11 minutes later the Po-po finally left (half the neighborhood now peering out their tiny boxes) and we decided to forget about the earlier gun play conversation and just make some dinner. She was exhausted; one of my eardrums was clearly ruptured–let’s call it a day. We turned on Depeche Mode and played it very, very loud. There are certain moments when Depeche Mode is perfect, like when a cat is dangling from your ceiling fan. She had miso soup and a vivid green tea. I had nachos. We danced.
Nacho Rating: 6 of 10. These don’t really visually appeal, and that’s too bad, but as my grandmother use to say: “You have to get out of bed sometime.” (She was discussing the idea of marrying only beautiful people, but it applies here, too–you can’t really taste appearance.) The visual problem here is my tertiary layer, rotel dip. Like many, I am addicted to rotel. My uncle, brother, and I once ate it for lunch and dinner (I don’t eat breakfast and never have) for three days. Anywho, these nachos tasted much better than they appear. They were Habanero blur. The cheese speaks sharply. The rotel? As usual, hipster eyeglasses on a trembling face.
Finalized my book list for my graduate students, 610, at Ball State. If you took my class in the fall, you would read:
The Writing Life by Annie Dillard
The Lover by Marguerite Duras
The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Flaming Iguanas by Erika Lopez
Practicalities by Duras
The Raw and the Cooked by Jim Harrison
Safekeeping: Some True Stories from a Life by Abagail Thompson
A Poetry handbook by Mary Oliver
The Branch Will Not Break by James Wright
And you would also ready every single thing I just read and thought was great so had someone copy and then I handed it out to you. I am the czar of handouts. I have bad tree karma. But I’m working on it. I’m getting all electronic. I even blog.
Hey I won the Tattoo Highway Flash Fiction/prose poem contest for their upcoming issue. That made me happy as a raspberry raw and green. The contest involved a photo, and then writing a prose poem/FF to the photo. I thought the photo looked like an airport, and my scribbling has one of those artsy names you find in underfunded museums: “Airport #13”. It will be out soon and I will sparkle it on this blog and also they gave me $30 in a gift card to Barnes and Noble.
I will buy a book by this woman. And so should you.
Today’s blog advice is to try Tenured Radical. Claire B. Potter is tenured, so might say anything, which is the point of being tenured, historically. I like her spleen and also the boiler room tunneling of subversive umber.
Claire B. Potter has a better name than you. Claire B. Potter has a family, a mother and a father. But then so do feral cats. She is restless, they are not; and if so, they go out to a restaurant. Her boredom is the core of an active volcano, hot, gurgling. Don’t you understand! she once screamed at them. They did not. So Claire B. Potter quit verbalizing; she turned to observation. She has a way of seeing things: life as flow, skittering; and her reaction is to sketch it all into place on large onion skin tablets: a pastel sky, a giant egg-shaped cloud, curl of car exhaust, of pipe smoke, the interlaced structure of a brick oven, the feminine curve of a spiraling flock of pigeons, a pillow edge, an unmade bed. A mosque steeple. An empty bottle. A spool of thread. The red and white awning of an almond shop, stripes fluttering, shapes and fabrics and shapes, ribs, edges, forms, swatches…the curl of a young woman’s wet lips. Claire B. Potter has urges. She has the carnival in her eyes, a tingling in her fingertips, a thrum and crack that erupts from the pelvis, into the chest, a blooming heat, a panicky desire, always. At age 17 Claire B. Potter left for Paris. They did not.
Also she fishes.
The largest single order of nachos in the world weighed 2,768 pounds.