Tuesday, April 05, 2005
... about Bob Creeley, and tired and cranky. Woke in middle of night last night, spent time trying to find my copy of For Love (the one with the book marks and notes from freshman year), finally discovering it this morning in a place I searched a dozen times last night. Thanks, Bob, for finding it for me. Found in it a scrap of paper where the old poet Ruthven Todd (who lived in Buffalo for a time) had written down his address for me in Majorca. He's dead too.
Had forgotten how courtly and fey and sometimes embarrassing some of the stuff in the book is, or maybe I was the complete undergraduate gland. But the utter minimalism of the emotion, even in a mushy "song" to a wife still blows me away.
We are all so postmodern and ironic now it's hard to read some of this. How brave to put love poems (for the most part) on paper and publish them for all to see. And yet he was the definition of hipster cool with a touch of nerd.
I used to write stuff like "For M.", when "M" wasn't even the first letter of his name, so desperate was I to hide.
Anyway, an odd, emotionally charged day, starting about 3 am.
Good evening, friends. We at least have American Idol* to look forward to tonight, so I'll be heading to the store to lay in some snacks. Printing didn't go abundantly well. The pink background may have to be done in a different way. May give it another shot tomorrow, or just give up and start again with a stronger etch.
Am assuming you voted today. Still another hour left (in Illinois) before the polls close. Is absolutely perfect weather, about 72 and breezy. So you have no excuse.
*please don't hate me
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