Wednesday, February 28, 2007

An Observation

Women get to be empowerful. Men are to go it alone. It's for the best, really.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Sure Signs of Spring

That stupid fucking yellow plastic bag has flown!
I believe it has migrated back to the Mall of America, whence it came, to breed.

Also? Frat brats have begun harassing hot chicks on bikes in the sandy streets of B-tizzle. Soft! I think I hear one braying even now. And soon young Paris wannabes ladies all over campus will molt, shedding their UGGs, and 10th Street shall fairly HUM with the staccato tattoo of their flip-flops.

Can crocuses and dogwood blossoms be far behind?

All is right with the world, gentle readers. Amen.

Monday, February 05, 2007

Also FYI

My life is a mash-up of Beck, Shrek, and Bertolt Brecht.

The Plastic Bag of Despair, or How Melancholy This Urban Tumbleweed

There is a bright yellow plastic bag stuck in a tree outside my window. It's about 30-40 feet off the ground and it's been flapping like a blown-out wind sock since, oh, last Tuesday or so. I imagine bluebirds nesting in it, and then suddenly getting blown away to their vibrant, wind socky doom.

It's unavoidable. I cannot avert my gaze from it. This bag is the only splash of color in my periphery right now: behind it thick black power lines, and behind those are tangles of gray leafless tree crowns, and on to a depleted, washed-out atmosphere.

Love the snow. Love the cold weather. But damn, I hate February.

Thursday, February 01, 2007


The snow is very pretty. I enjoyed walking in it this morning.

I've been asked to serve on the board of the National Audio Theatre Festivals. w00t!

I'm teaching a one-off poetry class with Joe K. and Jason A. at Beech Grove High School in March. I start teaching a class on desktop/print publishing in April. I'll teach live sound effects again at NATF in June.

I have two readings (on the same night) in Chicago lined up for March.

I'm getting better every week on the bodhran, and it is definitely time to upgrade from Journeyman Shite Drum to an actual Not-Embarrasing Drum. It's gonna cost me anywhere from $400 to $600(!) I think I'm worth it. I think. There are some beautiful drums out there too. Ah, the price of greatness.

My body can't make up it's mind if I'm sick or just fighting it.

I turned 36 on January 15. I can't seem to find any significance in this particular year -- numerically speaking anyway. It's definitely no milestone (like 21 or 25 or 30 or even 35). It just kind of hangs there like ... like 37, except it's not even prime! Guh! One step closer to 40? Sure, I'll take that. I confuse the hell out of people who don't know me very well when they ask how old I am. I generally fire back "43," which gets some raised eyebrows. "Oh...." "No," I say, "I'm really 27." "Oh...." More furrowed brows. Either age is plausible, I guess, for now. "Okay, actually I'm 36." "Ooooookayyyyyy...."

Numerical insignificance aside, I think this is going to be an important year for me. Professionally I feel like a lot of groundwork I've been laying for a decade in this burgh is finally starting to pay off -- and I mean pay off, not just provide opportunities to work pro bono. No, money isn't everything. But my mad ski11z are more than supporting my poetry/drumming habits, which always was kind of the point, and allowing me to continue the lavish lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed.

Mars asked me to move in with her, and I'm kind of dragging my feet on making a decision, which means (to me) that I need to cogitate a bit more. I'm not waffling; there's a lot to consider. If you know me at all, gentle readers, you know I'm not a rash-decision maker. All in due time. This does, however, fly in the face of last year's "Pursue!" resolution. See? More cogitation required.

The time I spend with her is enriching on so many levels. Smart, sexy, not crazy, strong but not standoffish, self-possessed, interesting and interested and unique. Damn. I'm blessed.

We are beginning to interview for a replacement book designer at the Press. First one is up Friday. His resume looks good and his portfolio is nice, but he has little interior book design experience (from what I can tell). We figured we would get either great graphics people or great artists, probably not both. We'll see. I don't know anything about the other 3 candidates yet.

I want to apply for some artist grants and/or submit a chapbook manuscript for publication to a few places this year. (A chapbook is roughly 16-40 pages of poems.) I recorded and submitted 3 poems for RATTLE's 21st anniversary of poetry slam issue. We'll see if anyone outside the Midwest knows what a cicada is. I missed the Indiana Arts Commission deadline for grants (today) and the grant for which I think I have the best shot (Greer Foundation) does not seem to be offered this year as far as I can tell. I want to push myself personally in the arts this year, get away (just a bit) from being everybody else's cheerleader. I often wonder if I would have such a good rep as a poet if I weren't in charge of a poetry group myself. If I just showed up to open mics (like in the old days), would I still be considered viable?

Speaking of me, I'm getting a write-up, along with other poetry peeps about town, in the April issue of Bloom Magazine.

I am going to be an announcer for the Bleeding Heartland Rollergirls and have settled on a "stage name": Dick Smack. I'm going to a bout in Indy (against Ft. Wayne) this weekend, just to observe, though.

All right, that's enough for now.