Allez, venez et entrez dans la danse

reading to my dog
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  • Art, craft, and office supply stores are such Dens of Temptation. I have visited four of them in the past two days, and while I found neither the gift I'd intended to purchase nor the supplies I wanted for a certain holiday project, I nonetheless ended up with a set of metallic brush pens, a gift bag, two bags of buttons, and assorted stickers of fish.

  • Although Pla-Za didn't have what I wanted, gift-wise, it did have a white cat to pet.

  • Online ordering to the rescue! The lists and spreadsheets will be tamed, line by line. Even if some things don't get postmarked until the twelfth day of Christmas (or beyond)...

  • As for the holiday project - well, there's always charcoal and glitter. Heh.

  • Also made conceptual progress on another holiday project last night (i.e., after weeks and weeks of vaguely noodling around this-and-that-and-the-other in the way of ideas, I finally locked onto its plot while falling asleep). This is especially good since, upon rechecking the assignment, it's due five days earlier than I thought it was. Eep, eep, eep...

  • Speaking of assignments, I now have two more. One is an essay on trends in romance novels since 2001, and the other will become "The Potterverse and the Pulpits: Beyond Apologia and Bannings" (my proposal to Reading Harry Potter, v2 has been accepted!).

  • Deborah Milton speaks - an illuminating entry and poem by Dichroic about Milton's daughters. I found these lines particularly haunting:

    I will not sin great sins. Kept from the edge

    Of that precipice, neither will I build a bridge


  • While writing to Dichroic, I was reminded of something David Orr recently wrote in the New York Times Book Review:

    No contemporary poet is famous, but some are less unfamous than others. That's because the poetry world, like most areas of American life, has its own peculiar celebrity system -- and if the rewards of that system rarely involve gift suites filled with swag from Jean Patou, they remain tempting enough to keep grown writers hustling. The problem is, poetic stardom is an unpredictable business. Good writing doesn’t guarantee a reputation; bad writing doesn’t guarantee oblivion; nor can grace, money or nimble careerism entirely explain why Poet X reads to overflowing auditoriums, whereas Poet Y reads to his cats. Maybe it's simply the case that, as William Munny remarked in "Unforgiven," "deserve's got nothing to do with it."

  • Marymary has a lovely new poem up at Autumn Sky. The surprise of the unsung -- yes.

  • The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel - Second Floor arrived in my mailbox last week. It's very pretty and it includes my poem "Coat."

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