It was seventy degrees here in lovely south-central Indiana today. SEVENTY. Needless to say, the to-do list got shelved for a while in favor of a nice walk in the park where there were toddlers toddling, kites kiting, bikes biking, and dogs ... er, hanging around. (As a side note, it's almost embarrassing how much of a sucker I am for fluffy puppies.)
Don't fret, though, people of the snowy lands: tomorrow it's supposed to pour down rain all day, and then by Tuesday we're supposed to have snow & sleet & freezing rain & ice again. Oh joy.
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Wednesday evening I'll be going to what promises to be a very good reading: poet Evie Shockley, who I've heard is a terrific reader, and fiction writer John Keene, who I'm not familiar with but whose bio sounds pretty interesting.
If you're in the area, you should think about coming. Should be worth it.
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Tomorrow, I'm leaving work a little early and bopping across the parking lot to the studios of WFIU to record two episodes of The Poets Weave. I'll post the airdates when I know them -- I will probably find out tomorrow. WFIU streams online and you can also nab a podcast, so if you want to hear my nasally Midwestern voice reading my Midwestern poems, you should be able to do so no matter where you are. Ain't technology grand?
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Have you read a book that's knocked your socks off lately? Tell me about it.
4 comments:
I will definitely need to hear your twanginess :). seriously, i find that i get so much out of hearing a poet read a poem, because then i can imagine their voice when i read other works.
knock 'em dead. show 'em what a stanza is!
p.s. wanderjenn = gardenwaltz
Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. It's the product of her novel by the same name, a one-woman play in which Didion herself fumbles through after losing her husband & her daughter within a brief amount of time. The writing's fiercely candid, emotionally charged, harrowing, beautiful.
Also, not a book exactly, but Samuel Beckett's 'Act Without Words 1.' It made my throat all hot, which means emotionally I was completely present. A resonant piece. It's the second work of his I'd read after Waiting for Godot, & I'll be back for more, for sure.
Close Range by Annie Proulx
knocked my socks off.
Wanderjenn: My voice is nasal, not twangy! :) (BTW, did you know you can actually sign in with your LJ identity to leave comments here? If you wanted to, that is.)
Erin & LKD: Thanks! I'm taking notes & making a list...
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