Tag Archives: Bookish

Newsday Tuesday

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Favorite Tweets:

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Favorite Search Terms:

  • lumberjack valentine: Somewhere out in the interwebs, there’s a girl who’s dating an alligator wrestler, or an Olympic weight-lifting champion, or a lumberjack.  The lumberjack’s girl wears plaid in her freetime and smells distinctly of burnt wood.
  • dress up poison ivy what every decision do you suggest any kids to do in nc is everything: I’m not sure this makes any sense at all, but thank you for using the google machine to write your life story, or a Halloween drunken memory.  Not quite sure which.
  • irish gypsies in south carolina: Is there a caravan park for this? I’d like to join the travelers.

Book News:


120 Books Later

Photographed: BOOKS & BOWEL MOVEMENTS

Photographed: BOOKS & BOWEL MOVEMENTS

This Christmas, I was given my usual books and my father was given a toilet seat.  If ever again I am asked why my blog title remains this tradition of reading while pottying, I will point to this blog.

Bookish Gal

Bookish Gal

This morning I sat at the breakfast table while my mom vacuumed around me and my father had a Santa nap on the couch.  I finished the 120th book of the year.  Here is my thank you speech:

I’d like to thank the Academy, my mother, my father, my brother for creating competition, coffee, sweet potato muffins, fellow bloggers, my students, books AND bowel movements, dancing in the kitchen, soft rain, both cats, and my budget for adding $50 a month for books for the last year.  (It’s clear I have a problem and I should have started with “I am Cassie M and I am a bookoholic.”)

I’d like to thank people everywhere who read and who have encouraged me to continually write this blog even when I’m too tired, or there is too much reality television that I could watch instead.

I tried to get it down, but I’m not sure these words are good enough.

I think it’s safe to say that I came to reading as an escape rather than the sport that it has become in my life.  When you’re a kid and instead of playing video games, you’re picking Great Expectations off the shelf of the school library, you know you’re different.  And I’ve finally come to realize that that’s a good different.  We’re studiers of the language of our time, we’re the history keepers, the stop-motion picture takers, the people who can appreciate a moment put to words.  I can analyze the placement of a period for an hour if I must.  I prefer the soft light of a flashlight against the glow of a sheet rather than a ceiling light or a lamp.  We all do, us readers.  We’re like a community, a sisterhood, a brotherhood, we should design robes that have pockets deep enough for all the characters we carry around after we’ve placed our bookmark in new pages, new words, new wishes.

HOLY BOOKS BATMAN!

HOLY BOOKS BATMAN!

Like oak trees that carry equators of history in one chopped stump, we carry words.  We are the people that will carry history all the way to our grave stones.  When we’re asked by grand children, small children, dwarves in the woods, about our world we’ll be able to tell them with eloquence and grace whether we start with “Once Upon a Time” or “It was a dark and stormy night.”  We carry the voices of generations in our wombs and for longer than nine months, for life times.  We’re women made of hair, water, and syllables.  They kink in our hair, leave freckles on our cheeks, sunburns, hang nails, wrinkles at the bed of our palms.  We’re not made of water, fire, earth, or wind, but stories, paragraphs, sentences, ink.  The next time you wonder why you picked up that book instead of turned on that television, remember the gift that you’re bearing because not a lot of people are given this gift.  We’re the minor few.

True. Story.

True. Story.

My dad just said, “You know the theme I find with these books about presidents, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, they’re all well read, they all sit in the evening and read.”  It’s just proof – we’re the Presidents of time and letter.

We’re the ones who walk into a bookstore and before turning to the coffee, the calendars or the shelves, we just take a deep breath.  There’s nothing more powerful than the smell of printed paper bound and stitched to a cover.  We don’t read blurbs, we break spines to read paragraphs before we buy the book.  We test ourselves with different genres, different publishing companies, different words.  We read everything; street signs, mall kiosks, gas station pamphlets, books. If there’s anything I learned from reading 120 books this year it’s that I’m one hell of a dinner party guest, no wait…that wasn’t it.  If there’s one thing I learned from reading 120 books this year, it’s that you can’t breathe under water and you can’t breathe in smoke, but you can breathe the middle of an o, the undercarriage of an a, the drooping breast of a b for life support.  You can live on words written and trees carved.

Just some more pictures of me.

Just some more pictures of me.

Thank you all for being a part of my journey this year.  I could not have done this without the encouragement of my blogging friends.  This community of people have made me feel more at home and more bookish than I ever thought possible.  Keep breathing, keep sobbing, carrying the weight of the world’s words on your shoulders because no one but you can bear it.


Project 365 | Week 49

Day 347 | Cat Nap

Shoved in the cushion.

Shoved in the cushion.

Don’t ask me how I got a cat this handsome or this photogenic, but he’s even a looker while he sleeps.

Day 348 | Tree Trimming

First Real Christmas Tree

First Real Christmas Tree

Brittni couldn’t believe that I didn’t know that you have to water these.  She whipped out her little watering can like a ninety-year old gardener and showed me the way.

Day 349 | Away in a Manger

Nephew

Nephew

My mom took my nephew to look at Christmas lights and he suddenly became a shepherd boy. Fits right in with his converses and shaggy Justin Bieber hair.  (Does anyone know how to correctly spell Bieber)?

Day 350 | Midsummer

Midsummer

Midsummer

My new life quote.

Day 351 | SELFIE

Photobooth

Photobooth

Good hair days are few and far between.  They need evidence.

Day 352 | “Glitter is the herpes of crafting”  - BD

Bookish Bulbs

Bookish Bulbs

Sunday afternoon crafting session with my cat lady double.

Day 353 | Progress Reports

Period Grades

Period Grades

Progress reports is almost never a good day.  It was even raining.  Jane Eyre should have come in and taught them a thing about the weather dictating feelings.


When in Doubt. Be Bookish.

My Workspace | Infested

So, I had a bad night.  It may be due to the picture to your left where tissues are crowding my mug of raspberry tea and my Downy napkin poetry.  I’ve been sick with a cold for just two short days and yet, I’m a cosmic mess.  At least tissues and napkins are pulling double time: snot and words.  Hopefully the two are not blurring one another.  Due to my lack of composure during creative writing discussions (which was more so the reason for my no good, very bad day) I took a mild trip to the bookstore.  By mild I mean I only purchased one book.   Quailridge isn’t exactly the place to go when you only want to purchase one book, it’s the place to go when you want to become a serial book killer.  It’s an instant mood lifter, it’s like the mood ring of bookstores – you walk in and you’re instantly violet-blue.  See the mood ring manual here.

I did the usual: ran my fingertips along the hardcover spines, through F,G,H,I and then poetry, travel, literary journals.  I looked through the card section, found quotes for friends in other hemispheres.  I cheered myself right up from that crying jag.  I joke with my friends that when I’m pregnant my husband will have to run out and get books, not tacos, or pickles.  Maybe a book on pickles.  Do they have such a thing. Today, I bought a book on birds (typical).

Let me introduce to you, The Conference of the Birds (retold and re-illustrated) by Peter Sis. I have a thing about bird books, or the word bird in titles.  I also have two birdish tattoos, and a nickname of “little bird.  It’s kind of my thing; birds and books.  Any title with “birds” or “birdies” usually lends itself right to the register.  This book spoke to me from clear across the room.  It was face-up towards me, it’s printed on this unbelievable grid paper, and the whole back sleeve is birds.  It didn’t take me long to designate this book, “the one” and marry it right on the spot.  In this case, I’m polygamous. This book is amazing.

If you didn’t already know, I’m obsessed with Shaun Tan books.  If anyone in Australia wants to send me his new sketch journals, I will not be opposed.  I own every single one (The Red Tree is in my nephews room though because I gave it to him for a holiday not even thinking it wasn’t very childish. It’s actually quite depressing).  Since my love affair started with Tan in Australia, I have yet to find illustrations, or illustrated books for adults that measure up to Tan.  I think in color, and oddness, The Conference of Birds matches. Just check out some of the images that Penguin gave as an excerpt to NPR.

I was delighted to find this book.  It only takes one page of something delicious to perk a bookish girl up (boys take note.  Maybe read the little diddy “Date a Girl Who Reads” so you can know the truth about love and devotion). Once I did some research, I found that last year Sis was on NPR “All Things Considered” to introduce his dream world of birds to adults, not children. Anywho, that’s not really why I’m writing. I never wrote a blog about how wonderful my Month of Letters was in March and Claire reminded me to blog about it.  A month of letters was a really lovely way to get to know bloggers out there and realize how your brain works in the stream-of-concious.  I often stream-of-concious for fiction and poetry exercises during my daily writing, but I don’t often enough write about my own life this way.  It’s interesting to decide what you’re going to write to a stranger, or how you’re going to present yourself, or if you’re just going to write about the glass in front of you and the orange eye make-up you’re wearing that day.  I wrote a lot of letters about coffee and food.  I was almost always hungry when I started writing.  I filled every first letter with the same note as well:

It's in my notebook called, "Bad Experiments" based on a post-it note I found.

“For it is said, you know, that a letter will always seek a reader; that sooner or later, like it or not, words have a way of finding the light, of making their secrets known” (Kate Morton, The Distant Hours).

I think there’s something about the honesty in writing letters that you don’t get through an email.  How easy is it to just slide your pinky to the delete key and let everything go blank again, start fresh.  With a letter, unless you feel like digging and scraping your pen across a page (who writes in pencil other than Nikki Finney anymore), it’s a lot more work to delete ink than the georgia font on the screen. I like letters because I always feel like myself when I write them.  I’m never pretending to be someone else because I know if I do, then it’s all fake.  In letters I can scrawl my bad, loopy, half-trying-cursive handwriting, my unknown and aggressive commas.  (The page looks like people are on the comma egg hunt).  My bad spelling and lack of acceptance of the “i before e” rule.  I tend to be the mess that I am when it comes to letters.  Usually, the blog world doesn’t see that mess because I try to focus (sometimes it comes out though, like this blog, it can’t be restrained). It wasn’t just me who celebrated the art of hand-writing, but tons of ladies wrote me back.  Here is what came of that:

My best friend Sars sent a montage of birds, her wedding, and New Zealand. She’s the one doing 365NZ.
She also sent a cat card.
Katie sent me an ugly doll card (totally not knowing I had a keychain). Anna sent me a card on stationary I almost bought two days before I received her card. And Chris drew me a bouquet.

Muzette's Tiger and my favorite drawings by Claire's two children.

Emerson Graduate School - Red Letter from Katie B. that turns into an envelope. All stuck into my 2012 Book.

Whitney is not only a darling human-being with passion, she sent me a magazine creation. It was lovely.

These are assorted letters. One is my to-do list with letter writing on it. One post card of a famous tiger. One fashion card. Two child drawings that are both hilarious, and wonderful. Pink trees in the upper right. Thank you to Claire, Muzette, and Chris(tina) for these.

Two out of Three from Claire. We're going strong.

Thank you to Claire, Jen, Whit, Muzette, Lauren, MyMeanderingMind, Riki, TraceyChrissy, Ever, Kate, Katie, Kristine, Cindy, Chris, Sars and Anna.  I got more cards than this.  Haley sent me this rad owl card that I unfortunately have misplaced.  I think my dad moved it from the kitchen counter where I last saw it.  It was very hippie Harry Potter, as she is.  In fact, I think I just described her in three words.  Thank you to everyone who participated with me, or helped me to create a global community of letter writing/penpal-dom. It’s a revolution, get on the bus.


Newsday Tuesday

Tweets of the Week:

Favorite Search Terms:

  • Kids Lawn Furniture: I just have the best image in my mind of girls tea-partying in the yard.  Yes, tea drinking is a verb.
  • Girl Hairy Leg: It’s true I didn’t shave my legs for most of high school due to competitive year round swimming and “hair checks” but I think I’ve grown beyond that.  (Except in winter – winter wool).
  • my spring feels like you: I just like the way this reads.  Whoever searched this, you’re a poet.
  • the expense of the bird cage: This is also oddly poetic.  I know it’s probably some cheap father who’s daughter wants a bird or something, but it’s poetically written. 

News:

Nick Flynn @ Norton Tumblr

It’s March Madness.  Let’s all participate.  The 2012 Book Bracket:

Book Bracket


Smudges | Housekeeping

My copy (and someone else's dear copy), Housekeeping

Odd back stain.

I’m that girl scribbling in the margin of your Pulitzer winning poetry book.  Bubble-lettering “ME!” in the top left corner of page three.  Cracking the spine.  Nuzzling the cover.  Taking picture of my eyes and half my nose peeking over that accordion of top pages that you get when you open a book right down the middle.  I look through the books in the local used bookstore for ones that someone else has loved like I will.  Where are the coffee stains?  Where are the fingerprint maps on the edge where you held the page just after baking?  I want that book with the oil smudge of a Southern farmer after a long day, the faded yellow of the back cover from the sun on a porch, and someone else’s name inside, in cursive, which was lost after second grade for me.

So now that you know all of that, I can explain this blog.  Last week I went to my second favorite used bookstore (the biggest one in my area) and picked up four books I had been recommended.  Edward McKay uses milk crates as shelves and I had to dig to the back row of books (behind other books) to find one copy of Housekeeping (supposedly the best women’s fiction of the 20th century even though I don’t believe fiction has a “gender genre.”)  I picked it up without flipping through like I normally would because it was the only copy and recommend to me by a professor.  (If you’re working on setting and beautiful language in description in your own writing, read this book).

While the book is really character, description driven and not very much plot at all, in fact I think it gets a plot on page 170ish (out of 219), I think it was beautifully written and I’ll share some quotes at the bottom.  However, this blog isn’t really about the book, but what I found hidden inside the folds of its pages.

I looked through as I started to read, first searching for the triangle bent pages that show where someone stopped, bookmarked, or just wanted to remember a quote to write down later (that’s me).  But I found other exciting things.  The first wonderful thing about this book is the stain on the back cover.  Unlike some people who would automatically think someone dropped this book in a pile of poop, I thought something different.  I’m always drinking coffee in spill-able mugs while I drive.  The coffee often drips over the edge when it’s stuck in the awkward cup-holder and forced in tilted because of its handle.  I’m too cheap to buy one of those eco-safe ones from Target for 20 bucks.  All this is just to say that it leaves a sticky mark in the cup-holder or underneath the e-break where I sometimes place them.  My dad does the same thing with Pepsi so it must run in the family.  I’m sure at some point I could spill coffee on my seat, as I often do on the cute shirt I’m wearing to work. (These are all signs of addiction).  And like all other book lovers I keep piles of books in my car (literally it’s a small library, you should see people’s faces when they step in the car) which may or may not get spilled on or placed in a coffee puddle.  So, the stain on the back – most likely from a coffee/book lover like myself who sips and drives.  (It’s probably time for an intervention).

My favorite thing about the book is that Claire signed the inside cover as if to say, “this will memorialize me.  This is mine.”  I can’t believe being the book hoarder that I am that I haven’t gone through with an ink pen to every inside cover of every book that I own.  Part of me wants to say that the cover is sacred and unless it’s a book from fifth grade (The BFG) I probably won’t be writing in the cover.  The BFG is special because it has a whole garden crayon drawn in the inside cover.  I was a reading artist it seems.

If anyone can figure out that last name I would love to facebook stalk her and maybe tell her about my find and do a blog solely on the reason why she gave up this book that she so clearly loved.

Quailridge receipt.

It didn’t end there though.  In my area, we have an amazing independent bookstore called Quailridge Books and it seems in 2005,  Claire bought the book there.

I can just imagine Claire swinging the glass door open, hearing the chime of her own entrance, her coat billowing behind her in the winter wind (she’d be the kind of girl to leave it unbuttoned).  The receipt says February 12th which is my nephews birthday (another odd coincidence that I will say was lined up by the stars).

Maybe she was in a hurry and it was on the recommended by staff rack that spins so you can see all the books in one sweep.  Maybe Robinson was going to read at some point in the coming months and so they had placed it on the first shelf as you walk in.  Robinson isn’t local.  Or maybe, she wasn’t in a hurry, and she was recommended this book by a professor and so she went straight to the R’s, reading just before Richard Russo and just after Tom Robbins.  There the white spine, with bold, all capital red lettering read “Housekeeping.”

Or perhaps, she perused the store.  She picked up greeting cards for relatives up North hoping it would thaw their hearts from the cold, and the clearing of driveways, and the sounds of snow plows in the night.  She looked through a Dubus collection, or Quindlen because they were both judging the National Book Award and Claire knew that she wanted to win that in ten years.  Joan Didion would win in 2005 for nonfiction and all of America would grieve their husbands.  I know that this is the version of what she did because she also bought a “blank notebook” for ten dollars with tax of 70 cents.

I secretly knew other things the whole time as well. Claire went in with a list of things she’d like to get, a list of things she’d like to do before the evening.  She had a plan.  The book had been mentioned in our newspaper, The News & Observer and she had written her list directly over the article on Gilead, Marilynne Robinson’s newer book that a lot more of you may be familiar with.  She wrote the list on February 6.  She’s so busy it took her until my nephew’s birthday to go to the store and collect her findings.  On the 6th, a Saturday in 2005, she wanted to do the following.

Claire's list

  1. reading + breakfast
  2. quarters + laundry
  3. deposit payroll + pay rent
  4. fog @ Flying Saucer 2:30 pm
  5. Regulator – Gilead + Housekeeping > by Marilynne Robinson
(International list? Nice Price books? Pennies for Change?)
+ New Journal
        6. groceries? black beans, cheese, oatmeal, fruit
Fast forward.

Claire is somewhere at a desk this evening smudging the knuckle of her pinky finger with ink, dragging her right hand across the page, margin to margin.  She is tapping her left foot because she is anxious to write the scene where the girl gets stuck under the bleachers during a football game, and it is raining.  She has socks on, a barrette pulling back her bangs.  She uses ink, the lines of her palm are damp with sweat, there are sounds coming from outside the window in front of her desk.  The sounds are of small birds, or a trash can moving slightly on its wheels.  Claire will write this scene and then go downstairs to kiss her husband goodnight and peel a clementine using the nail of her thumb.  She will eat each part whole without chewing them in pieces, watching the orange insides bleed a bit onto her fingers.  She will go to bed with her hands sticky, her fingers coated in black residue.  She will begin again on that scene in the morning, she will over-revise.

You finish the story, aren’t we all Claire ourselves?

Marilynne Robinson in News & Observer


Questions of Book Lust

Sophie from Her library adventures adapted these for a recent blog post of hers- these questions are the original questions for a bookworm.  And then after, it was stolen by bookgrrl, and I borrowed it from her.  It’s traveled a long way, my friends, feel free to spread it over the book nation.  It’s bloggers uniting, just imagine that picture of all the stick people holding hands around the world and let your heart “jump, jump, jump around.” (Yes, old school rap, and MC Hammer pants definitely go with book blogging, just in case you were wondering.  Also, those glasses that look like window shutters that Kanye wears – book blogging essential).  Lastly, random note, I just tried to spell “shutters” like “udders.”

Marco Polo - Favorite Tea. I don't quite look as shadowy as her though when I drink it.

Imagine you sit in front of a fireplace. You read and beside you there is a cup with something hot in it. What would that be in your case: tea, coffee or hot chocolate?

Well given that I waitressed at a tea shop in Australia (with Alice in Wonderland high tea’s, big bonnet hats and old women with lots of enourmous jewels on their hands) I want to go with tea.  Specifically: Orange Spice Tea in America, or Marco Polo in Australia.  However, I’m thinking this is in the evening and I have boyfriend sweat pants on (meaning they’re 9 sizes too big and I can fit all the cheese I want in them) and fuzzy socks adore my feet, so tea would be better than keeping myself up all night with coffee.  Then again, if this is the morning, and I have just finished the newspaper that I don’t really read – just scan, and there are sunny-side-up eggs on the side with an everything bagel, lightly buttered (I’m such a princess), then I would choose coffee.  I also choose coffee at the RR, when I’m sitting in an over-large chair (preferably leather), while I’m driving (because the chance of spilling is 1 in 1) and when I go to IHOP.  I do not like to drink hot things when I’m eating hot food though, and I much prefer to eat honey nut cheerios while I read, out of habit and dedication to the honey bee.

If an author gave you the chance to rewrite or to change the fate of a book character, who would you chose?

SPOILER: EASY.  Emma in One Day by David Nicholls.  (Well…maybe not easy because Bovary needs a few tweaks in Madame Bovary).  But, seriously…you’re going to write a book where the main female character waits twenty years for the main male character to get his shit together (aka dump the frigid blonde, take care of his kid, quit his rock star ways and sweaty drinking) and then you kill her at the end.  What kind of anti-feminist lesson are you trying to pull here, David?  I LOATHE this book…I would make it eat worms if I could.   So frustrated.  I haven’t even seen the movie because I refuse to give any more money than my seven dollars (for the book) to David Nicholls or anyone on his team of readers and editors.

Did your parents read stories to you when you were little? if yes are there any special ones you remember the most?

Little Golden Book: Dumbo Edition

My mom always tells this story of me when I was still crawling.  It seems I had a book shelf and while my parents watched television on the couch I would crawl back and forth from bookshelf to parent feet and pile up my books.  When I was finally ready and the pile was about my height, I would climb up on the cushion, sit patiently and point at the books expecting either parent to read every single one.  Some of the favorites were: The Giving Tree, Goodnight Moon, Love you Forever, and the Little Golden Books (example to your left).

What do you like more the smell of old antiquarian books or the smell of new fresh ones you just bought?

Oh my, nom-nom-nom, old books.  I could literally smell page one, turn the page, smell page two, turn the page, smell the spinal crack, turn the page, smell the left corner, turn the page…all the way through an antiquarian book.  It’s the dust, or the molding of the old wooden shelves, or the finger smears of everyone before me that makes it worth it.  It’s the book flower, the anti-daisy smell.  It’s more nursing home, than fresh baby.  More grandpa’s elbow-patched jacket than a thirteen year old’s Victoria Secret perfume.  An antique book is its very own smell…like the back of a Victorian closet, or a crawl space below Hemingway’s house.  If it’s not browned at the edges, it ain’t for me.  I would literally, if I could, smell like an old librarian.  Speaking of, if anyone is selling old librarian cardigans – send them to this girl.

Holden, swoon.

You get the opportunity to chose between two secret talents: either to be able to make things come to life through reading them or the gift to read yourself into a book. Which one would you like to have?

….Are you joking.  I would be on my way to the catipillar, or the walrus, or the tea ceremony….I would educate myself on croquet if I could read myself into Alice.  I would wear petticoats ALL DAY LONG.  You have no idea how many goosebumps, and how cold my fingers got when I read this question.   I would also be dating, saving, fixing, Holden Caulfield because I like my men baggy, and used…clearly.

Do you have a favorite children’s book or a favorite fairy tale?

Children’s book(s) would be Sweet Valley High books (which Diablo Cody is writing into a movie – YES YES YES YES).  But, fairy tale, I’m not so sure.  I have an attachment to Blue Beard, Hansel and Gretel, and then Red Riding Hood (mostly because I want to own a pine-smelling red cloak.  But, I would want to be The Little Mermaid...because she’s a redhead and a breathes in the sea.  I would also like to be Jessica Rabbit, but she’s not really a fairy tale character.  Give me a Grimm, and I’m a happy girl.

Someone would talk to your friends and ask them to compare you to a book character. With whom do you think would they compare you?

Alice, times one million.  But if I can’t be Alice….(am I pushing my opinions too much here?)…I would have to be…wow, I have no idea. Friends, I need your help.  (Make her witty, or else).  Miss Havisham maybe, if she would have had oodles of cats and sat on her porch more.  I could see where my husband would die and I would wear the same dress caked with dirt for years and years.

Anne Sexton

Tell me the name of a writer whom you would like to have as a friend.

There’s way too many choices.  I think Edgar Allen Poe would drive me insane, and Dickens would be so damn depressing and Dr. Suess would always be rhyming, so really…a woman.  My head keeps flashing, “Anne Enright” because she’s Irish, and I’m in love with the majority of her books, but I feel like I’m missing someone.  Oh, duh, Anne Sexton.  Rather than Sylvia, I’d love to be the lady on the other line of her twisted, corking phone cord.  I’d like to talk in metaphors over dinner, and paint our nails dark colors on the floor of a tiled kitchen.

You can hide in a written down world for only one night into which world do you escape?

Man, oh man….Odysseus’ castle when he returns from his journey and finds all of the suitors and the ladies-in-waiting and kills each one except Penelope (his wife).  What a scene, it’s like Hamlet on steroids with less sex-gone-wrong.

Arthur Rackham Grimm's Illustration

Something terrible happens: you have to flee to an unknown place and all you can take with you are three books of all the ones you own. Which three ones do you put into your bag?

Hm.

1. Grimms’ Fairy Tales because I’m sure I could always discover something new, and when they got old I could tell myself my own tales, curling up into the sand and palm leaves in which I lay.

2. Norton Anthology of Contemporary Short Fiction (same mindset as Grimm).  There are a lot to read and they can be read repeatedly with still fresh encounters.  I mean, just think about how many ways you can unwrap The Yellow Wallpaper.  Is she losing her damn mind?

3. Sylvia Plath’s Diaries.  I have been unable to complete them for some time now, although I’ve read most and she was a *ucking genius (pardon my french).  Plus, although I’m angry with Ted Hughes for publishing them without her knowledge especially due to the fact that they are deeply personal, I’m in total gratitude to him for letting us into a glimpse of her perfect diary.  I started to read this book and asked myself – why does anyone else write when this has already been brought into the world?  It’s like a creative writer’s bible.

In closing, I’d like to share this Conversation with B.H. Fairchild about poetry.

And also, the original writing and drawings of Lewis Carroll Alice’s Adventures Under Ground online.  Thanks to Beauty and Dreams I found this.


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