wow (oh wow)

Lynn Alexander of Full of Crow has nominated my poem 'Scales' for a Pushcart.



I am (very) excited.


The poem can be read here.

new (and leafy)

Poem out today in #6 of Leaf Garden Press, and considering the weather, it could not be more perfect timing. That is if you live in the south. Elsewhere, you will have to pretend.

You can even download the entire issue for free (!), which is wonderful for spendthriftiness.

i am mostly fine

I accidentally caused a string of worry in my social atmosphere when I made a point of screaming AS LOUD AS I HAVE EVER SCREAMED on Monday night when my abdomen filled with tacs and needles that I myself had not swallowed or absentmindedly slipped through my bellybutton as some means of entertainment during a slow lecture.

I was taken to the hospital. Because I disagree with a five hour emergency room wait (and people think Canada is bad, sheesh), I was taken home. In the morning, I was taken to the urgent care office. From there I received the unstructions TO GO DIRECTLY TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM OR RISK AN UNTIMELY DEATH. I was again taken to the hospital. I settled for a two hour wait -- that later turned into a nine hour wait; leaving the waiting room is such a tease.

The first opinion: my appendix is actually a balloon. I drank two large cups of a mysterious clear liquid that tasted exactly like what I imagine an oompa loompa would taste like and then wiggled and boiled when my veins were filled with a distressingly hot liquid. Under the spinning space-ready cat scan machine, two doctors took pictures of my appendix and sent those pictures to a radiologist who sent them to a third doctor who informed me that my appendix did not show up in any of the pictures because I am so thin that it is impossible to take pictures of my insides, which made me wonder if I am actually a ghost or if I even have insides at all.

They did, however, see excess liquid floating somewhere in my pelvic region, which led me to believe that I am harboring the melted version of the wicked witch and led the doctors to their second opinion: my ovaries are actually a war zone. I was given an ultrasound, which was not at all what it looks like on television. The jelly was not even cold. There were cameras inserted in unimaginable places. AND I heard my ovaries whispering to each other. It sounded a lot like what bats sound like when they are sleeping upside down, and I felt guilty for intruding on a private conversation or a secret meeting of the war council. Again, pictures were sent and sent and sent and there was little to be seen beyond one leftover grenade.

I am home home home now and confined to my bed until further notice. This is all one misplaced disaster.

small successes

This is a busy time of year. Bee bizzy.

This weekend alone I have accomplished much more than I usually manage to accomplish: including two papers spewed out on Saturday, the compilation of a group paper (still an absurd concept, in my opinion), preparation for two presentations (one on the art and folklore of Guatemala, to be squeezed into three minutes, and another on a seventeenth century English tabloid), laundry, full meals, and a small amount of time with Ellison's Invisible Man.

All that's left is to memorize the phonology, morphology, etc. of Middle and Early Modern English for an exam tomorrow. And a slew of meetings this afternoon.

I'm more excited than ever for grad school. I'm excited even to apply. Still a year away before I can seriously plan out a good portion of my life, but I'm ready.

Oh, I now have a full poetry line-up for the first issue of DDQ! These past three months have been a wonderful learning experience, and I'm feeling much more well-suited to the job. It should be an incredible first issue.

Is it really almost 10 am? Yikes! I miss my slow Sundays.

maps

new poem out in this month's elimae