I'm thinking of a quarterly or biannual "survey" project for Big Game . . . rather like Josh Corey's Aubergine project of a couple of years ago or Mark Lamoureux's current, "My Spaceship." Something that would solicit multiple poets for a poem each converging on a distinct topic. An April celebration of NaPoWriMo, maybe?
On the other hand, they are very sparkly.
I watched men's figure skating the other night. So many fine young persons mauled into unrecognizability by a single bedazzler. It was carnage.
UPDATE: The Lithuanian ice-dancers are skating to a medley of music from "The Phantom of the Opera." My kitsch circuits just melted.
I fear and distrust my body. I know what it wants to do to me.
My favorite commercial involving motherhood was this New Jersey PSA for post-partum depression/psychosis, in which an adoring-new-mom asks an obviously-distracted-and-about-to-kill-her-offspring-new-mom something insipid like, "Oh, Darla, isn't being a mom wonderful?" and Darla goes into this rapid-fire, emotionless, deadpan, "Actually, no. All it does it cry. I don't want to touch it, I don't want to feed it. I just wish it would go away!" speech. And I know, I know. Crazy Darla is crazy. She needs help, and soothing new mom medicines that will turn her into the peppy infant-care provider she needs to be. But all I could think was, "Rock on! Buck that system! Leave the kid in the grocery store and go to Vegas!"
This is not meant to be a slam on moms, BTW. I know all you new mommas are not robot-people from the stars. Moreover, I am not a mom, and thus have stupid, uninformed opinions on motherhood. But one of the things that worries me about it is that I value the illusion of my free will a whole lot, and Mark tells me that pregnancy induces all kinds of joyous mom hormones that basically reconcile you to momtasticness. I don't want to be reconciled. If I go down that path, dude, I want to have made the choice and be boldly pursuing a course. But hormones, evolution, the materialism of the body, all that gives me the metaphysical willies. Eek!
Also, the ski announcers are total bitches. They are so harsh. Like they are personally disappointed (in that way your parents are not angry, just "disappointed" when you come home with whiskey on your breath and three giant hickeys across your forehead) in the Olympic skiers for not slaloming down a giant freaking mountain on tiny twigs strapped to their feet 3/10 of a second faster. Like they could do it any better. Bah! Plus they made fun of Julia Mancuso's tiara -- too flashy, too sassy. Who are these people, the town elders from Footloose? Get with the program, guys: the tiara rules.
I rather like the pantoum I've made.
The poem I'm writing for Cy Gist's spaceship project is intriguingly stupid.
Also, a new "Applies to Oranges." Long live the possibility that NOTHING EVER HAPPENS! It's exactly the opposite of the nineteenth century novel. Or exactly like it. I forget.
UPDATE: the announcer guy for the Olympics (Bob Costas?) just referred to the "harvesting" of curling stones. What? Oh! And one of the Australian curlers made millions as a spammer. What say we jump him after the Olympics? International show of cyber-solidarity!
* Received a new shipment of Dover clip art books, including one of "Naughty French Illustrations." Apparently, the height of naughtiness is to be naked, except you're still wearing shoes. Ooh-la-la!
* About 35 Spectacles of Meat are completed. The rest of the 75 are in various stages of production.
* Mel Nichols, Ken Rumble, and Lisa Jarnot at the In Your Ear reading. Afterwards, I learn the proper way to dice an onion. And how to make salad dressing.
* Every time I turn on the Olympics, it's ice-dancing. Ice-dancing's been going on for about three weeks now, I guess.
* Paradise = ten boxes of girl scout cookies. Mmm . . . thin mints . . .