I'm afraid I have been remiss in keeping up this blog.

I have recently had the good fortune to be appointed as the "Sydney City Poet": in this role I have been creating a new blog/website. I very much if you have stumbled on me at Miss Kate Underground that you will follow me there:

sydneycitypoet.tumblr.com

Now I realise that I've left this blog lying fallow for a little while, so I have no idea if it will do any good to post this info, but my book is apparently in shops in Australia now. Selected shops. The independent ones that usually have poetry books. I imagine. I don't really know anything.

I've been told it's pretty, so that's nice. I know at least 2 copies have sold. That's also nice. That said, I looked at a handful of the poems the other night and wanted to edit them. It's hard to let go...

So. There. I'm proud of it, even as I'm aware of my little book's shortcomings. Fire Season is out in the world.

A year ago the idea of leaving Australia again was really difficult—this year it’s not as hard. Which is not to say that this hasn’t been a wonderful trip home, or that it hasn’t reinforced once again for me just how Australian I am. I guess I feel like I have made something like a family for myself in DC, and I plan to enjoy this last six or so months there, since I probably won’t live there again. The fact that I will go from calling it home to being just a visitor—it’s a strange feeling. I haven’t quite got my head around it all yet.

So—Friday I fly out again. I’ve talked my friend B into picking me up (very little talking-into involved… he’s very kind) and then the weekend—and then—class on Monday. Is that all?

Being home is such a shock. It’s lovely to be with my family—but I’m a little bit shell-shocked with the idea of catching up with people.

I feel like this is going to be a good year. Something in the sky.

I went through old files the other day—throwing some things out (I’m going to try to throw out when I get back to DC too…) and was amazed to find a lot of old essays and drafts I had been working on. Filed carefully. That I was determined to apprentice myself that way, so seriously.


*

On a frivolous—not to mention shamefaced—note, I’ve become addicted to a bad television show. I used to occasionally watch it when I left the television on after watching something that was… marginally better. And its contrivances drove me crazy. And now, I find the contrivances, the blandnesses, the banter that’s not funny oddly endearing. Oh, the show is NCIS. There, I’ve outed myself.

I think it might be a little bit less of a blog-fueled year. I’ve been discovering the pleasures of pen(cil) and paper again. But I’m going to try to stop in when I can.

So, flying today. Have apparently misplaced my paper ticket. Yes, that’s right. There are still people who ISSUE paper tickets. Rang United, who it was all booked with. Their response? “We have no record of you.” They said—you’ve lost your ticket? Well you’ll have to buy a new one and fill out an application. Then if there are no problems we’ll reimburse you. Seriously? So I rang Lufthansa, and they were great. Confirmed that, yes, as far as airlines are concerned I exist. Also, that with a handy six digit reference code I could go to a ticket counter and they would sort me out. And no mention of “oh, and buy your ticket all over again.” I hope I never have reason to call United again.

*

Rant over, I can’t believe I lost the ticket. It was all together, and I have the folder it was in. I remember the ticket, and am sure that when I pulled it out to give my ticket number to my travel agent to confirm my final flights that I would have put it back in the folder. Apparently not. Demonstrating once more that I apparently will be the sort of person who ends up keeping her tax information in the fruit bowl. Though I suppose if it’s all in the same fruit bowl that won’t be too much of a problem.

*

I anticipate a week of reading—being in places where I don’t know the language always leads to deep reading—and, hopefully, a little writing. Though I find writing hard during the period I am actually on the hoof. Notebook writing.

*

Reading Sontag’s diaries. Reading other bits. Books in the bag for over the break? Desnos. Darwish. Carson (of course). Perhaps I should add John Clare. A few novels. Am going to read Kafka’s diaries when I get home—they’re calling to me.

End of semester—exhaustion. Finished my final paper, and it wasn’t what it should be. But then, I always think those final papers at the point I hand them in are really a starting point, and not an end point. So, perhaps I have the start of something.

*

I’ve been sad since my mother sent me the news that Dorothy Porter is gone—too soon. I have a number of friends who knew her much better than I, but she is someone that I admired, and wanted more of.

*

Leave tomorrow for Frankfurt, then Bulgaria. I guess there’ll be a lot of sleep on the place.

*

Anticipating lying on Australian ground, trying to figure out what Anne Carson is doing with error, and exactly makes it different from how other poets might choose error.

*

Packing, now. Triage: must take, can take, don’t need to take.

The past weeks and the next few days are incredibly busy—such that I haven’t really had a chance to write. (Or update the Independence Day Project… a lapse I am ashamed of, though the project will be finished, when I am able to finish it.)

My prospectus is done, and now it’s just a matter of finishing the final paper. Oh wait—is it really just a matter of that? Okay, perhaps a little more complicated.

I leave the US on Thursday—flying first to Frankfurt overnight, where I’ll have about half a day before I fly onward to Bulgaria. I’m visiting the lovely Carolyn Emigh! (I’m hoping, too, that there will be time for a side trip to Macedonia, to visit the poet Nikola Madzirov. It’s not certain that that’s going to happen.) Then I’ll be dashing home, via a night in Singapore, with an overnight in Frankfurt… and then… home.

So I have a few days to finish this paper—which is due the day I leave anyway. And it will be done. Having written and made notes for the full length of the paper, I now have a thesis. One which I can make work. So. That’s nice.

I am also applying to MFA programs… which I am hoping (determined…) to have finished before I leave as well. Madness.

Then there’s that whole packing/making sure I know where my stuff is/paying bills list of things to do.

Oh, and I spent the weekend getting stuff in order my advisor’s study (since I’m also the research assistant.) Making a list of where everything is. How to contact me in an emergency. Etc.

So. That’s the status report.

The past weeks have, again, accelerated. I know that I should have written all about election day, and the day after—but I didn’t. It’s been a busy time.

Belatedly, though, I will note that on election day I:

- first tutored at Duke Ellington (no students, but I got the crossword done…)
- had coffee at Baked and Wired, chatting with the Baked Girls. (Nathan falls into this category too… I don’t think I’ve told him that yet.)
- then C picked me up to go drive around North Virginia for a while. The idea? To find some polling places for him to photograph, and me to make whatever notes I felt like making. The method? Cross a bridge from DC to Rosslyn and get lost. The theory? After getting lost, something interesting will happen. The outcome? Didn’t find the polling places, but instead found an “Oriental Supermarket” that, among other things, sold Milo. So I’ve had a week of excellent chocolate milk… and now the Milo is all gone.
- Back to C’s place before heading toward Meg’s for the special election edition meeting of the Baked and Wired Knitting Society… except then Meg had to cancel at the last minute.
- Impromptu invitation (after assurances that I would not be intruding) to the house of one of C’s friends. Me, glued to CNN and MSNBC electoral maps for 4 hours.
- Obama! Obama!
- Joining the spontaneous crowd gathered outside the White House between midnight and 2.30am. Wow.

I slept in the next morning. You’re shocked.

Since then, there’s been more stuff to get done. I presented papers at two conferences last weekend. I feel like I am living in the aftermath of Friday, when I flew to New Hampshire and back on the same day, in order to present a paper at the Milton conference at the lovely St Anselm’s College. The day itself was a little hellish—I got up at 3am to get the shuttle to BWI airport and didn’t get back home until midnight. Still, I met some lovely people, including a Benedictine monk who was knitting a brightly coloured hat.

Oh, and knitting has been treating me very nicely. Such fun! Such madness! Let’s have a caucus race!

This week has been a bit of a marathon. I’m still going to work for another hour or so tonight… of that’s the plan. If sleep takes over, I won’t object…

As a form of training…it is important that the poet develop a strong bond with life, to be able to observe and able to choose his subject matter. …Afterwards, he can abstract things by abstracting coincidences, and symbolize them. This time of observation (for a poet) is an elementary process akin to learning reading and writing.

—Saadi Youssef

My wordle above comes care of wordle...

I’ve been doing a lot of alphabetisation, organising Carolyn’s university and home offices. And talking about definitions of “poetics,” which, as she points out, is being used in rather a vague manner. I was inspired after discussing this over lunch (there are some wonderful perks in helping organise the library…) to go home and check the OED on poetics and poesis…

The OED lists the noun uses of “poetic” (no entry for “poetics,” even though that is almost exclusively how I hear it used here…) as follows:

B. n.
1. In sing. and pl.
a. The aspect of literary criticism that deals with poetry; the branch of knowledge that deals with the techniques of poetry. Also: a treatise on poetic art, spec. that written by Aristotle.
1656 T. STANLEY Hist. Philos. II. VI. 31 Philologick... Poeticks. 1702 Perfidious P 134, I believe you are the only Man that ever read Aristotle, that had the shadow of a Reason against any thing he has said in his Poeticks. 1776 C. BURNEY Gen. Hist. Music I. Pref. p. viii, It is imagined that Plutarch took it either from his [sc. Aristotle's] Treatise on Music, or the second book of his Poetics. 1807 BYRON Let. 30 June (1973) I. 123 Even the hero of my Cornelian (who is now sitting vis-a-vis, reading a volume of my poetics) passed me in Trinity walks. 1834 Penny Cycl. II. 335/2Aristotle's genuine extant works may be divided into three classes: 1. Those relating to the philosophy of the mind... To this head may be referred..his Rhetoric and Poetic: the last of which works is imperfect. 1879 M. PATTISON Milton xiii. 200 The principle of the Aristotelean Poetic. 1917 T. S. ELIOT Prufrock 38 With your air indifferent and imperious At a stroke our mad poetics to confute. 1990 Bull. Hispanic Stud. 67 331 In the past few years, the application of narratological and semiotic approaches has proved to be crucial for the development of a poetics of the romancero.
b. The creative principles informing any literary, social or cultural construction, or the theoretical study of these; a theory of form.
1927 Contemp. Rev. July 59 M. Valéry's poetics have been accused of hermetism and of preciousness. 1973 Word 1970 26 66 Jakobson avoids the term stylistics, preferring instead poetics. 1976 Times Lit. Suppl. 2 Jan. 11/2 To subscribe to this poetic was to doubt the validity of art and the veracity of dreams. 1977 A. SHERIDAN tr. J. Lacan Écritsiii. 102 This notion must be approached through its resonances in what I shall call the poetics of the Freudian corpus.1990 Lit. & Ling. Computing 5 197/1 Now more than ever poetics aspires to integrate itself within the evolving larger field of the human sciences.
2. A writer of poetry, a poet. Obs. rare.
1687 J. PARRY To Cleveland in J. Cleveland Wks. 286 Where all Poeticks else may truckle under. 1687 J. PARRY Elegy on Cleveland in J. Cleveland Wks. 285 'Tis your Crime T'upbraid the State-Poeticks of this time.
3. In pl. Poetic composition; the writing of poems. Obs. rare.
1851 T. CARLYLE Life J. Sterling II. x. 285 Our valiant friend..was not to be repulsed from his Poetics either by the world's coldness or by mine.

Most people seem to have abandoned the original, Aristotelian use of the word. So 1b is the winner when it comes to the way the word is bandied around.

But then! Ah yes, but the… there is also poesis. It’s entry is as follows:

1. A poem; poems collectively, poetry, verse; poesy. Now rare.
1565 J. HALL Courte of Vertu (title) A poesis in forme of a uisyon. 1567 T. DRANT tr. Horace Arte of Poetrie sig. Aiiiv,Not lore enough in Poesis, let them be sweetlye fynde, And let them leade to where them liste the hearers plyante mynde. 1617 J. DAVIES Wits Bedlam sig. H3v, Poesie be..A speaking Picture..Then must a Picture needs be made, by this, A silent Poesis, subiect to the Eye. 1742 W. CLARKE & W. BOWYER tr. J. Trapp Lect. Poetry 22 We generally use the Words Poesis and Poetica, Poesy and Poetry, indiscriminately. 1894 Amer. Jrnl. Philol. 15 16 Before Lucilius's time a single play (poema) had been called satura, he gave this designation to his thirty books (poesis). 1899 J. E. SPINGARN Hist. Lit. Crit. 27 Poetica is the art of composing poetry, poesis, the poetry composed according to this art.1993 Faquery 1: who writes R.A.P.? in rec.arts.poems (Usenet newsgroup) 16 Apr., Discussions about the art of poetry and the science of poesis, including issues about use of language, poetical forms, and the work of various poets.

2. The process of making; production, creation; creativity, culture (cf. POIESIS n.).
1903 L. F. WARD Pure Sociol. II. v. 88 Poesis is a form of creative synthesis. 1939 S. CHUGERMAN Lester S. Ward 271Poesis is the creative, synthetic process of the intellect applied to all the sciences and practical arts. 1963 F. C. CREWSPooh Perplex (1979) 91 It is clear that the object of study here..falls essentially into the category of art, or broadly speaking, poesis. 1989 Requiem 9 I. 35 The first poem, the Original original one..was God's literal poesis of the world.2003 Chicago Rev. (Nexis) 49 31 Reading as poesisa materially based making of the text into something of use, positioning it phrase by phrase..in complex..relation to one's projects.

This second meaning seems to me to have been lumped into “poetics” these days. Yes? No? And I’m interesting that all the uses of poesis in this second sense fall after the start of the 20th century.

Weeks have rushed by of late. I don’t think I can honestly say I’ve been feeling very lazy in the last fortnight—in reality I’ve basically been run off my feet. It’s been good though. I feel a little electric: every time I sit down to the thing that needs my attention right now I feel like the attention is right there.

What’s been keeping me so busy? Writing Center and running my workshops, which have started to gain attendance. It’s funny—some days I feel really exhausted by the very idea of tutoring, but the moment my students arrive I’m right there in the work. I wish I could remember this ahead of time. I feel like I’m a grump. I guess it’s partly being so protective of my own time, which is divided between so many things. I’m tutoring at Duke Ellington, a performing arts high school a few blocks from Georgetown, two days a week—though there have been weeks when I’ve only made it to one of my days. (This week for instance: I really needed the whole of Tuesday to get things done…) But students are starting to come in, and I love talking to these students about writing—it’s really getting into fundamentals, and instilling ideas about writing as a process at the outset. It also gives me a chance to talk to them about the contexts for writing, so they know that there are different conventions for different types of writing, and they can use those conventions, and play with them, as long as they’re aware of them. I’ve also been working intensively with one particular student, and spent an hour going through a single paper he had already handed in, looking at where the writing was really strong, and where he could take it further. Every time I look at these pieces of writing at this level I feel like I’m learning about my own writing. When I grade papers, I limit myself to the amount of time I spend on individual papers, and don’t comment on every possible aspect, but instead what I think are the next steps the particular writer can master to improve, so writing improves incrementally. Perhaps that’s ingrained from my flute-playing days: I’ve read bits and pieces of gaining expertise in writing, with comparisons to the type of training a musician undergoes, and I know that it’s counterproductive to try and work on everything at once.

Of course, I don’t get around to implementing every suggestion I make to students in my own (critical) writing. But slowly comes to matter less—each paper I write there’s something that is becoming more ingrained, and my conscious attention can shift to a different factor. It generally takes 10 years—or longer—to gain mastery. (This is, in fact, a problem for wind players and singers. To reach maturity as a musician, you really do need that ten years. String players and pianists start at a very early age, but you can’t really start serious lessons on wind instruments until later, because they are physically demanding in different ways—the breath required. Wind players will often graduate from a music degree only just beginning to reach a level of expertise—or still not quite there—while string players are at a different level. This interests me a lot.) Oh, the point? I feel like I’ve really been focusing on what it takes to write a critical paper for no longer than 5 years—and I’m not sure I’ve been focussing truly for that long. I mean, I know I started at university over ten years ago (oh—realising that is… huge) but I was at sea when I started, and the feedback I got didn’t really help me figure out how to improve. I figured some things out for myself—but at the same time I’ve been reformulating my writing since I’ve been in America.

So, tutoring has been keeping me busy. Thinking about writing has been keeping me busy. Wordsworth and Coleridge have been keeping me busy—sadly it’s started to turn cold, and, today, wet, which means soon I’ll be giving up my canal-side position. I wonder where my new reading spot will be?

I feel like my thesis has been a little on the backburner in the past fortnight. I managed to sit down on Thursday morning—there were no clients in the writing center—and get some writing done towards my thesis. I want to finish the analysis of the poem I’m looking at soon—today? I can dream… maybe it will become a reality. I also have a paper to write for Monday: I have to choose three lines of a poem and write an analysis of them, between 600 and 1000 words. And that will happen today. Writing about poems takes time, but it is also joyful. I feel like reading Helen Vendler’s book Poets Thinking has helped me think about a particular way to write on poems. I learned a few things about writing from her. Good stuff!

I’ve also started to be a research/general assistant with the other hours I’m allowed to be employed by Georgetown University. This has been great—at present I’m organising a research library. It’s actually a really good workout—running up and down a stepladder with piles of books, especially when I have to reach up to the top shelf. The day after my first shelving marathon my lats were sore… it was so nice! And a good excuse to settle into a lavender flavoured bath with a copy of Vogue.

As if all that weren’t enough, there’ve been poets in town. Ilya Kaminsky came to Carolyn’s class on Wednesday, and I got to chat with him before and after class. Marvellous! He is a joyful poet, and a joyful presence. He gave me some recommendations—I love getting recommendations!—and quizzed me on who to read from Australia. (I threw in a few New Zealanders for good measure…)

And then! And then! Thursday night Adam Zagajewski read at Georgetown. Now, some people may remember the day, several years ago, that I pulled Tremor out of the Melbourne University and started reading it. The result? Well, I accosted more than one person and made them listen to or read certain poems. I went home and wrote certain poems, including “Testimony.” Then when I found books of his essays, and Without End in bookshops I immediately bought them. The days I walked into Readings and swore to myself that I just couldn’t buy any books today… that I couldn’t afford it. But whenever I found Zagajewski’s work I was scared I wouldn’t see it in Australia again. Though I suspect it’s getting to be more and more available. So—meeting him. Hearing him speak. Listening to him read. And talking to him about music—about Shostakovich and about Messiaen. About Chopin and about Mahler. About Lutosławski and about Pärt. It made me crave music!

If you haven’t read his work, please, please do. Here are a few quotes from his talk at the Lannan reading on Thursday night:


"A dissenter is someone who knows the answer—and more and more I felt that to write poetry was to know nothing."


"I think poetry is an instrument that measures the world. An instrument is a scale—but there is no knowledge built into the instrument."


"I think we survive as poets thanks to a system of illusions. We do something, and we think we do something else. And my illusion is a search for radiance."


"The border between poetry of dissent and questioning poetry is not very thick, and I think there is probably always something dissenting about poetry.

"Poetry by definition is a dissent—because it is read by few, written by few, with high standards. It’s elitist, but elitist in the least exclusive sense, in that it doesn’t cost any money. It’s a very democratic elite."

Apparently the email about the writing workshops I’m holding for Liberal Studies students at Georgetown went out yesterday—this morning I had five people register for workshops. Wonderful! So that’s great. It’s all about people taking advantage of these opportunities, and it will give me a little bit more teaching experience.

In the mean time I’ve been scribbling toward this response to “The Idiot Boy”—I feel very sluggish in my writing at the moment. Damn it! Or perhaps its just that I’ve only been blog-writing and poem-writing for so long that I’m out of practice when it comes to sharp analysis, rather than “hey, I’m thinking this” or “here-is-a-hopefully-startling/apt-metaphor” writing. Hey, I’m a grad student again!

That said, I should now turn my attention to “The Idiot Boy.” At least I’ve got my Baked & Wired coffee to get… well… wired. (Doesn’t this look enticing? Jacob Grier is responsible for this photo.)

As usual I’m feeling insanely busy. I also think I’m probably not managing my time as well as I could be—should be. But I got through some tutoring, some reading, some scribbling of notes today. Got through some knitting. Thought about of Anne Carson’s work. Started to think about Wordsworth again, after two days off—and at the moment, taking two days off from Wordsworth feels almost like a crime.

But I did enlighten the ducks of the C & O Canal last weekend when I saw canal-side and read the whole of Lyrical Ballads aloud to them. (I’m glad I have a segment of the canal near me that I really don’t have to share with anyone but the occasional dog and its owner, and the ducks.)

Tutoring at the Writing Center has been really busy—today was the first shift where I’ve had a breather. Read about Hegel for a while after I saw my client. While the Writing Center was quiet, I had two students come in to see me while I was tutoring (as a volunteer) at Duke Ellington this morning—it’s nice that those students are starting to take advantage of the tutoring service.

I have to write a short paper on a poem from Lyrical Ballads in the next few days—I want to get a draft of the thing done tomorrow morning, so that I can go through my ideas of the next few days. I’m mostly likely going to write on “The Idiot Boy”—there are things that interest me in it, though also things that don’t work for me. I’m giving a presentation in class next week on “Tintern Abbey” too.

Last week I was quite social—in between doing an intense amount of reading I went to see the Shakespeare Theatre Company production of Romeo and Juliet with my friend C, and two of his friends. Thursday I went to a great launch at the Library of Congress—short and sweet speeches, a few good poems, and a couple that were wonderful. Discovered the work of Sinead Morrisey. I can't wait to read more. Friday I decided not to go dancing at the last minute, and instead stayed in. But then it was back out on Saturday night—after reading all day I ended up at a friend-of-a-friend’s party. Dancing, handstands, talking with fabulous people and general fun ensued.

And I’ve been thinking and thinking that soon I will get to writing some poems. It hasn’t happened yet, but I have high hopes. I have ideas—both reading Wordsworth and Coleridge, and all the poets for Carolyn’s class on Poetry of Witness, and any extra poetry I happen to be able to stuff into my days.

It’s been so long since I wrote a response paper that I’m feeling really nervous! I know I’ve done a lot of other writing, but my ideas seem so chaotic at the moment. also went through some days of panicking about my thesis last week—and then dreamed that Michael Ondaatje emailed me some ideas for it. Odd. I guess I really am going insane: as happens to grad students.

I feel like I’m juggling blogs—I started to get into my research blog… which is fun. It’s thinking out loud (how’s that different from here, you ask?) about the boring parts of my study that only very select nerds are interested in… so select that hardly anyone in the English department has looked at it! But I made it pretty.

And after a week or so without independence days to worry about, there’s a sudden barrage of them coming up.

Tonight I’m meant to be starting a series of workshops for the Liberal Studies students. I’m looking forward to them—but I don’t know if I got the word out soon enough for tonight’s workshop, so I don’t know if I should expect anyone to come. Oh dear. It’s supposed to be on “the conventions of academic writing”—to which I should could add (in the American context), since it’s so different for the British. Talk about re-learning. Old dog. New tricks. That’s me. Except, I’m not that old. 29 is the new black.

What’s not the new black? Well, at this stage, the bail out.

Oh my. As further evidence that a combination of work and world history have taken over my life, the Independence Day Project is about to overtake poor miss kate, underground or otherwise, in its number of postings.

I realise that there are a lot of countries and territories in the world, and September has been a busily Independent month… And July was just insane. I’ve just been realising how, being so busy suddenly (aftermath of illness?)

They’re trying to bring back a Galapagos tortoise from the dead. I don’t know how I feel about this—scientists thinks they can “tap into” this particular extinct Galapagos tortoise’s DNA from descendents, and recreate the original. Have these people read Jurassic Park? Okay, I do find it really interesting—and in truth I love turtles and tortoises, especially giant ones… But this makes me feel a little uneasy.

The election is starting to get to me. Sarah Palin is getting to me. (Her smugness in that interview with Charlie Gibson: Gibson, basically respectful; Palin, “oh, yes, Charlie; oh, no, Charlie; In what respect, Charlie?”—I know it’s his name, but I found this so, so forced.) And where is Biden? I’m hoping to go out to see a viewing of the first debate—and I spoke with a friend today about finding some bar full of politicos on 4 November to sit and watch the results coming in.

Wow. I’m already planning for 4 November.

Oh. 15 percent of meals eaten today in America are eaten in cars. I’m glad I don’t have a car.

My second birthday in DC. I have, of course, talked to my mum. And, since it’s my birthday (as well as Independence Day for Mali and Bulgaria), I’m trying to ignore the whole economic crisis thing going on. I mean, I know in some quarters people were feeling ye olde “cautious optimism” on Friday, but I’m just waiting for the next thing to fall apart. And I’ve been worried about global warming for 22 years. Wait, it’s my birthday. That’s a day off worry, right?

I read some Coleridge this morning that I really loved. It was exciting, as I thought I was in the Wordsworth and Coleridge class all for WW’s sake. No, it turns out I can be a sucker for Coleridge, and perhaps I will be.

I’ve just started a research blog for my thesis project. This means that I have basically become the queen of blogs in the English department. I don’t think that’s a cool thing—just a fact. Anyway, since it’s messy, it’s pretty much a closed blog. But if you’re interested I can register you to read it. Send your details on a piece of batter pudding… Oh wait, this isn’t The Goon Show (damn it!). Email me.

And I read a bunch of Nelly Sachs on the weekend. Wow. Also, a bunch of Brecht’s poetry. Obviously in translation as my super high school German skills from year 8 and 9 don’t reach to reading… well, anything—beyond “Hi, my name’s [insert name here] and I’m from Australia.” I can also say that I study geography, even though I don’t. It’s sort of like how I can say in Auslan (that’s Australian sign language for those not in the know… and yes, Australian sign is different from American) “I have a duck.” Life skills.

So, I’m turning 29. What’s happening? Well, there’s been some nice news on the poetry front. My book will come out sometime next year, I’ll have a piece in Best Australian Poems and there’s another anthology that wants me to send some work. I also had an odd dream about a journal I could submit poetry to. I wonder if it exists. Maybe I could dream it into existence, just like, apparently, people in ancient Greece could go to a certain temple to dream their own cures.

I have to get into Serious Attention to School mode. With a side serve of Serious Attention to Writing. Any day now. Life keeps being unexpectedly busy.

I feel like it’s been quite a week, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I’ve been doing quite a lot of stuff—but I think I’ve also had quite a bit of down time. Knitting, admiring Luke Perry, sitting on the floor… But today I did some proper reading, and started to make lists in my head about the sorts of things I need to get done. And whoa! Do I need to get things done.

Yesterday, though, I had a bit of a time out from all the university stuff. My friend Marie works for a senator, and she took me on a tour of the Capitol. Now for some reason I thought it would be a drama for me even to get in, but no—no passports, fingerprints, background check… Just the normal walk through a metal detector while we scan your bag.

The tour was pretty interesting—especially since we cut through lots of little corridors and underground passages and things. I’m more interested in the unglamorous shortcuts, I guess. I got all sorts of things—and asked some probably strange questions. I wondered how many of the statues in the building featured people in Confederate uniforms (thanks to my father and our recent civil war tours…) and when Marie pointed out a chandelier and told me that before it was at the Capitol it had been in a church and a theatre, I found myself wondering what denomination the church was—I mean, it’s in a pretty central room (if I remember rightly, next to THE central room) so I think it’s significant. Marie didn’t know, but her husband thinks it’s an ex-Methodist chandelier that has pride of place.

Also, when I saw the place where presidents lie in state, there was a list next to it of the presidents who had lain in that very place. Alongside the presidents, there were unknown soldiers: obviously one from World War I at the end of the war, similarly one from Vietnam at the end of that war. But also—1958, Unknown Soldier World War II and Korean War. This puzzled me—if it was one soldier, well—he was unknown, so how could you know he was in two conflicts? If it was two soldiers, what state was the World War II soldier in in 1958? And why would you wait until 1958 to decide to give an WWII Unknown Soldier lying in state status?

I also so the room of the first supreme court. It kind of gave me chills. And the room that is featured in Mr Smith Goes to Washington.

When I noticed the number of Barack Obama’s senate office, I walked by it. Marie told me one of her friends had gone in and talked to them—they gave her a signed photograph. Now I didn’t go into that office, but the idea was rolling around my head. We “cruised” a couple of other senate offices (and I saw what had been JFK’s office) and then I decided to be brave—or just get over how daggy it was—and get a couple of signed senator photographs. I started with Ted Kennedy, and since that went smoothly, I got John Kerry to. Then I thought, “hey! I could get a Democratic Convention set!” I stopped in at Hillary Clinton’s office, but they’d run out. They said I could go to the website, put in the details and they’d send it to me—but I guess I have a short attention span. Now I’m kind of over the idea. Still, I’m pretty pleased with my Kennedy-Kerry duo.

Oh, and can I just say that Sarah Palin makes me angry? So, so angry.

Spoke to my mum this evening—wonderful! I love speaking to my mum. I’m a mama’s girl.

I’m still on my alarming 90210 kick. So I’ll just say Donna Martin Graduates!

Squash it.

My first experience of a tropical storm today… though I suppose I didn’t experience it much. It was warm and a little humid, and I popped on my yellow gumboots (or, as they call them here, galoshes) and went to Baked and Wired. I intended to do a lot of work there, but instead found myself chatting to the crew for—well, I’m ashamed of how long I chatted to the crew. Long enough to get given a small cup of mocha free after my two coffees were long gone…

But I started drawing ideas about my thesis on the big piece of brown paper I’ve stuck on my wall to map my thoughts. I did some knitting. I looked at photographs taken during the Russian invasion of Prague in 1968. I jumped in a couple of puddles.

Which is to say, I’ve had a relaxing, yet not entirely unproductive, day. And I’m still going. About to read a little poetry (Coleridge… and potentially Wordsworth if I get to both) and maybe write a letter (I’m very behind on my correspondence. I blame Luke Perry.) I’m sure there are social things that I could and should be out doing, but after the last couple of weeks it’s honestly such a pleasure to hole up at home on a Saturday night. Knitting, listening to podcasts, eating porridge or somesuch treat… there’s really no bad.

For now, I’m out of doctor’s offices for a while. That’s going to be nice—another follow up in three months, but that’s pretty much it. Cyst was benign—there was really very little chance it wasn’t going to be—and I got to see some good photos of my insides. My liver looks healthy, but the photo also made it look like it has teeth. Hopefully at some point I will have these photos to put on the blog. Which I imagine might not be a big hit, but… they’re my insides, people! Sibley Hospital accidentally put two sets of photos in my file at the hospital instead of giving me the spare set like they were supposed to. I wonder if this is how the civil war general who constantly visited his own leg bone in Washington felt?

So, fingers crossed that I’m going to have a lot less drama in the coming months.

I’ve been rereading The Beauty of the Husband and starting to make notes and bibliographies for myself. I’ve got some other reading to get done for Monday—in fact, Monday is going to be a very busy day this semester. Thinking of trying to get out to some of DCs free stuff this coming week, and I’ll be going to see the Silver Jews play next week. I’m also hoping to see Juliana Hatfield on Tuesday—I’ve loved her, in probably far too dorky and devoted a way, for nearly a decade now… Without counting my love for her My So-Called Life so-called angel appearance.

Oh, and I’ve watched a truly shameful amount of old-school 90210 lately. You know what? I choose me. (Jeremy Jordan—alright!)

So I’ve been underground for a while. It’s been a fairly overwhelming month—finishing up teaching, going straight into ER visits, painkillers, surgery. My wonderful parents being in town, and then all of us going out of town the moment I was well enough, and then the day after getting back, straight back into the university life, with the welcome party for the next academic year, and meeting with Carolyn (Forché) who will be my thesis advisor over the next year, as well as attending her undergraduate class on the poetry of witness.

I guess I got a little down when I was sick—I felt drained at the end of teaching (full of self-doubt as to whether my students felt that they had learned, and whether I am, in fact, a capable teacher) and had wanted the couple of weeks before semester to relax, do some reading, prepare myself emotionally for the final year of this particular degree… (I feel like I’m going to be endlessly juggling degrees, though I hope sometime my place will become more obvious.)

What’s actually been nice in the past few days to take my mind off that slight depression has been helping out a friend. Having someone to check up on regularly. Also, knitting helps. Television does not.

So I’ve been starting to think out my Anne Carson project. An initial discussion with Carolyn yesterday has had me thinking through some ways to focus, which has made me happy. I will get there in the end. I have some Wordsworth and Coleridge to read too… No shortage of things to do!

I feel like I’m going to get some writing done sometime—sometime. I’m going to try to have at least a day off each week, and to try to get some writing bits and pieces done as well. Try. Who knows if that will ever happen…

Tomorrow I’ll sign up for my writing center hours—and hopefully it won’t take too much longer to find out which Liberal Studies class I’m working with so I’ll have a real idea of what my schedule is going to be. And then I guess I’ll have to block out my study properly. I was so good about that in Melbourne last year. I feel like I haven’t been quite as good here, but I’m going to start working on it.

So I’ve been reading mostly poetry, and trying to get Independence Day Project bits and pieces written.

It’s sad that my parents are gone! It’s only three days since they left, but it has been feeling like an age.

Another quick update—I’m on odd hours, and yet more painkillers. Hopefully these will wear off in a few days and everything will return to normal as August draws to an end.

The surgery went well—sent home yesterday, and have spent most of the past 36 hours sleeping. When I wasn’t sleeping, I read Siri Hustvedt’s The Sorrows of an American—finally. For some reason I hadn’t got to it earlier. Had started it, and then found it wasn’t the right time. In this slightly otherworldishness of post-surgery it seems to have been the right time. I felt very calm as I read it.

I have three punctures in my belly. When I get up I have to hold my belly with my hands. I can feel my navel, which upsets me, and when I got to sit up, I sometimes feel like my insides will tumble out. Obviously this is all the result of my strange head, but—. So I hold onto my stomach.

It feels a little unreal. My parents are here—wonderful! Unfortunately the holiday as it was planned has ruptured a little. Still, we should be out of DC for a day or two at least.

I’ve been lying low. There are people I want to talk to, people I want to see. Some of them I’ve spoken to, and some I haven’t quite called… I will get to it. But there are people I realise I haven’t seen for weeks, and getting in touch again after a gap—and it’s a strange gap, when there’s suddenly been this medical stuff—feels difficult. And, too, I get into that haze where I want to talk to the new people in my life. And, well, I’m somewhere in that tumble.

Class goes back very soon. I will probably be missing my first class still, but with any luck after that it should all be fine. Everything will suddenly be busy and word-filled.