While I was in Las Vegas last weekend I picked up a copy of Anne Carson’s first collection of poetry, Short Talks. The Brick Books edition has an introduction by Margaret Christakos, who clearly understands the breadth of Carson’s work. Christakos points out to the reader the themes of winter landscapes in Short Talks, the use of reflection and light as tropes and what those might have to do with snow and ice and growing up in Ontario, as Carson did. Continue reading
I’ve been misremembering that Simone de Beauvoir quote this whole time. Like, I’ve been using it in arguments, and it’s just straight up not something she said. I feel like an idiot. Continue reading
Tomboy, the suit shop around the corner from where I work, has closed. It makes me sad – not that I shopped there, or could ever afford to shop there – but I liked to look in the window. There was a pair of $500 wingtip boots there that I liked to check in on every once in a while. Continue reading
I was there, where you didn’t notice me, a ghost in the gallery you built so crowded and uncurated that the eye grew dizzy from wandering. I was at your knee with Hemingway, listening to you tear apart and paste … Continue reading
I manage to find myself all over the country these days. It’s a strange process that I have only a notion of control over, but it hasn’t landed me anywhere unsavory yet. Over the holidays, I landed in Dallas, Austin, and Omaha.
Just before Christmas I was in Dallas for a friend’s wedding — the second friend of mine who has gotten married in recent months. I felt the general weirdness that accompanies the marriage of any of one’s contemporaries, and drank large doses of vinegary wine to compensate. My date was very dashing and told me I was prettier than the bride, which was his main function in being there. Later that night I danced in the rain outside of Beauty Bar and got the glorious stench of barbeque soaked into my jacket from the sandwiches that my drunk companions were eating on the curb. I passed out in a too-fancy hotel, and woke up feeling glad that I wasn’t married.
I spent the rest of the long weekend in Austin with a couple of friends. We wore our grown-up dresses and suits out to some Thai restaurant and pretended to be doing something important while we spent all of our money on complicated cocktails. Erick left the key-card to our hotel room in Dallas under the check for the waitress to find as a joke.
I celebrated Christmas at my brother’s and his girlfriend’s house in Austin with our combined families. My brother and I spent most of the time playing Kubb, a delightfully stupid yard game from some Scandinavian country. I got a pocket knife and a ton of books, including S., Athos in America, and Saga, Vol. 1 and 2. We watched Roadhouse, and I was really glad that feathered hair isn’t a thing anymore.
After a few days back home, I flew to Omaha to visit my boyfriend. Once there I proceeded to get devastatingly sick and spend the rest of my money on more books that I swear I’ll actually read at some point. I also watched Joe Versus the Volcano and The Breakfast Club for the first time, which I thought were very weird and overrated, respectively. My flight home got cancelled twice due to what I’m told was an “arctic vortex,” and I ended up getting back to Houston late Tuesday night. Since that time I have been mostly sleeping and recovering from the last vestiges of that nasty cold, reading Oil!, and trying to write sad poetry.
And now, before I can catch my breath too much, I’ll be heading out towards California to my long-anticipated adventure in bookland. A friend of mine who moved out there recently has just reported to me that he has bought a longboard and decided to never leave ever, so I’m pretty optimistic.
Between all the adventures I have found little time to sit and fill pages, but that will likely change once I’ve reached my new abode (and career) in California. The time I spend there I am going to dedicate entirely to reading and writing in an attempt to make a better human of myself, so you should hear plenty about those trails.
For now, read some Anne Sexton and wish that artistic genius wasn’t so frequently accompanied by profound mental loopiness.