so I suddenly see it has been a month and a week since I wrote anything in this, which is supposed to be like the journal I used to keep, only clearly the irregularities of my life and mind and actions are superclear even to moi, which is ok, I trust, since why would anyone read a kind of nonrelevantblog
like mine, unlike those of my friends that are termed things like fashionista and translationista and all those specific ista things
perhaps have so excitedly and lengthily done my Manifesto book, about ISMS, now very much out of print, it was enough, like enough already
and now have sent my modern art cookbook to press, really, like this week, and that is a great joy, never ever had so many permissions to ask for, never mind that I had 2 years of student assistants,
I ended up doing more month after month until yesterday, when 2 were still lacking, even though I pointed out that 1) my husband was in (which he was and is but out soon) intensive care and that 2) I had written at least 12 times to each and the crowning funny was when 3) some agent said, ah, but another poet, alice b toklas, is getting more than the poet I represent (I love it, and replied that, well, alice b toklas meant her cookbook, from which there are 6 recipes), etc., and it reminds me of when I used to tell what I thought was a side-splitting joke about daffodils that was simply: "Wordsworth leaned out the window and asked: what are those yellow flowers called?" Alas, some people did not laugh, ditto the Alice B. Toklas thing
senses of humor are different kettles of tunafish or something
this is long enough for a blog taken back up after 5 weeks (I can count sometimes)
like mine, unlike those of my friends that are termed things like fashionista and translationista and all those specific ista things
perhaps have so excitedly and lengthily done my Manifesto book, about ISMS, now very much out of print, it was enough, like enough already
and now have sent my modern art cookbook to press, really, like this week, and that is a great joy, never ever had so many permissions to ask for, never mind that I had 2 years of student assistants,
I ended up doing more month after month until yesterday, when 2 were still lacking, even though I pointed out that 1) my husband was in (which he was and is but out soon) intensive care and that 2) I had written at least 12 times to each and the crowning funny was when 3) some agent said, ah, but another poet, alice b toklas, is getting more than the poet I represent (I love it, and replied that, well, alice b toklas meant her cookbook, from which there are 6 recipes), etc., and it reminds me of when I used to tell what I thought was a side-splitting joke about daffodils that was simply: "Wordsworth leaned out the window and asked: what are those yellow flowers called?" Alas, some people did not laugh, ditto the Alice B. Toklas thing
senses of humor are different kettles of tunafish or something
this is long enough for a blog taken back up after 5 weeks (I can count sometimes)
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