Almost Killed Me

First fog of the season tonight; went out with a walk with Maura and camera. Fog was a big thing for me this time last year; used to go out for walks in it as late as 5AM. It is happening again; the recursive nature of seasons is analogous to the recursive nature of history, or so I wrote in that one poem that nobody seemed to understand earlier this semester.

Past two weeks almost killed me with too many punches to roll with, and my health finally fell apart this weekend leaving me corpse-cold and eyes like dimming embers, but I felt more awake the past couple of days than I had in weeks (maybe I just rolled back the caffeine addiction) and actually got a couple of things done. Paper should be fit to submit fairly soon.

Saw Sarah today for the first time since the minor disaster two weeks ago. Awkward sure, talking on eggshells, as if every other word could trip the wire to the issue, trying to pretend said things were never said, and then saying things without really knowing why I'm saying them. It's not a feeling I like, but who's surprised? Didn't help that I was still trying to get over my cold; being unhealthy and dazed makes me exponentially more reluctant to speak. I suppose I'll have to learn to deal with it, gradually. Made my own bed after all. Talking about inconsequential things like work helps.

Undergrad reading tonight with Steph C. and Jonny D., featuring Fox from beyond the grave of graduation. Steph's story was good, although I think it made more sense when I read it on paper the first time (so goes fiction). Jonny's from my poetry class, and it's funny how we're so diametrically opposed: I go for understatement and obscurity in my poetry, while he opts for overstatement and bombast; I refuse to explain my poetry, while he spends more time explaining his than reading it. As far as I'm concerned, if a poem I've written doesn't speak for itself, whether in its intended capacity or not, I've failed, and then what's the point of explaining? "I don't get it" is something I hear a lot, but after a certain point one simply can't be bothered. Needless to say, I'm grateful Jonny and I don't have to interact any more than we already do.

Fox's reading was classic, as always. I'd never noticed before how his writing voice was uniquely calibrated to be effectively channeled through his speaking voice. Further proof that poets do write as they speak. I don't know of any other poet who can write in such a straightforward mode of language--it's usually the dark corners and subtle convolutions of poetry that grab me--and be so effective at the same time. His writing is very kitchen sink-esque: nearly every poem has more than one imagistic theme, nearly every poem goes out of its way to expose its own inconsistencies. He writes in a way such that you can read the poet through his poetry, but somehow it works.

Afterwards had a little reunion with him, Anna D., Vijay, and a couple of writers at One World. It's always been weird talking to him, since I never could figure out whether Fox respected me as a poet (somehow, this is a little more personal than whether a fellow scientist respects me as a scientist), but I decided to wing it and it turned out well. Hadn't seen Anna since June; the conversations we have are usually fairly constructive.

Speaking of poetry, I read some of mine at the undergrad reading last week--just the good stuff, which constitutes approximately 40% of my recent oeuvre--and word on the street, by way of Lauren F., my co-reader, is that many of the posse of sophomore friends she brought loved my material. Especially "October 20th (You Never Really Fall in Love with a Girl Until You See the Back of Her Neck)" (yes, I did end up writing that poem): "their faces got so serious," according to Lauren. Serious? I'm not sure what to make of that, though it was certainly ego boost, and clutch at that. I suppose the poem was serious; so serious, in fact, that only the title saved it from self-annihilation. Too bad my style of poetry is terrible for trying to read the poet through--sort of the inverse of "love the sinner, hate the sin"--and if anyone expects me to write something like "October 20th" about them, they'd have to kill me first, possibly twice.

Finally: one of these days, when I'm really bored with nothing to do (yeah right), I'm going to go back and retroactively label all the entries in this blog.