Today I read: We walk on air, Watson. There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus. There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes. -- Sylvia Plath, "The Detective"

“We Got The Beat”

Instead of talking about the rollercoaster of my day, I give you Newspaper Blackout, Austin Kleon's blog of erasure poetry ripped, as they say, from the headlines.  

“Pastime With Good Company”

Just FYI, there are only four days remaining to help fund the excellent forest memory exhibition I'll be taking part in this June.  If you're interested in trees, cultural geography, memory and book arts (among other things), please consider chipping in to help Amy defray the costs of mounting the exhibition.


Here's my revelation about The Great Gatsby, on the third or fourth rereading of it: This is realism written like surrealism.  It's so alive to strangeness, but what's strange about it is nothing beyond the realm of possibility, not even anything particularly out of the ordinary (OK, well, with the exception of the extreme extravagance).  …

“Murder By Numbers”

I think I'll save a full write-up until the show is finished, but I have to say I feel like I've been waiting for The Bletchley Circle my whole life. It's about a group of female codebreakers in post-WWII Britain solving serial murders.  This is absolutely everything I love -- feminism, friendship, mystery, period drama, …


Today I read: Where we live, the skies are heavy with sleep. Sometimes high-flying jets come down encrusted with it, like bees dusted with pollen. Fielded by Midas and thrown home, how beautiful these shining apparitions are. They roll unsteadily to a stop, transformed into fairy-tale coaches. A crack opens, a patch of golden coral …