27 august 2014 i:

• wrote the poem "oh sweet friends. . . "
• wrote the poem "she was a thing of trophies. . . "
• wrote the poem "this world pays dividends. . . ."
• read part one of charles olson's call me ishmael
• read chapter 15, "chowder" from moby dick
• read chapter 16, "the ship" from moby dick
• read "unconscious came a beauty," "catbird in a redbud," and "gometrid" from may swenson's iconographs
• wrote this blog post

unfinished on today's list (i still might get there)

• re-submit to (great!) journal who rejected me last week but said to send them something else
• spend 45 minutes finalizing edits on lapidary's nosegay

Plethora

My favorite holiday is probably Thanksgiving--a simple communal practice of gratitude for one's abundance that has largely escaped corporate commercialization.   No expectations except eating a plethora of harvest dishes with people you feel completely comfortable with.  It's the perfect 

"forgetting one's tight place" holiday.  Or at least it has been for me, as a someone whose life from birth has been largely defined by tight places.

We even went around the table and told what we were grateful for (thanks to G visiting with her husband, G from Charles Olson's town.)

I spent Thanksgiving Eve at the Union Square green market picking out a pie to bring to our Rhode Island feast, hosted by my mother-in-law.  I wish I had had occasion to gather more items, because look at the offerings!--but everything would be cooked by the time we arrived on Thanksgiving afternoon.

The apple pie we did buy was from a vegan stand called Body and Soul.  To taste the crust you wouldn't suspect it had no butter in it.  Can an apple pie be nuanced?  This one was.  In fact, their pie was so delish I feel compelled to go back to the stand and gushingly tell them how much we all loved it.  (I believe the ingredients included lemon grass.)

Another stand-out, G's homemade pumpkin pie with the crushed pecan crust.  

I am grateful for you, GITP readers--and Lara, of course.

G's signature pumpkin pie.

G cutting the first slice.