Posts
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Happy Valentine's Day
Don't buy a card. Read Chaucer or I'll never talk to you again.
Hearts and cupids,
Laura
P.S. There is no 'm.'
Hearts and cupids,
Laura
P.S. There is no 'm.'
Thursday, February 12, 2009
10:48 PM: I check my gmail account. No new messages. I’m listening to the SPA channel on Sirius by way of Dish Network. Is it true that Sirius is filing for bankruptcy? Say it ain’t so. I’m addicted to the forties on four channel to and from work. My car is dirty. When I think about this, I feel guilty. Today I removed one piece of trash from inside my car. The back seats are down and it looks like someone is sleeping in there. No one is.
10:50 PM: I check my yahoo account. Before I can get there, I see a headline about a Joaquin Phoenix person and David Letterman. I’m not sure I care about this, so I skip past and settle into my emails: Narrative Magazine is stalking me again (they have two of my email addresses and I don’t recall giving them one…way creepiness), Sirius wants to tell me about Paul McCartney and a fireman. Wouldn’t they want to tell me about the bankruptcy and whether or not I’ll still be able to listen to forties on four? Improved bras, 10 % off pearls, something about bulldogs and Mitch Stewart.
10:55 PM: I check my hotmail account. Everything sucks.
10:57 PM: Gmail. No new messages. I’m still listening to the SPA channel. Seriously, is Sirius over? I’m burning incense and I perform the following google search: “incense high.”
10:59 PM: Bored with checking email. Check out the dark side, foxnews.com. Decide every fucked up story on the planet derives from England.
11:03 PM: Decide to write a poem. Still concerned about forties on four.
10:50 PM: I check my yahoo account. Before I can get there, I see a headline about a Joaquin Phoenix person and David Letterman. I’m not sure I care about this, so I skip past and settle into my emails: Narrative Magazine is stalking me again (they have two of my email addresses and I don’t recall giving them one…way creepiness), Sirius wants to tell me about Paul McCartney and a fireman. Wouldn’t they want to tell me about the bankruptcy and whether or not I’ll still be able to listen to forties on four? Improved bras, 10 % off pearls, something about bulldogs and Mitch Stewart.
10:55 PM: I check my hotmail account. Everything sucks.
10:57 PM: Gmail. No new messages. I’m still listening to the SPA channel. Seriously, is Sirius over? I’m burning incense and I perform the following google search: “incense high.”
10:59 PM: Bored with checking email. Check out the dark side, foxnews.com. Decide every fucked up story on the planet derives from England.
11:03 PM: Decide to write a poem. Still concerned about forties on four.
Landing
Last night when I got to the hospital, a helicopter was landing and there was this moment where everyone going to and from their sickness vigils stopped to watch the helicopter landing on the building’s roof.
I was walking through the parking garage and the choppy noise echoed like it was coming from inside the deepest bowels of the concrete slab, a beast coming up from the depths to swallow us.
As it hovered in, wind whipped through the courtyard, sending leaves and an errant piece of trash thrashing down macadam. A lone man in corduroys looked up, fingers clasped as if he was holding something precious, the expression on his face reading the biggest storm in the world had landed. He’d been holding his breath. You could tell.
I was walking through the parking garage and the choppy noise echoed like it was coming from inside the deepest bowels of the concrete slab, a beast coming up from the depths to swallow us.
As it hovered in, wind whipped through the courtyard, sending leaves and an errant piece of trash thrashing down macadam. A lone man in corduroys looked up, fingers clasped as if he was holding something precious, the expression on his face reading the biggest storm in the world had landed. He’d been holding his breath. You could tell.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Parenthetical(s) slay me
I slipped through the blogosphere cracks again.
So I went to this local landmark the other day that’s um, been around since definite pre-Laura days (read centuries) and is not-too-far-away, but for some reason I never visited before. And it was so weirdly neat that I am obsessed with it now.
I haven’t done anything with that (obsession) yet. But so many things are tinkering around in my brain. If anything emerges I will, of course, elaborate. Until then, I will remain freakishly secretive.
Remember the chapbook I was compiling? Good. Well, I hate it now. Can you do it for me?
I’m also in a workshop at the moment but I don’t hate that. The prompts have been very worthwhile, comments also.
There is a false spring here.
So I went to this local landmark the other day that’s um, been around since definite pre-Laura days (read centuries) and is not-too-far-away, but for some reason I never visited before. And it was so weirdly neat that I am obsessed with it now.
I haven’t done anything with that (obsession) yet. But so many things are tinkering around in my brain. If anything emerges I will, of course, elaborate. Until then, I will remain freakishly secretive.
Remember the chapbook I was compiling? Good. Well, I hate it now. Can you do it for me?
I’m also in a workshop at the moment but I don’t hate that. The prompts have been very worthwhile, comments also.
There is a false spring here.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Proposed Resolution for the Polite and Timely Rejection of Writers
I’ve mentioned here before that I strive for 10 submissions per month in poetry and prose. Sadly, 2008 didn’t work that way. Wanting to begin 2009—a year that has thus far turned out to be more shitty even than 2008—in a good way, I hit the 10 submission mark last month.
Here’s where I start to complain. I like receiving speedy submission responses as much as anyone. The sooner I can get my work back into the mix, the better. (Unlike some, I don’t typically send simultaneous submissions because I try to tailor each submissions packet to a specific journal’s aesthetic. Maybe this is why I rarely ever submit to 10 journals a month these days. This was a very long aside.)
Okay, I lied. Here’s where I really start to complain. Rapid responses (less than 5 days after submitted, say), or even 1-day responses, sting. They majorly sting. As in: whoa, this sucks so much we don’t even need to think about it. Get it away from us before we puke.
I know that it sounds like I wish journals waited at least a week to reject me to assuage my pride. And I know that’s totally stupid, because whether I get rejected in a day or a week, I’ve still been rejected. But, um, how about we make a new rule of rejecting with a 1 week minimum holding period?
Why am I whining about this, you ask? Because just days after dusting my hands off and patting myself on the back for reaching the 10 submission mark, I’ve received 2 speedy yet generic thanks-but-no-thanks emails in my inbox. Which deflates me. Do I have to go for 12 this month now? It’s a short month. Please say no.
But wait at least a week first.
Here’s where I start to complain. I like receiving speedy submission responses as much as anyone. The sooner I can get my work back into the mix, the better. (Unlike some, I don’t typically send simultaneous submissions because I try to tailor each submissions packet to a specific journal’s aesthetic. Maybe this is why I rarely ever submit to 10 journals a month these days. This was a very long aside.)
Okay, I lied. Here’s where I really start to complain. Rapid responses (less than 5 days after submitted, say), or even 1-day responses, sting. They majorly sting. As in: whoa, this sucks so much we don’t even need to think about it. Get it away from us before we puke.
I know that it sounds like I wish journals waited at least a week to reject me to assuage my pride. And I know that’s totally stupid, because whether I get rejected in a day or a week, I’ve still been rejected. But, um, how about we make a new rule of rejecting with a 1 week minimum holding period?
Why am I whining about this, you ask? Because just days after dusting my hands off and patting myself on the back for reaching the 10 submission mark, I’ve received 2 speedy yet generic thanks-but-no-thanks emails in my inbox. Which deflates me. Do I have to go for 12 this month now? It’s a short month. Please say no.
But wait at least a week first.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Headlines Monday
Michael Phelps, who came to fame as the all-American swimmer who won 8 gold medals at the 2008 Olympics, is in deep shit after a photo hit the net showing him smoking a bong. Now, his mega-buck endorsements may be in mega-peril.
What an interesting development, after numerous reports of Phelps becoming a lady killer post-Olympics success (despite his, ahem, unfortunate appearance) and generally displaying poor choice in female companionship (in terms of avoidance of STDs, say).
Phelps apologized because he doesn’t want to lose out on all those wads of cash, and in the new, all-American style pointed the blame arrow at something beyond his control (oh, he’s so young!), saying:
"I engaged in behavior which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgment. I'm 23 years old and despite the successes I've had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way, not in a manner people have come to expect from me. For this, I am sorry. I promise my fans and the public it will not happen again."
By which he meant to say:
“Look, I thought I could do whatever I wanted because I won 8 gold medals. It turns out that I can, but only if there aren’t any cameras involved. Um, yeah, so I just smoked pot because I’m young. But I promise I won’t do it again, as long as there aren’t any cameras involved. Please don’t yank my bags of cash from me. Pass the bong and shake that ass for me, sweet cheeks. Oh shit, was the microphone still turned on?”
Oh, and this is just plain disgusting, and a sign of the all-American style of irresponsibility. Um, doctors? Maybe this lady needed mental help instead of a litter of 8 kids?
What an interesting development, after numerous reports of Phelps becoming a lady killer post-Olympics success (despite his, ahem, unfortunate appearance) and generally displaying poor choice in female companionship (in terms of avoidance of STDs, say).
Phelps apologized because he doesn’t want to lose out on all those wads of cash, and in the new, all-American style pointed the blame arrow at something beyond his control (oh, he’s so young!), saying:
"I engaged in behavior which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgment. I'm 23 years old and despite the successes I've had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way, not in a manner people have come to expect from me. For this, I am sorry. I promise my fans and the public it will not happen again."
By which he meant to say:
“Look, I thought I could do whatever I wanted because I won 8 gold medals. It turns out that I can, but only if there aren’t any cameras involved. Um, yeah, so I just smoked pot because I’m young. But I promise I won’t do it again, as long as there aren’t any cameras involved. Please don’t yank my bags of cash from me. Pass the bong and shake that ass for me, sweet cheeks. Oh shit, was the microphone still turned on?”
Oh, and this is just plain disgusting, and a sign of the all-American style of irresponsibility. Um, doctors? Maybe this lady needed mental help instead of a litter of 8 kids?
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