"already i missed not working and felt the death loneliness that comes at the end of everyday that is wasted in your life..."

my god, there was actually a lot of poetry in my (new) house this week! (no, i'm not talking about my shelves again, and, no, nothing got written, but why is everything always about stupid that?!) i mean, poems (not mine!) were read aloud!

now that we are all done with the important business of sending sarah back home and moving into my new house (!) (um, revise that clause accordingly), i am officially ready to honor my contract with the poetry foundation by bringing things back down (or is it up?) to hank moody style solipsism and, if the opportunity presents itself, POETRY. HI!

here were/are some of the things i was thinking about while unpacking boxes and boxes of poetry and poisoning rats. (okay, mice, and lots of fiction, too, but still):

um, that IS right side up. It's from a pretty amazing installation by someone named Matthew Buckingham that I was fortunate enough to stumble upon (and into) at the Henry in Seattle a few months ago.

However, this:

"The simplest way I have found to make clear my own sense of writing...is to use the analogy of driving. The road, as it were, is creating itself MOMENTLY in one's attention to it, there, visibly, in front of the car. There is no reason this should go on forever, and if one does so assume it, it very often disappears all too actually."

"many, if not most, children exhibit an early talent for art or science, even intellection; but we can never predict the one whose youthful giftedness will blossom not into a pastime, but a driving need, the kind that determines the course of one's life...in creative work, the driving need occurs when the talent is exercised, the possessor of it finds that she or he is struck to the heart (not a thing that happens simply because one has talent) and a sense of expressive existence flares into BRIGHT LIFE. that experience is incomparable. it induces the conviction of inner clarity that quickly becomes the very thing that one can no longer do without. If it can be done without, it usually is..."

(i'm back and, momentarily, no longer mad nor sad at anyone. thanks, some of you, for the non-posted/able comments. as i already wrote one non-public-commenter, my posterior actually isn't that great, but, my negative capability really IS stunning.)

so, having posted ass, i now reassess the correct/necessary use of this forum.

in some ways, especially as way of transition, my derriere really is a short lyric poem (let me compare/count the ways):

wow and well--and hey forrest and travis--i see that while i have been in fucking TRIAL and trying to buy a fucking HOUSE and practicing spelling lists (SYNAGOGUE) and reading (and suffering from) INDIGNATION with (not from/toward) my CHILDREN --and, yes, Mr. Knott, despite my current lack of poetry um, PRODUCT, i actually do FEEL that i did/was/am doing all those things as a POET and not as a(n underpaid!) (part-time!) lawyer or (underpaidparttime) capitalist (jesus, trying to cash in/out my divorce retirement fund!!!!!!) or even an underpaid FULL TIME mother (well--insert big argument with self/x-husband etc. here), ---you guys have been being talking about stuff that i really like, like music and people saying: "god gave me a gift, motherfucker!"--it all suddenly just makes me wanna pose the question: ARE POETS BAD MOTHERFUCKERS or (k)NOT(t)???????????

forrest and travis? are we living our lives differently? better? or are we just making stupid poetry "moves"? bloggingabout...? WESTON CUTTER? EDWARD HIRSCH? CATE MARVIN? MATTHEW ZAPRUDER? ANDREW ZAWACKI? MICHAEL WIEGERS? NICK FLYNN? JOEL BROUWER? (i have a present for you!) oh KARY WAYSON AND KATHY WHITCOMB: please get off the couch at anthropologie! SUSAN PARR??????? RICK MOODY????? JIM BERHLE--make a joke, please. where are all you guys? o, HEATHER McHUGH! o, MARY RUEFLE. (pointless! doesn't even have a computer!) o, DEAN YOUNG and MARK HALLIDAY! (and, i so wish, ALLEN GROSSMAN!) FRANZ WRIGHT! DAVID RIVARD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (still trying, (lost) friend). speak to me! tell me. what are "we" doing? are "we" doing "anything"? is this a matter of life? i need to know. no, really. please.

Let V be a mixed characteristic complete discrete valuation ring, k its residual field, P a proper smooth formal scheme over V, P its special fiber, T a divisor of P, U:=Psetminus T, Y a smooth closed subscheme of U. We prove that the category of overconvergent F-isocrystals on Y is equivalent to the category of overcoherent F-isocrystals on Y. More generally, we prove such an equivalence by gluing for any smooth variety Y over k. Moreover, we check that overcoherent F-complexes of arithmetic D-modules split in overconvergent F-isocrystals.

Hi!

On Saturday, I took five children, ranging in ages from three (Campbel (Camper) Pillifant) to just turned nine (Amelia (Mia) Belle Pillafant) to see Werner Herzog's "Encounters: At the End of the World". We^[1] walked from my house (I use the term "my" loosely), just off the Taony Knowles Coastal Trail (I'm doing this Alaska thing, because—well, you may have heard—)(—and I often do see Knowles, a former (democratic) governor of Alaska who just ran again against Sarah Palin this last go-round, (ye-ah he lost) on the trail—usually skiing—as I run my weekly 20-30) (Palin, who my brother HAS actually had dinner with (he's the D.A. of the region Palin's hideous little "city", Wasilla, is part of), I have never seen—much less seen SWEAT) (Insert lots of shit here.) (But nothing too politically poignant.) (Maybe later.) to the Bear Tooth Theater. It wasn't snowing. Yet.