Here, a return to the heart, previously explored in Young Fair Hearts… which is where you may recognize the heart stencil from.
This time I used the cut out heart directly (rather than as a stencil): cutting some words out, leaving others, and inserting new ones. And red paint. And a little messiness, because I like a little messiness. Continue reading “Of Yachts and Men”→
Every year I forget to renew my domain name. It is always fun to see what my domain service advertises in lieu of my website.
These all seem like totally legit links.
So, this post is to say: sorry if you checked in and found my blog replaced with the above. Being the internet and all, you’d think a renewal would be instant. Not so, my dears. Not so at all.
Here is a story I read today that is so damn funny and wonderful I’m going to share it. It’s at Hobart, one of my favorite reading spots, and features some of my favorite writers writing today. WHO STOLE MY TAMPONS by Chelsea Martin.
Forewarn: Physically uncomfortable as I began this post, I finally removed the snorkel and umbrella from the chair I have been sitting on too long. Which is to say, my youngest son is coughing on the sofa where he has been sleeping for the past 14 hours, the cat is screaming out the window at the oldest two for walking outside without her, and I have probably had less than 5 hours of sleep (nightly, not total) for the past week. Being an insomniac, this last is not really news.
THE SURVIVAL OF THE FISH KING matters now more than ever. If this post is goofy, it is because I am barely here.
About the fish king, I can say this: she has become a story. I never know when or how this happens, but at some point, certain characters you had not previously given much credit simply come alive. They start to show their past, their future. Others remain always in the present—these are the characters that do not matter. The fish king matters. I especially admire the gender fluidity.
Sometimes your art will live in a safe and insular world and sometimes that world will have to open up and acknowledge the outside world too.
This past week has been grief filled. I have often written, in essay or poem, of the unwelcome privilege I have been afforded by the very authority that took the life of a good man, a neighbor. A man who shopped at the same grocery store as me and sat in the same traffic and clipped the same coupons.
Pull three or more words out of your container and arrange them into a title. Write that poem in the ransom-style. Or just write it, with a pen, the regular way poets do. After the leap we discuss copyright. Blah.