hasty pudding
Monday 17 March 2008 | someone left a cookie
• We approach our 700th post! But at a snail’s pace, anticlimactically.
• The Brujo and I returned from Texas on Thursday night. Since then he has been either 1) in the field or 2) holed up in his study writing his contributions to the Alt Weekly’s annual guide to Santa Fe. When I see him en passant the kitchen or bathroom, though, he sure looks cute. And he was fucking stand-up with my utterly demented parents (see below).
• Though to be fair he and I had a botanical outing together on Saturday, and he even took me afterward to my new favorite fabric store. (Woman laughing in parking lot: “Yeah, you always see guys standing out here smoking.”)
• My parents are MAJOR LOONS. Various ill-timed revelations delivered with inappropriate affect included but were not limited to: My dad running over my mom with the car. (Mom: “And I just prayed, Dear God, please let him stop before the tire reaches my head.”) By the third or fourth day I was all but rocking autistically, mute and shut down, while the Brujo exerted himself heroically nonetheless, charming and kind and funny and more diplomatic than a Bouvier, meeting the most outrageously racist and/or homophobic statements with a respectful silence and then an adroit change of subject, as I sat silently hemorrhaging from the eyeballs.
• Probably as a direct result of this six-day and five-night experience, I have the first head cold of 2008. As I type, I suck on “Ingwer Bonbons” from Germany, courtesy of darling Persephone, which ginger hard candies are a little like sucking on solidified, glacéed paint thinner.
• I was awake sneezing at 4 am, and since since have managed to finish four revisions for the Duende and a seven-page section of the long poem for Walt Whitman, all while balancing my checkbook and winnowing the 120 emails down to a paltry 50. NOW who says poets are lazy?!
• Our dogfriendly housesitter somehow managed to retraumatize Pyewacket, who has just begun to settle down again and not follow me from room to room screaming. Right now she is sitting picturesquely under the piano bench in a sunbeam; you would never know that not 24 hours ago she was literally trying to curl up on my face while I slept, in a misguided effort to get as close to me as possible, never mind the danger of smothering me in her enveloping fur.
• Fiona is now barking at the mail carrier, as she does six days out of seven. And I have to blow my nose and get dressed for the six-hour poetry marathon. [Which in the end I did not attend, merely emailed my contributions to the professors/workshop members, because I am apparently a hopless, hopless, hopless flake. Who still makes inscrutable DBT in-jokes.]
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Had I thought of it in time, I should have sent a partial list of titles purchased by the UnNarr’s friendly hometown pubic library for the exclusive purpose of the UnNarr’s edification and enjoyment. Probably not enough mass by now for an “UnNarr Section” of the library but the Brujo might have enjoyed the SPAN across DDC numbers in the Teen UnNarr’s reading material. (I wonder if OUR BODIES, OUR SELVES is still to be found - if at all, these days - shelved in “Westerns”?)