It’s been quite a few days—I’m exhausted, and in recuperation.

I haven’t been sleeping consistently—odd hours, not enough and then making up for it later. It’s got me a little bit out of whack. On Thursday, following my final Contemporary Poetry class, I was pretty shattered. But, I had to push on and go to the Library of Congress for the reading.

Unfortunately, I was cranky. Things that I would normally have found charming grated on me a bit—this was both being tired and hungry (my food intake on Thursday was appalling. Damn finals season) and also sitting near the infamous Library of Congress Poetry Readings Laugher. A loud laugh at the slightest thing that could be construed to have an iota of humour in it. It wasn’t pretty.

Charles Simic gave an intro that indicated he, Mark Strand and Charles Wright had all known each other for over forty years. Ah! The camaraderie of old men! See, I’m recovering my normally sunny disposition, because once again I find this lovely, adorable. At the time, it made me cranky. But it seems the reading blooms after the fact, and my mind is revising the whole experience. It’s nice that readings, like books, are allowed these afterlives…

At the time, though, crankiness. While that is slowly being revised, it seems to have left at least one lasting mark. Mark Strand read this poem, and the information he gave beforehand blew me away. He quoted Apollinaire and his question—“Who will be the first person to forget a continent?” His poem was about the forgetters. It kind of followed the trajectory of Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.” This does strike me as a brave move—and I don’t think any poem can really bear the comparison. I completely understand the impulse to take the Apollinaire quote and imagine it into being—and yet, the poem can’t live up to the suggestion of the quote. In everything it leaves unsaid, the Apollinaire allows for some kind of hugeness that unfortunately the Strand didn’t quite have—Strand’s poem in comparison was “a mere bagatelle.” Cranky? I love Mark Strand. I will continue to love Mark Strand. I apologise for being cranky.

Charles Wright was great. I loved his southern accent. I didn’t take in a lot at the time—so tired, so hungry—but, after the fact, it seems it did sink in, and is now starting to resurface. Thank god! I may have been cranky, but it didn’t mar the transmission.

Yesterday, recuperation in earnest. Unfortunately, my body just wouldn’t get up after only 6 hours of sleep, so I missed the dawn service. Only the second in several years. I feel bad about it—I think it would have been wonderful to attend it in DC. I suppose there’s always next year… But I did tell all the lovely folks at Baked and Wired that it was Anzac Day, and I like to think that Meg made my caffe latte with extra love. I read Daniel Deronda for a while, and then, on a whim went to see a film.

Two films, actually. I snuck into the second. I also got invited to a free preview screening of a new Spike Lee film on Tuesday night. Score!

I saw In Bruges first. In a way, it seemed like two—or maybe even three—films to me—first this drifting film that was beautifully shot, and explored the morality of two very different hitmen. Contrary to Anthony Lane of the New Yorker (! I like to take on the New Yorker when I can…) I found both Colin Farrell—at least in the first hour or so—really did match Brendan Gleeson, and that lingering over their faces, the minutiae of their reactions was beautiful - almost mesmerising. Then turned into a slightly surreal midget comedy, and tightly choreographed cat-and-mouse carnage. That first section, where the two characters are wandering around Bruges, having their very different reactions to the city, as the viewer is trying to come to terms with the morality of the two, sold me. The rest—well, really quite engaging to watch once, but I feel no need to watch it again. Still, some of it will linger.

Then—Smart People. I was disappointed—well, except for when Ellen Page was on screen. (I find it very difficult to be disappointed by Page.) The developments were okay, but there wasn’t enough justification for any of it. The relationship between the two main characters—I don’t understand the why of it. Besides the weird thrall of a former professor. Thomas Hayden Church was worth watching, besides Page. But—huh? Even the professor’s son, a very underdeveloped character—out of the blue he sells a poem to the New Yorker? Um. Okay. It was extreme-lite The Squid and the Whale. I loved The Squid and the Whale. This, not so much. Plus, they didn't seem so smart.

The rest of this weekend really revolves around Daniel Deronda. I just finished the penultimate book of the novel. I am taking some time before jumping into the rest of it—it’s hit me with such an extreme force. I both dread writing my final paper, and can’t wait to jump into it. How to touch this monument?