Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Wagon: The thing that I get off and on depending on my mood.

Yesterday was day one of not being a lazy whiner chubby-bunny face-stuffer.

Really. After more than a week of sleeping 10-12 hours a night, and evenings spent in the company of my couch and a bowl of spaghetti (you go through those phases, too, right?) I've decided it's time.

Yesterday, I did my first pilates class in ages, and discovered my that one of my instructors' sister is a poet. Now, when I heard that, I thought, "Oh, poet. Uh huh. Sure. I'm sure she's a real good poet." But it turns out she recently won a prize I was familiar with, and was recently published in Poetry, the journal I have a collection of going back to 2007. She's a real capital P Poet, y'all. Not sure why that matters, except to think that there are real poets out there who are related to real people I know somehow lets a tiny light into the black-ass darkness that's descended over my head, Eeyore-style.

(Poetess also apparently went to college with a close friend of mine, who doesn't know the pilates instructor. It's all very strange in my world. Everyone knows everyone. Especially ex-boyfriends.)

Then this morning a good friend came and met me and Margaux to walk the butte. "Somehow, today, they made the road to the top extra long and extra steep," I thought all the way up, as my friend disappeared ahead of me as the road curved around the butte. I think it may have had something do do with a) Only getting about 5 hours of sleep last night b) Did I mention all that couch time? All that delicious, wonderful, yummy nummy snoozy couch time? Mmmmm, I could go lay down right now ...


  1. Poetry's an odd little universe. I struggle between my aversion to what some would call "non-literary" poetry (I've argued with people who call Henry Rollins a poet) and an aversion to the elitism that draws such a distinction between "serious" poetry and crap.

    But still, I think with poetry, like with abstract art, people have a tendency not to trust themselves when they encounter it. They want to "get" it, as if it's a puzzle. When that unnameable emotional response, like you said, is often the point.

  2. Good poetry is like good prose - you feel it when you read it.


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