Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Snake Oil

I've been totally absent around the wastelands lately, and I'm terribly sorry. I have been writing furiously for the past few days while fighting off airborne fiction-killing bugs like the This Totally Sucks bug and the Fiction is Pointless bug and the I'm Not Inspired bug.

Thank goodnesss for the Poetry Foundation, also known as the new DayQuil.

Tonight I met my future husband saw Raul Zurita read, and afterward I went up to him—he doesn't speak a word of English—and said, in English, oops, “Your poems are so beautiful,” and he smiled at me and took my arm and held it for, I'm not kidding, like two or three minutes. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HE LOVES ME!


Being this close to true greatness—and let's be honest, during the entire reading I was thinking to myself, “This is practically like hearing Neruda read,” (sexy Chilean revolutionary poet of the people? Check!)--was exactly the shot of inspiration I need. I feel so happy! Poetry is alive. No, I am not a poet. I'm just a girl, creeping on a poet, asking him to remember her next time she sees him which will hopefully be on the beach looking windblown and flushed and wrapped in my Paris Review towel with Lorin Stein on my arm. Don't worry, Raul, I'd leave him for you in a heartbeat. ENOUGH LITERATTI REFERENCES FOR YOU YET?

PS: When was the last time you were tortured for your art? North American writers are so blase and boring and overprivileged sometimes, Jonathan Franzen.

1 comment:

  1. I appreciate that Jonathan Franzen did not get a tag...

    Also, #thelasttimeIwastorturedformyart is when Louise Glück and Frank Bidart spat on me just outside of a swanky, secretive Cambridge moonshine joint...


You are truly great.