Nostalgia

Apparently, NBC has canceled the original Law & Order, one season shy of its opportunity to break Gunsmoke's record. Law & Order kept me company during many an all-nighter over the years; frequently, it is the only coherent television to be found after 1 AM. During one summer at William & Mary, it took over our daytime hours as well. That and the animated Spiderman.

I know it sounds goofy, but I can mark eras of life according to the respective reigns Chris Noth, Jerry Orbach, Benjamin Bratt, and Carolyn McCormick as Dr. Elizabeth Olivet (not to mention the ongoing yeoman's work of Sam Waterston, S. Epatha Markson, and Steven Hill). The drug-driven death of Detective Briscoe's daughter? Broke my heart, damn it. Who didn't watch that show and 1) not dream of being part of the justice system 2) come away with a better understanding of narrative arc? Duh duh duh. 

I'd mourn it more, if I didn't have faith that TNT will provide many years of viewing to come.

Apropos of nothing, I've been thinking about my favorite childhood games: Candy Land, Mouse Trap, Battleship. Yahtzee. I liked the ones where chance trumped strategy. The ones I hated? Monopoly. Risk. What about you?

In the last 48 hours, I went from having no commitment to next year's AWP programming to being listed on a panel, listed on a reading, and proposing a panel myself. I'm excited about the variety in theme (one on using pop culture in literature; one in celebration of poetry; one talking about how a writer moves from recognizing the material of a memoir to writing the damn thing). Fingers crossed that a couple get approved.

That said, I remember the stress of being involved in just one event, when I ran a panel called "Breaking Lines on the Battlefield: The Poetry of Wartime" the the 2008 AWP. Ah, well--in the year when AWP comes to my hometown, it seems like my job to get in over my head. Short of perhaps Susan Shreve, I believe I live closer to the conference hotels than any other participating writer. Eeek! I fully expect you all to be crashing at my place.

Life! At 60 MPH

Having sent off 141 pages on Friday morning (a mix of new and revised work), I decided to let myself enjoy the weekend. Friday included the ceremony for the Larry Neal Writers' Awards, then a friend's amazing party. The guest list featured folks from DC's art and journalism scene, and her menu had a Cuban theme--pulled pork, rice and beans, fried plantains, and fresh mojitos. I didn't get home until 3 AM.


On Saturday, a group of old high school friends made an unexpectedly adventurous daytrip to Annapolis for a two-hour sail on the Schooner Woodwind--yes, the boat they used in Wedding Crashers. The sky didn't have a cloud to be seen, but the wind was so rough that at times we found ourselves bracing our feet against the side of the boat and looking straight down into the water. The girls were a little harried (one friend, celebrating her 30th birthday, treated herself to a glass of sauvignon blanc--only to have most of it splashed up into her face). But I suspect the guys preferred it to two hours of placid sunbathing. I have to admit, it made me feel like I had done something in going out on the water, even if that something was merely hanging on for dear life.


On Sunday I took my mother to a Mother's Day reception at the Torpedo Factory Art Center. One of their current exhibits is called "In the Genes," and it juxtaposes the studio regulars alongside art by their immediate family. Afterwards, way too much Thai food, then coffee as we listened to the September 2009 recording of Barbra Streisand's show at the Village Vanguard. I couldn't have asked for a more relaxing time.


By this morning, the truce with my to-do list had evaporated. Workmen pounded on my door at 8:30 AM, arriving with caulk and paint to repair a balcony/ceiling leak.  The lilies in my dining room have that too-sweet smell of having wilted. The house is dirty. Back to work.


*

My friend Stephen Prothero's book, God Is Not One: The Eight Rival Religions That Run the World--and Why Their Differences Matter, is a very smart look at why smoothing out the differences between religious systems in pursuit of "harmony" is a dangerous fallacy. He uses the analogy of dating: we don't connect by convincing ourselves that we're exactly the same. We forge connections in understanding and appreciation of our differences. If you're like me--intrigued but relatively uninformed--the book doubles as a useful primer on comparative world religions. Today, over at Publisher's Weekly Stephen talks about the pressure to assemble a book trailer. Check out his efforts on YouTube, and judge for yourself.


*


I Was the Jukebox has been getting some love around the web, which is deeply appreciated. Brian Spears, who happens to be the Poetry Editor at The Rumpus, wrote this on his blog:

I finished Sandra Beasley’s latest, i was the jukebox (don’t know whether to capitalize it or not), and I am in awe of it. Not that I want to ape the style or the voice, not that I look at it and think “I will never do what she does as well as she does”–just pure awe. It’s not what I do, and it’s not what I want to do, but damn, do I want to read it again. It’s easily one of the best collections I’ve read this year so far. Now I just need someone to offer to review it for The Rumpus for me.

Um, about that last line...yes. Yes! Can somebody help this man out? (Honestly, I'm way too dorky to ever appear in The Rumpus. But a girl can dream.)


And in the "Dear Reader" newsletter distributed by Square Books, Richard Howorth--bookstore owner, not to mention former mayor of Oxford--wrote the following:

I have an economic theory of poetry: a truly exceptional line or phrase that takes your mind someplace interesting is worth at least a couple of dollars; so, if there are ten such lines in a book of poetry, it’s about worth what you paid for it.*** By this theory, the value of I Was The Jukebox is more than ten times its cost because there are several remarkable lines and ideas in virtually every poem in the book. ... Sandra Beasley’s poems combine the surprise and revelation of history and ideas with a vivid, artistic imagination of language—separate forms that constantly collide and unite, often sending the reader into a euphoric, luxurious dream-state.

*** Best justification of poetry books' terrible ration of pages/price that I have ever seen.

Over at Best American Poetry: Sestinas

Sometimes you get really lucky--your rockstar baking friends dedicate typewriter fondant in your name. Thanks, Meaghan! (That's her image, to the left, (c) Meaghan Mountford.)

Over at Best American Poetry, I am talking about sestinas. 

Sestina: a 12th-century form invented the the troubadours, particularly Provençal poet Arnaut Daniel. A form whose acrobatics declare Look at me. If I weren't a Real Poet--worthy of patronage--could I write this?

Sestina: jigsaw puzzle. Obsession. Bee in the bonnet. Bugaboo.

Read the entire post here.