Count Me In

1. This week is my birthday week. Funny, I don’t feel older or wiser and it doesn’t seem to resonate as much as birthdays used to. Perhaps all this yoga is teaching me not to put too much weight on any one particular thing. Same thing with the book. I’m excited (about both) but it doesn’t seem to be a self consuming thing. Or maybe I have too many things that I’m doing for one thing to matter so much. I guess I have lots of eggs and lots of baskets, and lots of cracked eggs. J only has a slightly cracked nose from couple’s yoga today. Apparently two klutzes doing balancing postures doesn’t go along with the two heads are better than one theory…lucky, he’s learned to let go and not get too preoccupied with holding on to grudges or my feet during handstands. We tumbled quite a bit today together and there is no one I laugh with more. I don’t even mind his computer that seems to be the cause of the invisible typing. I figured out a way to beat the system---type in word and then paste.

2. They’ve been reading a lot of Rumi to us in yoga and I have suggested Rumi to my students. There is something ancient and timeless, something that always makes you feel good when you read Rumi. Almost like prayer, though not as stagnant as the responsive reading in the prayer books---but there are some really good ones and tomorrow at the JCC I’ll be teaching a writing workshop based on Yitro. What I find really interesting about that is the contrasting images---how G-d can be both described as delicate and holding a mountain over people’s heads and threatening to drop it on them if they don’t listen. Talk about manic. Though I suppose we all have our ying and yang. Mine is that I like violent video games---not the shooting ones, but the ones like Mortal Combat where your body is the weapon. Where you can pick someone up and throw them across the room and watch them bleed. Namaste bitch! I guess there are some very base traits we humans have and we need to find a way to let them out.

3. Last night the swingers were back in the bar. Le Rouge est tres chaud et manage a trios eh? Apparently they like the drinks, c’est non? C’est moi? Je ne sais pas…

4. And here is my ISBN number for the book. Like the birthday it doesn’t feel quite real yet. 0-931846-81-1

The Top Secret Post

Well, I feel like I have one of those invisible ink pens or something. But I type in this box and I can't see anything so I guess this will teach me to be a more accurate typist or to be less mindful of common grammar rules. This is the what is according to my new yoga wisdom, that we should be mindful and embrace what is, because life is so uncontrollable and when we try to control that which is beyond our control, we get stressed out. So here I am in the now typing who knows what. This reminds me of Jack Spicer thinking some of his pomes were transmitted to him via outerspace aliens. How do we explain where our inspriations come from? Usually mine are rooted in something physical and tanggible, a painting, or the less so with a moment, a feeling. We jst started workshopping in class and it's wonderful to see people really connect about what they are feeling and thinking and how to explain this mystical craft, sort of like these random letters that I am hitting here. But it all begins someewhere, here where I'm trying to punch out something readable and insightful...to be continued. In blind faith, Carly.

For some reason my typing is invisible and I can't see what I'm writing here...

What I'm Reading

I just started reading Anne Michaels' Fugitive Pieces. MB recommended it to me last week as we were talking about fiction and how narratives can be constructed. And to look at it as a guide to how to work my own novel/short stories. Lately I've been really into structure and form, how to do convey subject matter through form. Perhaps too many philosophy and art classes about the relationship between form and content. I think it's quite important to think about it--I tell that to my students. How does what you're writing about feel like and how does that translate to the page? Michaels uses fragmented prose--non-linear and tangental, mirroring the way the mind moves. Writing that needs to be read and re-read. While reading through poems for the anthology, I've come across many poems that are fragmented and where language is cut and then re-strung together. That's how I would describe my poem in BAP. There are some things that we can't talk about or things where language seems to fail. How do you mirror that in a narrative? Michaels asks us how does a child speak of watching his family being killed by the Nazis. How does that child speak of hiding in the forests? How does that child speak of his memories? I suppose I'm drawn to difficult narratives, ones that challenge us to work with the text, when there is just as much unsaid as said. It's these contrasts and tensions that make writing (and life) the most interesting and rewarding.

A Sickly Post

I hate being sick. And I hate that I hate being sick. And I hate that I'm having trouble being sick. And I hate that I have to blog about it to clear my head. I should be relaxing and focusing on resting and feeling better but I'm thinking about what I have to do and what should have been done if I wasn't sick. Perhaps I'm a work-a-holic. I know being busy makes me happy. I always feel like I have to be doing something. Maybe that comes from being an only child or an overachiever...where did all this come from? And why am I suddenly vomitting up all my thoughts. People have told me I'm always looking for the next step---grad school, jobs, poems, publishing, opportunities, etc...I'm not saying this is all bad b/c it's good to have goals and to strive, but when does striving lead to strife? I have a difficult time saying no to picking up shifts at the bar and I always want to help other people out and do as much as I can, but I'm beginning to realize that not everyone is the same way.

So here is what I am trying to celebrate today because I think I'm afraid of failure and mediocrity and essentially not being liked or thought to be successful, wonderful, etc. I'm trying not to think that my world is crashing down just b/c I'm sick and not able to do what I should be doing for a day or so, because really it isn't. I'm just a drama queen:

1. My friend who lives upstairs who lent me some DVDs (so I can not think anymore)
2. My girlfriends who listened to me vent today on the phone
3. J for picking up poems for me and bringing bananas and playing shrink with me
4. Reb and all the poetry people who are burlesquing tonight without me (yes, the show goes on...)
5. LS for a great blurb who found time in her schedule to think about my poems
6. My cousin Evan Offstein for getting in touch---a long lost cousin turns up again in the DC area...how much family do I have? I'm really excited to meet him and his family.
7. It was a beautiful day in DC and it was nice to open the window and let some fresh air in. Hopefully some lingered and will leave me with fresher, more spring-like thoughts.

What's New, Nous?

Today my students handed in their first poems and I'm excited. There are some gems in the batch and I ended up with a pretty solid draft from today's writing exercise: writing from a photograph. I'm going to be heading over to Firefly for cocktail and to read the new poems while they're still buzzing from my folders and to wait for J before our dinner reservation. Tonight is Nora and Tuck and Patti: http://www.noras.com/

http://www.tuckandpatti.com/

And here's what I'll be doing at the JCC in the next few months:

http://www.dcjcc.org/arts/literature/

RAINN on your Valentine's Day

My birthday is always around Valentine's Day and there's so much cliche circulated then. Here's something meaningful to give:

http://www.rainn.org/donate/valentines-2006.php

Madame Bovary, C'est Moi or Non?

I spent a good chunk of the afternoon reading Madame Bovary and watching Sex and the City (not simultaneously). So it got me thinking about women and what we really want and what it really means to be a woman and if that is even a worthy question to ask. Though women's lit professors will I'm sure spend much of their careers lamenting over these questions, and it was my women's lit. professor in college who really inspired me to be an English major...I remember debating the linguistics of the word woman, how the word man was part of it. And then we threw out other words, girl (too diminishing), female (same issue as woman), etc. and then played with subverting the text womyn (but that just looks weird and though doesn't have man in it, still sounds the same). So getting back to Bovary, though I'm only a little over a 100 pages into it, how she yearns for "somthing"---something perhaps beyond her reach, she's looking for a way to become more of herself---whether through material luxuries, books, horseback riding, housekeeping, religion, passion and nothing seems to live up to her expectations. So she walks around her house feeling aloof and unsatiated by anything or works herself into a frenzy over any new thing, only to discard it when it fails to live up to her expectations. Perhaps I see a bit of myself in her. It is dangerous indeed to be Madame Bovary, when the love of wanting is your raison d'etre, because there will always be wanting, more so than having, for a love of having will always end up sating you in some way. So how does one find one's own happiness? I suppose there are plenty of self help books for that, try yoga, changing your attitude, taking time to smell the flowers and love those around you. But exactly how does one do that? There are so many heroines in literature who are not happy--many who end up taking their lives because there is no way for them to carve a life for themselves. And myself, lately (besides being a little under the weather) have been brimming with excitement: the book, the teaching, the bartending, the boyfriend, the ira i just opened (see women's lit. taught me how to take care of myself). I feel almost too sunny--perhaps the karma of being slightly under the weather and a day of relaxing at home is my reward for all of this. Poor Mrs. Bovary, and the society that prohibited her from being in more control over her destiny. And how everyone calls her that instead of her name which is Emma---ah even the patriarchy of naming. I remember tossing that word around so much too. Blame it on the patriarchy, which would have been a catchy Weird Al song, if only he had gotten in touch with his feminine side.

Cupcakes at Your Door

So I have a moderate obsession. My vegan bud just sent me a link about cupcakes (he was the one bringing them back to me from NYC to the mountains of PA 2 summers ago). So the article rates the best cupcake in DC as Le Cupcake...and I think they deliver. I'm sure they'll be a trip to Falls Church in the near near future. Ramona is all about the road trip. So what do I want for my birthday: cupcakes delivered! And it would be grand to have 2 dozen sent to me at GW on the days I teach. I mean if Stevens can pull of the Emperor of Ice Cream, I can certainly manage the Mistress of Cupcake!

http://www.dailycandy.com/article.jsp?ArticleId=24051&city=11

Rome 669

That's my office which now has a working computer and I have hung the butterfly mobile and met my office mate today (a fiction writer who also teaches intro.). I have this big window between classes so hopefully I'll be more productive than today. I ate a sandwich, took my sick phone to verizon, walked back to the office then walked back to verizon and back to the office and will be teaching in a few minutes. I guess I can not feel bad that I didn't get up to workout this morning before teaching. The office looks more like an office. I'm gadually hanging things and trying to make it look nice, as I'll be spending a considerable amount of time in it. The phone is better and I started writing a poem with my students today. It begins: This is the skin and bones of it.

It seems like a fitting beginning as so much is going on here with the book/life. I'm thinking I don't know after all that hubbub of the photo shoot if I even want my photo on my book. I think I may prefer not to be "seen." I look young and it may cause people not to take the book/me seriously.

This one's a keeper

"Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep."--Scott Adams, American cartoonist

Yesterday I spent much of the afternoon on the phone with my "crush" talking about my book. I now understand the manuscript more as a whole and have come to some solid conclusions about what I do and don't want for the book. I don't want any suggestive photos on the cover---no nudity or allusion thereof. I want it to be a woman fully clothed and dressed in 1940's apparel. I want it to be someone I know, my grandma when she was younger (mom, see if you can snag some and send). Though I have some here. I hope our layout man has a good scanner. But more than the look, I think I really know what the poems are doing---not that I didn't before but sometimes the answers just reveal themselves. I suppose this is a cop out answer, that your subconscious knows what you are doing before you are really aware of it. Regardless, I'm getting more and more excited about the book. It's also the beginning of the semester and I finally got around to making my office look presentable and hung the butterflies above my desk. Apparently students still don't think I look old enough to be a professor as they look quizically at me and ask "do you know where I can find Professor Sachs?". Perhaps I should start saying no and then see if they pop up to class confused? But no, I don't think poetry should be so mean. I suppose they'll just have to keep me.

P.S. check out the burlesque!

Make Up and Make Out

This morning I got out of bed early to be at Sephora as soon as possible. They opened at 10 and I had a gift certificate from my mom for the holidays that was burning a hole in my purse. So sans make-up, I went to get a new face. Since New Year's I've been wearing more shadow and mascara b/c of the glammed up look of Red at the bar. What I really love is that they teach you how to get the look you want (though that probably comes at any higher end cosmetic store.) But this was more fun than the trips to the Clinique counter at the mall. So, I found a new fun brand: Stila who not only has sparkles and color, but also quotes inside the compact. I've got shadow with Louisa May Alcott and blush with Amelia Earhart. Check it out for yourself here:

http://www.sephora.com/browse/brand_hierarchy.jhtml?brandId=3865&contentId=C10757

Perhaps there could be some poet market-ability there?

Pondering in Down Dog

Lately I've been feeling a little strange. Perhaps b/c it's a new year and I should have many resolutions---though for us Jews, we already made them so these resolutions are kind of a let down. My yoga teacher had some wisdom for the day, to remember why you came to the mat, and to dedicate your practice. I really like the idea of stopping to center yourself (seems pretty basic, but lately I've not felt overly centered)---especially b/c I always feel like I'm all over the place. There is always some project or another. So here's my list of what I'm working on:

1. Edits and other tasks related to the steam sequence (My fabulous co-worker "Red" is going to choreograph a dance---ah, the possibilities, how I love projects)
2. Getting ready for the semester
3. Working on the deep cleveland anthology
4. Working on Ramona and the museum manuscript and my fiction

I'm writing these more for me, because I have really felt like a slacker this break---going to the gym and sleeping in more and having adventures with Caroline. Though I think this is what breaks are for. You get a break so you don't break. Namaste.

Romance from High Altitudes

It seems that it's pretty common to write about home when you are away from home--perhaps the distance gives you time to reflect. Perhaps it is the way the mind works, that we can't keep up with the moments as we're living them. I don't normally post poems (I think it's a bit too much) and I try not to write poems aboout people I'm dating for various reasons, but the mood struck me as I was sitting on the plane flying home to Ohio. The sun was coming in through the window and I was looking out at the clouds--it almost looked like the ocean and this little poem found it's way to the page. And really, who doesn't want to induldge in a little romance every now and again, even if it is cliche.

This is what it is like to love you
to feel the sun on my face through my window
and to think only of you

Artsy-Fartsy

Another fab. event at Rouge tomorrow:

Collageology Tour: The works of Amber Robles-Gordon"Collageology - My study of collage, art and my life. I breathe, create and live art."
The show will be at Bar Rouge Lounge, located at 1315 16th Street NW
Washington, DC 20036 from January 4 - February 16, 2006. There will be an opening reception held on Wednesday January 4, 2006 from 6:00-8:30pm.

Amber is a collagist. From an early age, she began creating collages, drawings, writings and photography, to document her passion for art, personal experiences and her surroundings. She focuses on topics such as womanhood, nature and her life. Collageology consists of two different series of works. The first series are surface. The second series are "paper mosaics," her technique consists of first sketching the idea and form, then ripping little pieces of different colored paper to complete the form or design. She uses the colored paper asher paint. Amber is greatly influenced by the work of Alma Thomas, Romare Bearden and Diego Rivera. She is currently pursing a Masters Degree in Fine Art atHoward University. Amber is a member of DC Black Artists and a featured artist at www.artndeed.com. For further information about this artist, please visit www.artndeed.com, email her at aroblesgordon@yahoo.com. or contact her via phone at(240)-417-4888.

Some Wicked Poems!!!

http://www.sundress.net/wickedalice/contents18.html

(and some are mine). Sometimes this blog feels like show and tell.
So much for being discreet in 2006!

Forget resolutions and kick off the New Year with Some Sexy Poems

That's right, the No Tell Motel Bedside Guide to Poetry is hot off the presses! Click here for your copy now:

http://www.lulu.com/content/203235

Did I mention my "pussy" poem is in it. Remember, keep it discreet. No one likes full disclosure so I will only disclose our names...

Featuring Discretion By:Aaron Anstett * Molly Arden * Robert W. Barnett * Aaron Belz * Jasper Bernes * Remica L. Bingham * Anne Boyer * Elizabeth Bradfield * Gayle Brandeis * Suzanne Burns * Britton Carducci * Laura Carter * Shanna Compton * Bruce Covey * Matt Cox * Laura Cronk * Catherine Daly * Denise Duhamel * Peg Duthie * Jilly Dybka * Jill Alexander Essbaum * Marta Ferguson * Alice B. Fogel * Jeannine Hall Gailey * Amy Gerstler * Jim Goar * Noah Eli Gordon * Anne Gorrick * Carolyn Guinzio * Jennifer Michael Hecht * Shafer Hall * Michael Hoerman * Cynthia Huntington * Charles Jensen * Paul Jones * Kirsten Kaschock * Amy King * Craig Kirchner * David Laskowski * Dorothee Lang * Ann Neuser Lederer * Reb Livingston * Emily Lloyd * Rebecca Loudon * Oliver Luker * Tatjana Lukic * Clay Matthews * Corey Mesler * Charlton Metcalf * Michael Meyerhofer * Andrew Mister * Steve Mueske * Anita Naegeli * William Orem * Eden Osucha * Shin Yu Pai * Cami Park * Karl Parker * Dan Pinkerton * Lance Phillips * P.F. Potvin * Nate Pritts * Francis Raven * Kim Roberts * Anthony Robinson * Ken Rumble * Jenni Russell * Carly Sachs * Christopher Salerno * Standard Schaefer * Zachary Schomburg * Penelope Scambly Schott * Ravi Shankar * Brandon Shimoda * Matthew Shindell * Laurel Snyder * Heidi Lynn Staples * Hugh Steinberg * Matthew Thorburn * Aaron Tieger * Maureen Thorson * Betsy Wheeler * Allyssa Wolf * Christy Zink

I'm a Super Model

Ok, well not exactly, but my very talented friend, the amazing John Kenney agreed to be my photographer for my picture on the back of the book. So we shimmied down to Adam's Morgan to have a photo shoot--which consisted of me bringing a few shirts in a bag and taking pictures wherever we were inspired. We began in Idle Time books and then decided that we liked natural light better. After about an hour and a hundred pictures later, we went back and viewed all the digital prints (welcome to the world of technology) and ended up with these four as our favorites. And now, it's time for a vote, so lovely fivefeet readers, chime in. Which pic is the best for the back of the book?

un cheers to certain conference goers

This will be my first rant. There are a certain group of people in town who are here for an academic conference and had some cocktails in the bar (note: some attendees excluded here, this is a generalization based on the overall tip income this evening). Perhaps the ivory tower has you so far removed from life that you forget that people work for wages. Tipping ten percent is not appropriate behavior. I don't care if you are post modern or new formalist--there are industry standards. 20% is what you should tip...at least 15%. You tip 10% if you receive sub-par service. I know that there isn't any money in academia (I'm in the industry as well...which is why bartending is the main source of cash flow.) But employees who receive tips usually do not make a sufficient wage, i.e. the tip is their wage. Don't act like I'm telling you something new. If you can afford to come to the conference, stay in a swanky hotel (especially if it's on your university's dime) you can afford to tip 20% on a $40 tab. It's the difference of $4. I suppose I can take solace in the fact that I'll be the one writing the literature while you're still teaching comp.

le Rouge Cheers

One of our signature drinks (2nd from right) was on the back page of yesterday's Washington Post---the Cherry Sparkler (formerly the Cherry Popper until censorship went into effect). Either way, you should come to the Rouge for some sparkle pop action tonight or on New Year's Eve. There will be a DJ and fun Rouge party favors! Do let me know so I can make you feel like a VIP if you're coming on New Year's. And here's the link to the story to entice you:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/12/27/AR2005122700204.html

My fabulous manager Mike Hill is even quoted on page 3!

Coming Clean and Organizing

Today I got my teeth cleaned and cleaned my closet. No cavities and everything in color order. I realized I had twice as many hangers as I had clothes! I also got a shoe organizer so no more boxes and hunting in the back of the closet for the stray heel. However, some of my shoes are still too clunky for the hanging rack. Ah, the wild ones, they will not be contained. There is something to be said for being too loud, too wild, too brazen. Many people want to put you in neat little compartments, but I say rock on with yourselves pink Steve Madden mary janes and orange Mephisto all rounders. Walk loudly and don't care about the downstairs neighbors (lucky me, I'm on the first floor.)

Lately I've been thinking about shame and letting other people's opinions color how you feel about yourself. Most often we do this in relationships and many women often put the relationship before themselves. When you have to bend too much, it just isn't worth it. Then there are times when you should bend. It's all about balance, as I was reading in the latest issue of Latina at the dentist's office. The editor wrote about the importance of this for someone living in two cultures--how to deal with when American and Hispanic values clash and how to feel good about the choices you make. I think many of us often find our values and beliefs and various identities clashing. (A good topic for fiction, yes, even on break, I think of how every moment is a teaching one).

Caroline called and had lunch at Arucola--love being ladies who lunch. She shares my passion for passion. And my passion for the Mustard Seed (confirming a previous post about white chocolate, but then does that make her an oreo?). I think about the places in which we find comfort and find excitement in the ordinary. There are some people that grow with you. Caroline's one of them. I know she's going to be there through all this book business with me (in fact, working on some art for the cover) and tomorrow rocker/photographer/bartender JK is going to shoot some pics that may wind up on the back. Good thing I got all those new clothes from J's Hanukkah gift certificate and yeah me for organizing so I can find everything in a snap. And big Kool-aide grin b/c J knows what I like---he asked me to go to the open mic at Busboy's and Poet's tonight.

Where I Shop

As many of you know, I'm a bit of a fashion butterfly. Here's my favorite place to polinate the closet.

http://www.mustardseedshop.com/index.html

White Chocolate

Just call me white chocolate. That's what the girls from Rouge call me. Last night we had our holiday party at LOVE (a fab. club for those of you non hipsters who think love is an emotion). Apparently Love + Vodka + Dancing= White Chocolate.

While sipping on my vodka, I asked them to explain: You're white outside but black inside. Ok, hmmm, I suppose that means I'm a good dancer and I also seem to have the body of a black woman--curvy (if we're going on generalities). I asked one girl where she got her pants and I said I had seen some like it at Urban Outfitters and tried them but they didn't look right. She smirked and told me I need to come to one of her stores---they would know my curves better. Now I have always thought Black women and Jewish women had a lot in common, but fashion was not yet something I've explored.

Back in grad school, the Cave Canem readings were my favorite---because the poetry seemed like it mattered more---more narrative and rhythmic, less concerned with what makes poetry and more concerned with the self, empowering the individual while weaving a community. I remember Lucille Clifton and Sonia Sanchez staying for 2 hours afterwards to sign books and meet everyone who wanted to come up to the stage and shake their hands. I remember Sonia hugging me the way she hugged the other women and called us all sister.

I remember feeling a part of something even though it wasn't normally a community I would think would instantly feel right. Perhaps they saw something in me that was a bit dark and sweet. Though I suspect when you are genuine and real with people and let them see inside your skin, we all will be able to see a piece of ourselves in another.

In Praise of Magnolia

For those of you who know about my cupcake obsession:

http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=IggTu7kV7No&search=snl%20parnell

Barternder, I'll have my gratification now

Today I'm thinking about how fast things happen. Just last night I found out one of my co-workers who now works at another property got married. She had been dating her boyfriend for not even a year (I'm only making a point about speed, no judgement here), someone else I know was in love and then broke up with her lover (the relationship lasted perhaps a month or so), and I am in the midst of something chugging along quite smoothly. Whatever happened to that little engine who could? I think I can is now, I think I can, but it has to be today. Are we really carpe diem-ing all over the place?

Technology lets us do things a mile a minute. Just secured one of my blurbers over email in like a matter of 30 minutes. What ever happened to things being worth the wait? Today I'm googling more images, though my fabulous artist friend is going to be doing some sketches for the cover. Here's us last night and more cover inspirations...I can't say that I have found what I'm looking for. Though this time, I'm content to wait.

Poetry Crush and Possible Book Covers

Baltimore is a lot funkier than DC. Yesterday I went to hear Piotr Gwiazda read at The Minas Gallery. I am so excited that he is going to be the lead editor for my book (his book, Gagarin Street, won the 2004 WWPH first book award). He's my first poetry crush in a while. I think what makes a poetry crush is honestly someone's work. When you just want to read more and more of their poems. So far my crush list is:

1. Jane Kenyon
2. Linda Pastan
3. William Stafford
4. Maj Ragain
5. Maggie Anderson
6. Honi Jeffers

Anyway, after a cozy reading in a gallery that has art and vintage clothes we had a beer at one of the most fun and divey bars--Frazier's and then dinner at the Golden West---kitch kitch! The menus are old records. A place that kind of reminds me of the Zephyr back in Kent before it turned bar.

Today I did my grades, wrestled with the dryer, and googled images for my book cover. This latter thing took a while as I still am not sure how I want my cover to look. I'm going to post a few here and please do vote or something. Keep in mind, the book is about memory, the Holocaust, and the poems are spaced out like steam...

The poet talks politics

Normally I am not a political person. I admit that I almost pride myself in not being political so I try not to read the paper or watch the news (because it's all skewd anyway and I'd much rather have my nose in a book (of fiction or poetry) ). However, as many point out, I need to live in this world and yes I agree that I need to be more up on current events. Especially in DC. You make a pretty bad conversationalist when you're like who? what? huh? Aloofness is not always endearing. Especially when it comes to matters that concern all of us. I guess that is why I was never into the news or politics. I feel so removed as if I can't make a difference. But as I'm learning from my students (who do write about politics and quite well) but more importantly say how writing has changed them and made a difference. And then I think about the power words can have. If writers aren't political in some way, that's one less way to move people into action. I began really becoming a poet back in 1996 when I was on the March of the Living--a trip that took Jewish teens to witness the concentration camps of Poland and then to Israel. This was an experience that changed my life. It was then that I became known as the bus poet and after that those poems were the portfolio that earned me a poetry scholarship at Kent State and perhaps what influenced my collection, the steam sequence. Yes, I did have to mention the book deal again---but here's the thing. People have been asking me what the book is about and I haven't formulated an answer yet, or at least one that I like, but what I will say is that it is necessary. Because there are people who will say the Holocaust never happened. Because there are people who discriminate and pursue hatred over love. It seems some lessons never do sink it. Some people do not learn or they choose not to see. That being said, please click on the link below and see what is happening in the world. Everything matters.

http://www.wiesenthal.com/site/apps/ka/ct/contactus.asp?c=fwLYKnN8LzH&b=1302079&en=ioJHLMNtF6LBJPOvF9JBJLMnEhIMIPMtEaKKLTOxGoIZH

Alimentum and Mothertongue

Are everything you want writing to be. I was in NYC this past Sunday for the launch for Alimentum. I sat next to Mark Kurlansky (author of Salt and Cod)---more food lit people then poetry people. Michol Negrin (author of Med. Grill) hosted and had a fabulous spread. With good food and wine, how could any launch not be this successful? I was even asked to sign someone's journal while waiting in line for the bathroom. What really got me was that this was my first impressive people party---everyone was literate, articulate, fashionable, and very supportive of each other. (i.e. Mark Kurlansky talking about Ramona, Youngstown, and labor strikes with me). I've often felt young and green at these functions but this was definitely not the case.

And then last night at the Mothertongue reading. Natalie is the BEST mc ever to rock a mic. She really comes alive and connects, creating a space in which everyone feels her gratitude and comfort. A place where you can say something funny, serious, indecent and be respected and embraced for it. I feel very fortunate to have met her and Sandra (two of DC's hottest younger poets). All too often we judge and often unfairly and harshly. Though yes, constructive criticism is like sun and water, I much prefer singing to the seeds to let them rise. I think of this as I am in the middle of reading my students' final portfolios, which they have attached pictures, colors, printed on maps, and handmade books, and feel lucky to see what came about in a semester. That they, like me, all have a first book, and this is the one that matters most.

Teaser

In Summary

1. found out my first book of poems will be coming out in fall 2006 from washington writer's publishing house...guess where i was when i got the phone call...the powder room of the black cat!

2. sat next to mark kurlansky at the big alimentum launch in nyc. everyone has a crush on ramona. spent 15 minutes in line for the bathroom.

3. didn't pee on the train on the way up but surprisingly the penn station bathrooms are quite clean. went on the way home.

4. lost my cell phone charger but acquired 4 magnolia cupcakes.

5. am using book deal to justify things like eating big macs at 3 am and the like.

6. will be grading portfolios and bartending and will write something decent soon. apply said book deal excuse here.

That was one HOT party...

I'm talking about our Red Hot Relief AIDS benefit at the Bar last week...and look who's on page 6. Well not exactly but there are two of me. I'm pasting them here but feel free to check out the whole gallery---plenty of hot Miss Universe and Miss DC all glammed up.

http://www.carish1.com/rouge

On Tap Magazine has also posted additional event photos online:
http://www.ontaponline.com/gallery/seen

Murphy's Law

Today, the last day of class my door is locked---and no one is in the English Department and no one knows how long security takes to let you in...in 10 minutes I found a more premium location---a field trip to the 7th floor conference room and class went on as planned only 10 minutes later. We had better lighting and someone had conveniently left celery. Though my students all opted for the brownies and donuts. It's good to start the day off with a laugh and some much needed sugar.

After class I spent office hours just chatting about life and this and that with a few of my students. I have a bag full of their portfolios to open, but I'm letting the moment linger. Today they all went around and shared their books. There are poems with pictures and colors and well lions and tigers and bears oh my---no, really, the kinds of things that they will have years from now. Who knows what it will mean then. Actually, I have been devouring Memoirs of a Geisha and finally finished reading it on J--'s duvet. I mention that here because he likes seeing his name in lights so to speak. I also left him another little surpise at home but I won't elaborate anymore on that. Please excuse me dear readers for excluding you in the previous two sentences. Normally I hate when people use inside jokes as much as I hate the end of novels. I did not feel that way after finishing MOG. Here's a snippet: "Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper." J--do take care to get the encrypted message in the quote. Everyone else can enjoy it for the sheer pleasure of the language.

Winter Tidings

It was snowing in Cleveland over the weekend and now it's snowing here in DC. There is always something magical about it, the slow suspension and twirl, the soft wetness as it falls across your face and hair. I walked in it as much as I could today. Then I also enjoyed the opposite: drinking tea and reading inside. Mostly student fiction and Memoirs of a Geisha---have to finish the book before seeing the movie.

Jillian gave me new tea and a strainer to brew it in---so now I don't have to tea bag it all the time. Also good honey--ie not the one that comes in a bear. Though I got to see everyone, it wasn't enough. Perhaps that is why the snow matters to me so much. It makes me think of walking around Kent and laughing and sloshing between classes, parties, and whatnot---or gathering in the lounge and listening to Erin play piano and we all had our mugs and sometimes roasted marshmellows in the fireplace. I think of my students who don't have this on their city campus, but then again, I think of all they have that I never did. I suppose you can't have it all. I'm trying to bring them the poetry of Kent--notecards and community poems and brownies.

The mail today brought the first and new issue of Alimentum! Click on the right to see more and the email brought news of being published in Wicked Alice and an email from deep cleveland---things are slowly rolling for the anthology, kind of like the snowflakes as they slip from heaven and melt on our faces. May you find one on your tongue and think of me.

Costco

Yesterday morning Jonathan took me to Costco. I had never been before--well, Sam's Club back in Ohio which I suppose is the same. I brought my pen and pad---Ramona had to take some notes. I have to say she was quite appalled. I mean how could she like it. It's all about greed, disguised as saving money. I mean really, who needs to buy like 6 brownie mixes in one box (actually me). Raspberry chocolate brownies abounded! I felt more selective actually, always questioning how much am I really going to use. I suppose that's a good question to ask ourselves--how much do we really want or need something. It would have been so easy just to keep grabbing. Yes, to gallons of pepto bismol, yes, to an army of trojans, yes, to a school of salmon, yes to 96 rolls of toilet paper. The coolest thing was the fruit and vegetable room. It was like a restaurant refrigerator---considerably colder and like 2 pound bags of spinach! Though I'm not sure Ramona would buy in bulk. At the end of the trip I ended up with the brownie mixes, 1 pound of frozen blueberries, sundried tomato and basil ravioli, the softest socks ever and of course the tp! I'm sure there are some greater philosophical questions at hand---is bigger better? What does this say about American values? Or are people just coming for the free samples? And is a sample going to make you want to buy a large quantity of marinated mushrooms? Dear shoppers, you will have to grapple with these issues by yourselves, though I know Victoria Redel has a poem about buying in bulk---there's a line, oh the deals Jerry, oh the deals...I think she looks on the store quite favorably, but I myself will have to give Costco no stars or chili peppers (I however, do have a chili pepper---check out ratemyprofessor.com)

Chippendale Poets

Yowzers!

"The Most Intriguing (and sensual) Male Poets of 2006 Calendar." All profits will be donated to CFIDS research. Chronic Fatigue Immune Deficiency Syndrome is a multi-symptom immune deficiency related to the rheumatoid family. As very little research has been funded for this degenerative illness, not much progress has been made to alleviate the syndrome or its symptoms. You may find more information regarding the calendar at this website:http://www.poeticinspire.com/poetcalendar2006.html

Laundry

So yesterday I finally got around to doing my laundry and I'm waiting for the clothes to come out of the dryer and all of the sudden I hear sirens outside and then they stay there and then there's all this noise outside in the foyer so I look and there are all these firemen and then they're running down to the laundry room and I'm thinking, no my favorite jeans are in there. But it was a false alarm. Because it was so cold, the dryer was making so much smoke outside the building that someone else saw it and called 911. So I folded and everything was fine. Like my mom always tells me, things will work out, don't get so worked up. But I think it's in an artist's mind to get worked up. Life is full of things that charge us (for Suzanne, the little protons and electrons bouncing all around in my brain). The way I see into a painting, a moment, another person. Poetry has always been personal, has always been a means of connecting to others. Last Tuesday in class one of my students asked if she could host a poetry reading for only our class at her apartment/building/dorm. She was so excited and everyone else starting feeling that buzz too, that of language and community. There's a certain power, a certain electric of language. The way I am jolted when I'm reading their fiction. Laughing aloud in coffee houses, impressed with their wit and charm and especially the way they perceive structure. How original they are and how advanced. How they are experimenting with voice and language. Doing things I would not have dared or even had an inkling about. How one student wants to write a story in which the main character is a writer and you don't know if he's writing his own death, how you don't know what's real and what's fiction. How different they all are, all their dreams and styles, everything spinning and falling together. How I am waiting to fold, but not wanting any of this to end. I think back again to Maj, what he would say is that this cycle does not stop. Poetry never dries. Yes, the jeans will be warm and yes, you will feel the heat on your body, but no, even when they cool, you will have the memory of that warmth, the vertigo of the daily, no it's not just doing laundry.

Sex Deprived Tina: Hot Sestina Porn Word on Word Action!

One of my students is in love with the idea of being the tortured artist. I remember when I had a similar fantasy in college. I wanted to be one of those "feminist" writers that could not find a place for herself. So she had to either experiment with sex or drown, or often do both. Senior year I wanted to be Anais Nin. I'm reading her diary now (still) though now I no longer envy her journey of sex and sensibilities. Perhaps I'm more solvent in many ways and want a path less daring. I know this will surprise many of you---especially my college friends who always admired my zeal for adventure and self-discovery. I remember then I had wanted no man, but rather several b/c there was no way I thought I was going to find somebody who could fulfill everything that I wanted filled. Not that it is a feminist notion that a man will fill you---I remember the poems my mother had on the fridge advising against that: don't wait for anyone to give you flowers, plant your own and live on today's ground b/c tomorrow's is too unstable...the premise being that you have to take care of yourself. I'm feeling a bit like Ani Difranco when she said love distracted her. Not that I'm distracted: I wrote a new poem today (seems like Monday has become my significant writing day) and not that I'm in love per se or verbatim, but well, you know how these things go. Let's just say, I'm very focused. Seeing that I'm becoming more romantic and involved with one person, now I have to leave some of the discovery up to the characters in my poems. Let me introduce you to another alter-ego, Tina: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/sestinas/21CarlySachs.html

Mark Your Calendars Folks!!!

Yes, by drinking cocktails you can help cure AIDS!!!! This is a huge event at the Bar and yes, the press will be there so put on your party best!

http://www.ontaponline.com/boards/viewtopic.php?id=241

Le Mystery Revealed

Ce soir yesterday, dans la voiture de Jonathan, nous alle au Virgina pour le diner a Mr. Francois. Je suis manager a grande lamb avec les vegetables avec les wine avec les etc.... Quelle food. Je pends que Jonathan is tres fantastique mais mon francais, not so much.

Nous allons: http://www.laubergechezfrancois.com/

Au revoir. Arrete moi a la Rouge ce soir!

Bar Log-The First One

Our new manager introduced the concept of a bar log. Notes to pass on. We're supposed to say things like, Stella was the most popular beer. Sorry, I left you no limes. Bar was busy. Perhaps we should hire a bar back. Someone threw up in both bathrooms. I wonder if it was the same person. Need to order more Bailey's.

Though I wrote a very prosey one in the bar, here's the blog version.

Last night I invented two things. The raspberry martini (though I'm sure done before) and the Orange martini. I like the word Cointreau. I also made a midori martini and these were for the fellas lined up at the bar. They wanted me to concoct drinks for them. Not in that witch way but in that magic potion genie kind of way. There's something to be said for being a bartender. However, like any chef, I won't prostitue my recipes here. You'll have to come in and ask nicely. It's strange these guessing games that people like to play. What drink will I like? Make me something not on the menu. So I aim to please. I think there is some truth in our drinks. That you can tell what kind of a drink someone will want before they even say a word to you. Perhaps there is some key to who we are in what we like. Lately, I've become more girly in my liquor tastes---moving from bourbon on the rocks to pink and orange martinis. Perhaps it is the glass I like, the way it feels in my hand, the sugary lake of alcohol saying dive in. No rocks to snag yourself on.

It's a Popularity Contest

So vote me in for president. I promise to serve you drinks with innuendos! And tell all your friends to vote for me, and their friends too!

Bar Rouge: Best Conversation Bar
http://cityguide.aol.com/washington/bestconversationbars/?page=voting

If Carrie was a bit more philosophical

On Wednesday night I taught a writing workshop at the JCC. There's a line from one of the poems that I taught that has been playing through my head lately: Maj has taught us to name things so I will address you properly. And now as I'm grading my students' work, one of the things that keeps popping up in their personal essays is how through writing, they are coming to know who they are, but simultaneously how hard it is to name those things that matter. And it calls some of the things in this blog and the way I handle things. Too be personal but distant. To mention enough but not to overwrite. It seems (though contrary to many of my friends) I do hold back--we all build walls or have ways we protect ourselves. But why should we protect ourselves--from what is it that is out there that we are actually safe from. Tonight in yoga I tried to open my body. Looking around the room, I realized that most everyone else was more flexible. As my legs were over my head, I made a vow to try to go to yoga more and to try to name those things which I am afraid of naming. For I have somehow adopted the rationale that if you name something, then you will have a certain expectation of it, or that it will change from that which you call it. Or that the language will not be enough and once named, something is quantified and hence the expectations and the measurements. And now I'm late for dinner with Jonathan. What's a girl to do?

Yoo-Hoo fellas, check my poetics!

(though one in particular comes to mind).This is what my skirt will look like on the floor. Remember that pick-up line? That's a nice (insert name of clothing). It would look great on my floor. Tonight we're doing Burlesque at the Rouge...so I'm dressing the part. Sometimes I really feel like Dr. J and Mr. Hyde...today there won't be much on my hide...the poetry chitty chat will come tomorrow.

Reb, looks like our senses of poetics are quite similar. (for Reb's check out cacklingjackal.blogspot.com) Though we already knew that.

I Said Lean!

Last night I attended the Moira Egan and Jeffrey Levine reading at Chapters bookstore. This is one of my favorite venues in the city. Perhaps because it reminds me of Mac's Backs in Coventry (that's Cleveland for those of you non-buckeyes). I think what I like is that this series makes one feel at home--it's a bit more intimate than Politics and Prose and the readers are less avant garde (unless you count Moira's glasses, which would make this series the most...love a woman with fabulous glasses). Moira read some of her crown sonnets (where the last line of one begins the next) and it really made me want to try the form. I also loved her sonnet about her friend who collects heart shaped stones. Definitely will be reading her new book, Cleave. After Moira came Jeffrey and though he didn't read as many sex poems except the one where there's some fuck fuck fuck a man chorus (want to see that one on the page) he was equally captivating, especially with his dog and Adam and Eve poems. After the reading over drinks he was relentless about seeing some of my work which he proceeded to hack up. He told me I was always using location as a way to enter my poems and that I should really think about cutting first lines and the word the. Perhaps this is why Stevens ends a poem with the the, but seriously even though I thought it quite forward of him---circumsizing poems right away, it made me really think about where I can pare down narrative and let language work her magic. When I say that Jeffrey Levine is a butcher, I mean it in the way that you can liken a butcher to a sculptor and though Ramona will be asking me to step outside later, no one could convince me that a filet mignon is anything less than art. It's time I ordered my poems more lean.

Connect Four

I used to love that game as a kid, the way you had to plan out your moves so that you could connect four before someone else. I am trying to explain that to my students, how in fiction as the author you have to be able to connect four. You have to set things in motion. Like in ZZ Packer's short story "Brownies," the bathroom has to be dirty so Daphne will bend to pick things up and how once that happens, Laurel will be able to make a connection between Daphne and the Mennonites who paint her porch. And then she will come to the heart of the memory of her father, the way the world can show its ugliness. How only now can she understand the complexity of racism.

Or how in life we try to make a connection between certain things in our lives or make symbols of other things. How we are constantly trying to either see the meaning that already exists or make meaning out of things that don't make sense unless we construct a narrative. In a way, I think fiction is somewhat like a treasure hunt. How one thing unfolds into another. The patternless pattern. That which becomes apparent and that which is beautiful mystery. He brought flowers today at lunch. The surprise of flowers and a lawyer in the middle of the afternoon. The way their stems twist around each other, their pink, orange, red, and yellow heads jumping out from the vase. I too, unable to contain myself.

No Bees Today!

The light was beautiful today. The way it fell through the trees on a morning walk, the way the leaves twirled in their meandering descents. I felt like I was in a movie. I tried to catch them and he laughed as they eluded my outstretched arms. He snagged one and I said, baby you crushed it. He said he liked my klutziness--how it's that my mind is preoccupied with other thoughts and my body doesn't always catch up. Poetry isn't always coordinated. That's how it was on Saturday at the reading at Clayton and Company books. Sometimes the poetry is someone else's world, one that twirls and stumbles and escapes you. Sometimes you catch it, but mostly I think the beauty is in watching the leaves come down--the magic in the way they turn and let go. Sometimes I think we should be more like those leaves and welcome the season to fall. Perhaps autumn should be the season for lovers...

Annie sent me a magnet with a Wallace Stevens quote: It's not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem. Today I was lucky.

The End of an Era

One thing about the poetry scene is that it is always changing. With technology the way that it is, there are new literary magazines coming out every day.

And the converse, many ceasing to publish. This is the end of an era in Cleveland as art crimes is getting ready to close up shop: so here's the call for submissions: http://www.agentofchaos.com/ac21call.html

Art Crimes is one of the places that first published my writing--Ohio has my heart--it was where I began writing and I think one of my student's said it best in her process paper: I didn't realize how much Minnesota means to me, that is until I moved to DC. I think it's funny how travel always ends up leading us home.

Burlesque

Today Matthew and Deborah confirmed that they will come all the way down to DC from NYC to take it off for us (check burlesquepoetryhour.blogspot.com for more on that!). Gilda and I are giddy about that and just discovered we both have a pension for cupcakes. I just finished grading all my students' poetry papers and am busy getting stuff together for the Jewish Literary Festival. I also bought some new boots with my bar money from the week. Did I mention I think I'm Carrie from Sex and the City? Though personally, I think I have a bit more substance and that I'm a better writer. Though, I think she still has me on shoes and clothes...

The DCJCC Literary Festival

Writing from the Fringe: A Collaborative Poetry Workshop
With Carly Sachs
Wednesday, November 9, 6:00 pm
Washington DCJCC, 1529 16th Street NW (Corner of 16th and Q, Dupont metro)
FREE

What would Abraham do while waiting in line to buy groceries? Or what if Sarah was stuck in a traffic jam? Take a fresh approach to writing in this poetry workshop, using the characters, themes and language of traditional Jewish texts to generate your own original work. Weaving together their individual poems, workshop participants will create a collaborative piece to share at “SLAM! Spoken Words from the Fringe” on Saturday night (see below). Use this opportunity to get your creative juices flowing—and to see your own words as part of a larger shared text. Carly Sachs is a writer and creative writing teacher at George Washington University.
RSVP: sarahbeller@dcjcc.org.

SLAM! Spoken Words from the Fringe
With Matthue Roth and Ruby K
Saturday, November 12, 7:00 pm
Teaism, 400 8th Street NW (Gallery Place/Chinatown metro)
FREE (food and drink not included)

Performance poet and novelist Matthue Roth offers his hilarious and sometimes shocking views on Jewish life, relationships and the world. Jewish organizer and award-winning slam poet Ruby K opens the evening. Step up to the microphone to share your own poetry or just enjoy the food, drinks and atmosphere at Teaism, DC’s happening teahouse and restaurant. Please contact Andrew Ratner at literary@dcjcc.org if you are interested in reading during the open mic.

For full schedule and ticket information for the Hyman S. and Freda Bernstein Jewish Literary Festival, see www.dcjcc.org/arts/literature.

Rouge Rouge Rouge

Tomorrow night will be another one of our infamous movie nights. The featured drink will be a sweet transvestite...any guesses for the feature film? Seems like I've been haunting the Rouge more and more but I can now say I'm a bona fide bartender. Yeah, I'm nobody's cocktail anymore! Last Saturday I learned that my flower guy's name is Sahid and he teaches high school french. I think we underestimate people---or rather, we don't spend enough time getting to know who they really are. We make careless assumptions. In doing that we lose our humanity. This week my students have been giving their poetry presentations---many of them in their papers express the importance of being able to spend so much time with one poet, so that you get to know them in a way. They have been sharing good poems, some that I will add into the syllabus and fun writing exercises: some being the mad lib poem and the pretend you're on acid like a beat poet, but don't actually do the acid, that is unless you think it would help your writing...how funny they are when they talk about drugs and sex. And how wonderful their imitation poems are. I really think they help you open up your writing--almost like playing dress up. So go out, be wild, put on your best poet garb and come meet me in the Rouge for a drink Thursday through Saturday. On another note, now that I have spider mums, I don't have any spiders. Though I think it's more the cold...

And We also Lose a Cell Phone

Last night while talking to Jillian, the phone jumped out from between my ear and shoulder and leapt to its death on the concrete. It smashed in many pieces and therefore you will not be able to call me. Overall, I think it's a funny story. Really.

We Lose Another Ohio Poet

The News and Other Poems.
Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002. PS3553 .I86 N49 2002.
http://www.cpl.org/cgi-bin/lookup.pl?isbn=0268036578

Do we miss a thing we love less
if, in going away from us, it grows beautiful?
It rainedall weekend, and the leaves
this morning are going
from brown and tan to crimson.
The splendor flaming from
these trees compensates us,
nearly, for what autumn takes
leaf by leaf, the lined white face
of a father growing noble
the angrier, more confused
he goes, rain like angry bees,
his empty eyes, a cold wind
coming on like dementia.

("A Brief History of Fathers")

Me with Tractor

Isn't it funny how we can feel large and small at the same time? Today walking back from class, I was behind two 7th grade boys and listening to their conversation, I was amazed at how they talked about adult things--I picked up on gambling and poker, but how young they sounded...and that they were taller than me. Then, again, there's not much shorter than me. And before class, I spent the morning talking about William Carlos Williams and NYC pizza--how he identitifies as a poet even though he was a doctor and how DC's pizza is lame. And how for me, poetry and pizza resonate in a strange way---perhaps b/c I did my MFA in the city and I was always running around between work, class, and readings, that I ate a lot of pizza at the same time I was writing a lot of poetry...and how this really doesn't have anything to do with me standing next to a tractor...in class we talked about free verse and fugue--the means in which we can move from one event to another, how repetition works to create resonance and depth and how tangentally we can make connections of a sequence of items that may or may not have like qualities--when we look at our lives through examination of details and images, and as human beings we want to make some sense of it---from the large things to the small. Hence, me and the tractor or is it, the tractor and I?

Timeless Sh*t

I am still reeling from the Rod Smith/Amiri Baraka reading last night at Georgetown. Enchanting is not the right word. There were poems about toads and third world countries and Baraka read his infamous 9-11 poem. I'm still not quite sure how to respond. One of my friends asked me why I would even go (b/c of his anti-semitism) and true, I can't say that I was looking forward to this reading in the way I am about others. Mostly, I was anxious b/c both of these readers put you on edge. They are loud and are not afraid to offend. In fact, I think they prefer it. I'm not loud and I believe in saying what you believe in as much as the next gal, but I think more so, I believe that one should argue quietly--drop images that make you shiver and question. Let me rephrase that---that's how I prefer the polical and the violent in my poems. I don't think I will ever write like these poets. Nonetheless, I bought Rod's CD and I'm chuckling along with it. That's an ingredient I like. We laugh a lot in my class. Today we laughed about midgets and poo---yes, this is what we discuss in academia. I had my students try to break the ice and do some oral storytelling. The subject matter itself wasn't pretty, but they captured small moments of what it means to be a human, to be alive and to encounter strange and uncomfortable situations. And though unlike the Baraka/Smith reading, where I can't really remember details but where I can remember how they read--the music of language, the snapping of words, where they mind breaks open and the poet becomes vessel, more than just a feeling about language, I will hang on to today's class. And just like Baraka and Smith, they enraptured each other in their telling and I'm sure everyone will remember the poo at the opera story for a while. I also made my famous pumpkin chocolate chip muffins.

At the pumpkin patch

Yes, the Rouge gals do go country! We even found some red pumpkins for the Rouge--seriously, I didn't know that they existed. It's always wonderful to find something you didn't know existed. Though we weren't the only ones making asses out of ourselves...see?

Jumbo's Pumpkin patch came complete with pumpkins, pigs, and donkey's oh my! I think the words hee haw also need to be in a poem. And on that note, last night one of my cousin's friends told me about this thing called urbandictionary.com and i am almost thinking of giving my students the assignment to write a poem with at least three words they found on there...or perhaps a fun exercise for my readers to try :)

Here's mine:

Katelyn and I were going way past double nickel,

wanted to get to Jumbo's mad fast,

their pumpkins are B-bobbin shizle biscuit

and the ass there is bootylicious. Hee Haw!

I have an Idea!

But I can't figure out how to flip my idea around...this picture was taken at Jillian and Clinton's place (what a great lanp)...but it prompted me to meditate a bit on ideas. I'm a firm believer in ideas and in bringing ideas into fruition. Take my mother for example---she's finally taking her MBA business plan into consideration--homemade applesauce and other assorted sundries. And moving it from plan/paper to reality. Perhaps everyone in Youngstown will get to taste what she has to offer. Then there is Michael who is living his dream of creating his own business, and Jillian who just bought a new loom, I wonder what ideas she will sew, what kind of a life she will weave for herself---and me, bartending and GW. Though I'm idealizing these ideas here, I know that we all face so many challenges that come along with these big dreams. It's not an easy road, but a rewarding one. Someone once told me to find what you love and then figure out how to make a living from that. It's a simple recipe, but more complicated to actually execute. It makes me think again of the words of Maj Ragain, of planting roots and making your whole life the cultivation of those seeds. Today I bought lilies--a stalk of buds and already they have started to open--all week, I will watch them unfold and flower. That is before cutting them and putting them in my head (see? I have all kinds of things growing up there).

Autumn Has Arrived in DC

I opened the door on Sunday and was greeted with that crisp air--for some reason autumn always makes me hopeful and cheerful. Something about the scent of leaves, that cold has a smell. More than that I think it makes me sentimental. I remember what it felt like in Kent, to be walking to class on a fall day. Maybe fall reminds me of the academic life. Of campuses and knowlegde and books. That same feeling was there when I was in NYC, bopping around the Village or the Upper East Side. Nothing was better than pumpkin spice coffee from Rohr's, which reminded me pumpkin spice at the Zephyr. And here, I order it online and come home or wake up to it as it fills the apartment. Not much and everything has changed. Now I'm walking around Foggy Bottom and have settled into the life of part time professor. Just got my section of CW for the spring---a M/F and perhaps will also be teaching 2 (though it depends what everyone else wants as spring semester we move from 18 sections to 12 sections of the intro class). And with the promise of autumn and another semester here come more publications. A sestina in McSweeney's and my first piece of fiction in New Voices! I spent the day working on a revision of my story, A Summer Fabric--though I'm thinking of calling it something else. I have until the 17th to get it as right as I can.

I was so drunk I ate a bunny

Ok, that's not exactly the truth. I prefer to think of it as a culinary experience. It is not often that you do not order the rabbit and then end up with the rabbit. Ramona is still seething at me. I am still pretending it was chicken. Here's the truth. Jean came to town and we were doing it up on the town at Poste (my new favorite DC restaurant). We also had a reason to celebrate...one of my poems was accepted in McSweeney's (the sestina issue). That happened after I had made the reservation, but no matter and no rain was going to stop us. Here is what we looked like at the end of the night---see no drunk bunny's here, though I did have a few cocktails. Pumpkin and pear martinis oh my! And I'm awake before 10 am on a Saturday. So we sit in our booth drinking our fabulous cocktails and then all of a sudden food we didn't order starts coming out so we can try things. It's amazing---the women at the other table were jealous. We were as good as rockstars, no...better! I was feeling pretty good about all of this until the rabbit came. What I pickle...I couldn't say oh no, I don't eat rabbit and insult the chef. So, I ordered another martini and presto chango, I was sedated enough to pick up my fork and tell myself...mmm, chicken. There are many little white lies (kind of like little cute white rabbits) we tell ourselves to get through life. I started thinking about why I needed that one...why are there certain things foreign to us that we have to trick ourselves into thinking they're ok? Perhaps its a trust issue---but we had put ourselves in good hands---Jason our server said we were family---one big Kimpton family :). As sweet as my concord grape cheesecake.

Unlikely Pairings

In writing, I always tell my students that it is contrast that makes something interesting--that a poem or story that has contradictions is one that hits home the most. What I mean is that, sometimes one thing is necessary to bring out the other. Shakespeare did it with Foils and what's good enough to work for him, is good enough to work for them. And it is these contrasts that also work well in food (think chocolate covered pretzels). Last night I had vanilla gelato with aged balsamic vinegar on top. But don't try this one at home kiddies. Apparently it is the rare and aged vinegar from Italy's belly that makes this one work. Though, you know me, I'm going to try it with ice cream and the cheap grocery stuff just to make sure the waiter at Dino is right on the money. And it is also the time of the year to be thinking of contrasts--it's human nature to contradict ourselves. The Jewish Holidays always have me questioning who it is I am and who is it I want to be. When we were younger, being right was pretty much black and white---but I think this is misconception. G-d gives us the examples in the Torah of people being righteous and unjust and the decisions they make are not simple. Next month I will be teaching a workshop at the Jewish Literary festival and so I have been reading up on the ancestors. Particularly Abraham and Sarah. They fumble--they haven't been able to conceive and so Sarah gives Hagar to her husband--perhaps too soon, as G-d will help her later on. The sages discuss her lack of faith, but how much do we leave in G-d's hands and how long before we roll up our sleeves and do the best we can? I think there is a another story here, one that we don't talk about and one that may have some more relevance to us now. Though I'm by far not a scholar in these matters, I propose we interact more with these texts, to roll up our own sleeves and engage in the study of something that matters.

And in these matters, I need some help---if anyone knows of any poems that deal with Biblical texts, please pass them on to me as I'm looking for some examples for this workshop.

Erev Rosh Hashanah

I began my celebration of the new year by taking myself to see Everything is Illuminated--the book is way better...but then again, they always are. Later on this evening I celebrated by having a $10 shake at the diner. Chocolate ice cream and 2 shots of Jim Beam. In between the movie and the bourbon, I started sending out the steam sequence---new year, hopefully new book. Shana Tova and Laila Tova :)

Tea as Narrative

Today I had lunch at ching ching CHA (a Chinese tea house). I wanted as my jasmine blossom unfolded for me and as my friend poured his tea from the clay pot into another pot and then into a holding cup and then the small saucer in which he drank the tea from, I found a sense of beauty and calm amid all the spastic breaths I've been taking. It was as if each of us had a metaphor for drinking our tea a certain way, or perhaps the one for the ways in which we try to carry out our lives. That which opens and slowly unfolds, and that which is about movement and continuity. In this I find the treads for story, for meaning.

I have a glass tea pot at home. One that I bought when Brady's closed in Kent and have never used. It just didn't seem right to drink regular tea from it. Last week it was irises. This week it is orange blossoms that make tea. I think of simplicity--of how much it means to really talk with someone and to be amazed by another.

I received my first copy of The Sun magazine in the mail and have already read the entire thing. None of that, flip flip, only read this, flip flip, look at the pictures stuff. It's quite an exquisite publication--it reminded me of Kent, the place that taught me that writing comes from the heart--poetry, fiction, non-fiction. No matter, whether the ocean or the flower, a true story is unfolding. And in light of the metaphors flying around like butterflies (DC is full of them now...I see at least one a day), I'll let you lead yourself towards the sun. No easy links this time.

Pilates and Pumpkin Spice Muffins

A wonderful Saturday morning combo...and visiting my favorite flower guy. Today I have hydrangeas, three ways: blue, pink, and white. The Manage of the flower world...and I got the red daisies for free...I guess you could say I'm becoming a regular. There is just something about having fresh flowers in the apartment and in the hair!!! Don't worry, they match my red top for the Rouge tonight. I'm trying to embody the philosophy of trying to stop and smell the flowers, and encourage others to do so as well--it's easier when they're in my head...I'm learning by osmosis you know...

Looks like I have a blogger addiction

Life at the Rouge is getting along famously. I just found out that I will be getting some Tuesday shifts (which means I'll be the bartender not just the cocktail/bartender). And Reb and I are working on the reading series, which will be last Mondays at the Rouge, but not until January. Check it out:

http://burlesquepoetryhour.blogspot.com/

My students full of grace

Tonight I went to my first poetry reading at Grace Church. For some reason, the whole thing reminded me of my friend Katherine who is a pastor (hence, a quite logical connection) in California now, but I knew her from college. The pastor of this church spoke of the connection between music, poetry, and prayer. I thought of lines from Katherine's poems, her spare creeds if you will, her celebration of life.

In class, my students have been championing the poems they call simple, the poems that speak of human condition, of love and haircuts. They call each other's poems winners when they like them a lot. They all have nicknames and identities emerging: the dark one, the one who always comments on titles, the one who writes beach poems, the one who writes poems that make us blush. They love the vivid images and sensory details. Today we debated over the use of the word "undies" in a poem. Was it too cute? Was it just right? I thought the poem was about red, but it was really about pink, but in Hebrew. Now you're turning varod. I giggled too. There is something so humbling in listening to them chatter and discuss. I don't think poetry has ever been so much fun for me.

The other day a friend of mine said he was grateful. I had not been sure of what he meant until today, sitting in the chuch, with the simple arches and high ceiling with a bass player and a poet and thinking back to all of the laughter in class this morning--for all of this, I am grateful.

My Washington Story

Tonight I started writing my "Washington" story after attending a meeting for Washington Write a Story Day. Check out the following link to find out more: writeastory.org. I know I'm starting to become a local as I'm starting to run into people more frequently. Last week I ran into my cousin in Dupont and today I ran into my friend Joanne heading out to the metro and one of my students on the Dupont escalator. Imagine my surprise when I hear "Hi Professor Sachs, how are you?" I think the real story is just beginning.

Here is part of it:

We were at Metro Center when I realized something was wrong.
“Do you have the meat?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, “do you?”
“Stop fooling around,” I said. He said he wasn’t.
I pictured a bag of meat riding around by itself on the metro. The whole thing seemed ridiculous.
“Do you think someone will find it?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What would you do if you found a bag of meat on the train?”
“Leave it,” I said.
David let his fingertips brush against my back as we stood on the escalator.

More about Purple Flowers

The irises are sitting on the radiator. Last night I went to the Diner after work...nothing like a cheese burger at 2 am to make you feel on top of the world. Don't tell Ramona---she'd call me a hypocrite. The diner has many great qualities to it. One is that there is pac man and all those other old games. You can also get your fortune told in the ladies room. A combo scale and who are you type of thing. Mine said that I give praise when praise is due (and that I also talk too much). That's actually one of my favorite prayers. And it being the time right around the Jewish holidays, it's a time of year when I really think about who I am and who I want to be (as if I didn't already think enough)...

Someone very close to me recently passed. I have been pretty quiet about it because I honestly don't know what to say. Especially in light of all the events of late: Katrina, Rita, the protests here in DC, ther personal struggles people are revealing to me. I've never been the political person, but I recently met someone who is, someone who is doing amazing work, volunteering his time to change the lives of others, and perhaps even the bureacracies that work for humanity, especially in times of disasters. Everyone loves a catalyst. I think of the way the irises open, the way they almost burst. Is it or is it not, metaphor?

Spinning

I just returned from spinning class---I'm thinking about circles, of going round and round---do we go nowhere or are we going somewhere. I always loved the carosel when I was little, that you always passed those people who were waiting for you, that you kept coming back and moving away from them, that who you wanted, was always around the next curve.

My laundry is also spinning right now and while I just finished eating the chocolate mint bread pudding, mom goes and send me a new recipe. The cycles circling...

SUGAR-CRUSTED CHOCOLATE CHIP AND CHERRY BREAD PUDDINGS
3 tablespoons butter, room temperature, divided
3 slices white sandwich bread (about 5 1/4x4 1/4 inches each)
1 cup half and half
2 large eggs1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons sugar
1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup dried tart cherries
1/2 cup chilled whipping cream
1 tablespoon kirsch (clear cherry brandy)

Preheat oven to 375°F. Spread 2 tablespoons butter over bread slices. Cut bread into 1-inch pieces. Whisk half and half, eggs, vanilla, and 1/3 cup sugar in large bowl to blend. Add bread cubes, chocolate chips, and dried cherries; toss to coat. Divide mixture among six 2/3-cup custard cups. Dot tops with remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Bake 10 minutes. Sprinkle puddings with 2 tablespoons sugar. Bake until tops are browned, about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, whisk cream, remaining 1 tablespoon sugar, and kirsch in medium bowl just until slightly thickened. Serve puddings warm with kirsch cream.

So you wanna open my --- box

Because I have one now, and its got some goodies. Ok, so that question was never posed to me tonight at the Mothertongue reading, but I thought it would be a damn funny opening line. You see, they were giving out free sex boxes---yes, they (meaning the Whitman Walker Clinic) were encouraging safe sex during a poetry reading. I often wonder how far to push things in our writing---if we can write about sex in a public forum, but perhaps because it is something taboo, too many people are misinformed about their choices and wind up in positions they would rather not be in, we need to encourage dialogue, because when we discuss sex, we are essentially discussing life. So now, about my life...

I had met Natalie from mothertongue a few readings ago and tonight's readings proceeds benefitted the DC Coalition Against Domestic Violence, so there were numerous reasons to go. There are days when we need to be reminded why we do the things we do. Tonight was one of those readings---more raw, words clawing, breath jagged and brazen tongues tying the political to the sexual to the individual collective. I remember going to Open Mic nights at Brady's Cafe in Kent, Ohio to really hear. To see the beauty of what it means to be open, tasted, heard, and alive. I was taken back to those moments of passion when I heard my own voice speaking from inside that place that we name heart, or mind, or soul, those elusive words that I tell my students need to be more specific. Last night I recall asking Robert Pinsky how he translates Biblical text to poetry, hoping to find out more about the art in which we do---b/c I am at a loss to describe the process, of how painting becomes poem in my own work, the nuts and bolts of feeling, perceiving, thinking, describing---but he echoed what I felt tonight--it is like walking or riding a bike. You just move. Tonight the bones shook.

This Time I got to Third in the National Gallery

We're mid-poetry scene. Last night was the Robert Pinsky reading at the JCC and tonight I'm going to shimmy on down to the Black Cat for the monthly mothertongue reading. Reb and I have been busy emailing readers for our new series and I've been miss chatty chat on the phone with writers and host organizations for Washington Writes A Story Day (writeastory.org) Tomorrow is the Thomas Pink fashion show at the Rouge and Sat. is the National Book Festival.

The other day I ended up taking a cab to work and ended with listening to my cabbie do some spoken word and sing some Toni Braxton---and you thought DC was a sleepy little town. Turns out, there's more writers out there. And perhaps she was my inspiration as after class I went to the National Gallery to do some of my own writing. And here's the title teaser of what I wrote that day: Georgia O'Keefe's Vagina. This time I won't write and tell. You'll have to buy me dinner first!

Epic Purple

Tonight I walked home from the DCAC reading in Adams Morgan. It's one of my favorite walks--even though it's all Connecticut (which includes the bridge). It's strange how things pop up. I have been mulling over that "purple" poem for a while and ended up jotting some things down and then on my way home on Kalorama, there was a huge box of stuff outside someone's row house with a sign that said free. So I looked through the goods and found an old white frame with some dried lavender in it. Naturally I slipped it in my purple bag. I was also wearing a purple top. Hence the chain of events Purple to poetry to reading to poetry to purple to poetry...something circular and mysterious. I keep turning over a borrowed phrase comic book midnight and how you can come at purple (use that as metaphor) from so many different angles. I have one draft that I'm really happy with and a few others that also could be interesting. Epic purple perhaps.

I get 3 strikes and then I'm out

That's my drinking policy. Last night after 3 glasses of wine at Bardeo I took myself diagonally home. But is life about knowing your limits or pushing them? I think it's about both, knowing when to say when and knowing when when is a line you can cross. Someone who will remain nameless here gave me some of the best advice I've ever heard. He told me that failure is not failure unless you accept it as that. But to embrace it, in others and yourself. Me being the perfectionist, easier said than done. My grandmother's advice over the phone is a little easier to digest: Eat well and take care of your body. Today I went to pilates (but ate bread pudding for breakfast). I made the chocolate mint one that I mentioned in the blog in August. Great recipe--though I think I would do something about the presentation next time. Ah well, sometimes looks aren't that important.

And sometimes it is the contrast in looks that is appealing. One of my students handed in an amazing poem about that---takes me back to the days when I was a bit brazen myself and wrote a line that goes something like:

I want to be like those girls
who can wear a robe like a slinky
black cocktail dress
and suck a dick
like a parched beggar.

And hence that poem was forever dubbed the suck a dick poem by my friends. I often wondered if that line was too extreme and what people would think about me when I read it (the poem was not about any sexual experiece, but the whole idea of what connotates sexy and sultry).

I think my student did it better than I did--here are a few lines:

He says he loves the contrast
of his dark skin
To my milky white
But I think that what he really means
Is that he wants me from behind

The poem to me is about crossing lines, not just racial and sexual but that of limits and expectations. About taking risks--in thinking it and writing it and I'm honored to receive such a poem. It means there is trust. And poetically and in life, that is something so fragile and sacred. Trust happens after risks do. So here's my advice to you: eat some salad and then go out and do something brazen. Hit one out of the park for me!

My Milkshake Brings all the Boys to the Rouge

Ok, so I'm not Kleis, but I will be making alcoholic milkshakes at the Rouge tonight. And you thought the $5 ones at Jack Rabbit Slims were good (that's your movie hint folks)...I'm off to infuse and imbibe--enough of that and we'll hold a twist contest!

11 out of 16 picked Green

Today we discussed using color in your writing and green was by far the most popular. Tomorrow I'm going to pick red, but today I picked purple and here are the random lines that I composed with my students--definitely not a poem yet, but this one is for you Aunt Sue:

The king wielded his power unjustly

his amythyst septer (spelling?)

the sheen of cabernet against crystal

after we had drunk it all

She pinned an orchid behind her ear

not the memory of it

the way it grew in those trees (anyone know the name of them---I saw them in Florida)

to be tucked in & woven around

It was twilight

she was melting

She remembered that he grew violets under flourescent lights in the cellar

It was the 1970's. She wore pants

That night she made eggplant, no aubergine

but she was here now and was having a difficult time slicing it

She thought of lilacs, the way they return year after year,

the scent she could not erase from her memory

Caught Napping

Today my students had their first workshop experience--I can't even begin to say how wonderful it is that we get to sit around and talk about their work, how wonderful it is that they are writing, how one of them even said to me after class that he really likes the writing exercises. They saw so many wonderful things in each other's work and were not afraid to say so, and were also not afraid to say things to each other when things in the poem weren't clear or they just didn't get. They called each other brave and philosphical, they laughed and smiled as they revealed things about themselves and their work.

I think I need to take a lesson from them---just to be in the sheer moment of language and discovery. I came back from teaching and did the laundry and Moses (the desk clerk in my building) said to me how much I love towork---which I think is ironic considering that I teach for an hour and 15 minutes 4 times a week and work at the bar 2-3 nights a week. It gives me so much time not to work. He struck a chord. I always am working on something. Be it teaching, chores, sending out poems, writing them, the reading series, this blog---there is always something with me. I have always had the need to be busy. But today I slowed down. After laundry I put on my pajamas and took a nap. I had needed to stop and just be.

A Frank Polite Poem

THE BLACK BUTTERFLIES

The black butterflies of night
Clipped for sleep to nightshade and widowgrief,
Or in shaking luminous flight
On paired and silver wings, are rare,
And rarely seen by human sight.

Yet, they are there, surfacing
Out of range of neons and streetlights,
Preferring underleaf
And the dark offshores of air
To man and moth-maddening glare of things.
Tonight, As crisis after crisis
Cracks our skies like lightning,
I think of death,
Of different ways of dying,
And of Egypt and the myth
That once held black butterflies
Sacred to Isis.

They lived forever in flight
In her private groves, compelled like
Flickering minutes
Never to touch leaf nor stone,
Never to rest, except upon her nakedness
When she turned to love.
And here is death to be envied;
To be crushed to a personal breast
Between goddess
And whatever bird, beast, lover
Fell to her lips.
We are something else. . .

Myth and love will miss us
When the night is suddenly turned on,
Turned blank white,
And the black butterflies
Appear against that vellum sky
As far, flitting, burnt-out stars.

Ramona Goes to Chipotle

The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. – Marcel Proust, 1871-1922

Not that I really think that Chipotle is a new landscape...but I find it very surprising that I have not written the Chipotle poem...that's my assignment for the week---perhaps I'll give my students the assignment as extra credit. I mean, Joe Wenderoth wrote a whole book, Letters to Wendy's so it's definitely a literary thing to do.

The other day we named our fall drinks at the Rouge. What a way to combine my English major and bartending right? Reb and Chris stopped in for some Mange a Trois action that night too before the reading at Printmakers. I was wearing the skirt that someone a while back told me to be careful in---something like you better wear that skirt before it wears you. I think Ramona will wear it too, when she meets her burrito beau! Ole senorita!

My Babies

So, by 5pm today I will have the entire first batch of poems from my students (some are emailing them to me b/c we lost a day with Labor Day). Some have emailed earlier and I don't know why, but poems always seem to make me a little giddy. Though Honi Jeffers writes "a child cannot be like a poem" I somethimes think a poem is like a child---there you are sending it out into the world, perhaps you want it to fly to a major press, though as I tell my students, it is the flight, the process that matters, not the product, nor the destination.

Today I'm going to enjoy a whole day of process---no teaching, no bar. Just me, the gym, the record store, cleaning the apartment, the laundry, the post office (I'm sending some poems toward the Heartland) and 33 new poems by 33 amazing younger poets.

Sandra Beasley's Salon at Chapters

I haven't been to a reading in such a long time that made me think of why any of us writes, and writes poetry for that matter. Readings where the room almost falls away and all there are are words upon words and someone churning them around over her head until the words are air, then they are thick, and somehow you are both there and not there, somewhere in the middle of rapture and consciousness in which you begin to understand why language matters. I don't suppose I'm doing justice to de-mystify poetry (which is what I had thought I wanted to do for my students who seem to prefer Dave Matthews over any poet, which I'm hoping is just because Dave is more familiar) nor do I think it can be deconstructed. Why I wonder do so many people have an aversion to that which I love, that which I was drawn to since middle school.

Today in class we talked briefly about the magic of language, that childhood sense of wonder and fascination with magic, with the imagination. We also talked about the simplicity of language, of William Carlos Williams, and the edge of Gwendolyn Brooks. Frannie Lindsay and DanaRoeser were the living embodiment of this dialogue translated to live poetry reading.

This was also my first time at Chapter's bookstore, a wonderful independent bookstore---served as the perfect backdrop for the reading. And the former poor starving writing was glad that they served wine, sparkling water, and some light fare afterwards to entice people to stay and muse awhile. And the latter young professor in me poured herself a glass of sparkling lemonade and lingered.

Kimpton Cares

that's the jargon at the hotel/bar, but it's not jargon---at least I don't believe so. I'm so glad to be affiliated with an employer who really seems to care about their employees and the world we live in. Please visit kimptonhotels.com and click on the Katrina relief button at the top of the page.

Labor Day Weekend Flowers and Weeds

When I went to summer camp, we used to play this game called flowers and weeds at the end of every day. Basically, your flowers were good things that happened and your weeds were the not so good ones. And since going home always brings up a nostalgic feeling--I thought I'd play again.

Thursday after my second first class (I'm teaching 2 sections of Intro) I metroed (is that the right verb tense) home but stopped at my favorite new neighborhood deli/cafe because they have oreo cookies and we're not talking Nabisco, we're talking chocolate cookie with marscapone filling (kind of like and ice cream sandwich, but icing, not ice cream). I spent all my lunch eyeing the cookies in the bakery case (and the guy behind the case---I think he's someone Ramona would go for). He packed the cookie nicely for me so I could enjoy on the airplane. I'm not sure if mom's oriental chicken salad or swing dancing later than night beats it out so for Thursday, I have a three way flower :)

Friday my flower would definitely have to be going to the spa with my mom. We went to Casal's in Howland and had the most amazing pedicures with aromatherapy. I also had a facial and got to kick back and read fashion mags while sipping fruity water. All you do is put frozen fruit in water and bam, swanky drink---though not as swanky as the drinks on Sunday (Doris's favorite day to drink). I think the whole day was a flower.

Saturday was the big day, fair day!!! Mom, Jean and Patty (her mom) and I trashed it up big for the Canfield fair...going always makes you think that it's still the 80's, big hair and beer bellies!!! The first fair fries were pretty disappointing but we found better. The fried pickles were the weed. I should have opted for the fried cheesecake instead. The flower was visiting the vegetable barn with mom--much good material for Ramona.

Sunday I had brunch with the girls (and a few brought their boys). And there's a Coldstone there, a potential flower, I knew that it was a flower because there were so many bees around. Annie made me sign her Kent Stater Alumni mag--there's a nice blurb about GW and BAP, but they have me as graduating in '02, not '01...well, Kent read, Kent write, Kent do math...or so the saying goes.

Then on to dinner at my dad's for Grandma's 82nd birthday. Here are 2 drinks to celebrate. Orange Martini made with vodka and orangello and Van Gogh has espresso vodka which is great chilled. Bottom's up and tonight's flowers were served up, no rocks.