Aside from having my (Keith's) idea for "content generation" jacked, Rauan's classification of most of the six sample poems as "squirrel poems" caught my eye:
A squirrel poem's where you see a squirrel and meditate on it: its condition, plight, consciousness, conscience, prescience, messy-ness, etc, etc. Then you think of yourself. An epiphany occurs. Light or dark. Black or white. Sometimes striped. Like a skunk. Usually a circle's made. It's quite inspiring. Damnit! It makes me wretch! (I should go check my own poems. Probably a bunch of squirrels in there too. Wretch! Wretch! Wretch!)My impression is that a squirrel poem needn't actually contain a squirrel, but the fact of the matter is, I have a squirrel poem, in which I quite literally meditate on a squirrel. Although, my squirrel is dead ... which I guess means it falls in the union of squirrel poems and roadkill poems, probably another New Yorker favorite. If I were a Dickman, I woulda had it made.
I sent Rauan the link and he said he would re-post it with squirrellustrations soon. I've prepared myself for likely mockery.
This morning while eating breakfast I flipped through a Rolling Stone, the nearest reading material that would lie open flat; I think John got a free subscription or something. I don't really keep up with music these days, and tend to associate Rolling Stone with butt rock anyway (Megan Fox is on the cover), so I went straight for the "fashion" spread (mostly plaid), which was unexpectedly hilarious. It features Scarlett Johansson and Pete Yorn who recently released a concept album of duets about a fictional breakup.
Actually, that's not what made me laugh; it was Pete Yorn's quote about why it's only just now coming out when they recorded it in 2007: "I sat on it because I was protective of it, and of Scarlett, too. But every so often, she would text me and say, 'I'm listening to our record. I love it!' So I put it on and realized how proud I am of it."
[Insert maniacal internal laughter]
If that's not an admission that he thought the album royally sucked, I don't know what is. Later in the piece, we're informed that Pete Yorn had never even heard ScarJo sing when he asked her to do it! He just, presumably, liked her boobs. God, SCARJO. You're so pointless.
Then I spilled soymilk all over the magazine which seems to have fused most of the pages together. Interesting.
On the train to New London on Friday I finished Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, while sipping a bourbon and ginger on the cafe car. I had envisioned this ahead of time as being somewhat romantical, but Marstall assured me drinking on an Amtrak is about "as romantic as an Arbee's" [sic]. WWRTFH was pretty good, though it seemed kind of padded, like it could have been a 100-page novella instead of a 200-page novel.
Now, uncharacteristically, I'm reading a nonfiction book: An Anthropologist on Mars by Oliver Sacks, the first "paradoxical tale" of which makes reference to many of the same philosophers as Maggie Nelson's Bluets. It's about an abstract expressionist painter who goes colorblind, as in, he only sees in grayscale (achromotopsia) following an accident and concussion.
This quote was embedded in a footnote, from a woman who was born with a similar condition:
People say I must see in shades of gray or in "black and white," but I don't think so. The word gray has no more meaning for me than the word pink or blue--in fact, even less meaning, because I have developed inner concepts of color words like pink and blue; but, for the life of me, I can't conceive of gray.Girl's got no eigengrau! To quote myself, quoting my ex-landlord Korie, quoting some man who blew her mind in like, the seventh grade, "When you're blind, you don't see black, you just don't see."