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Modern writers. The term “modern” gives some people the hives…yet all it is is a sophistication (although perhaps an over-serious one) of the moment when the vaudeville actor leans into the audience and winks. While “modern” poetry seems to be all clever renditions of the song “doom, despair, agony, and woe…WOOOOOE”* (i.e., T.S. Eliot), “modern” […]

Sigh. “Avoid clichés.” Including that one.

An old dream. I had this one last year, while I was still pregnant, about August or so. Two brothers go on a trip to Chicago. They want to see the city from the observation deck of one of the skyscrapers. About halfway up, the elevator stops. The two brothers get out of the elevator

Family. Rachael’s making noise. It’s important. She’s experimenting with her vocal cords. She’s experimenting with her ability to manipulate other people–what’s the best way to get people’s attention? Fussing? Crying? Squealing with delight? Coughing? She alternates, cute with crying, only to discover that pretty much any sound will get my attention. She smiles at me

Editing. Something that pisses me off about my English education is that none of the teachers in my creative writing courses had any intention to teach me how to edit. Maybe I had bad teachers. Maybe the policy was “Workshop…and see magic may happen!” Maybe the instructors assumed that all we needed to know about

Stuff.. I don’t think I’m going to get the edit done tonight. Mr. Joe Woods was over; Mr. Joe Woods introduced us to Papa Murphy’s Chicaco-style ‘za. I nearly made the cashier cry. “Do you want some bread sticks?” she asked. After all, we were only getting a family-sized pie, and this is Joe and

Current reads. I’m in the middle of a reread of The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas; I got a cool used copy at a local bookstore named Poor Richard’s. Wonderful place. Leatherbound, gold leaf, little ribbon bound into the…uh…binding. I just finished the third issue of “Black Gate.” I have yet to be impressed with

X-rays. We got a call on Thursday that Ray’s x-rays (for asymmetrical gluteal folds // lopsided butt crack) needed to be retaken. I got to take her in this time on Friday, after work. She cried when the doctor held her still; they asked me if I could possily be pregnant before they put the

The only reason I call this a journal instead of a blog is that the rhythm for blog is all off. The only reason I occiasionally write in smaller-case is that I started writing on a spare typewriter in high school, and I didn’t have any correction tape. Goal of the day: edit “Feather.” Finish

More religion: Religious faith seems to be a kind of affection. One of the more thought-provoking (read that with shades of “annoying”) people I ever talked to on the subject of religion was D— the Iowan. When I met him, he had been recently divorced: his wife had announced to him, out of the blue,