Yesterday included a round at the White Oak Duckpin Lanes. Duckpin which would seem like an easier variation on classic bowling--three balls instead of two, lighter-weight pins--but it is actually far more difficult to get a strike. I've always been fond of it because I can hold my own against stronger-armed men, whereas in classic bowling I tire after only a few frames of throwing a 9-pound ball.
Hailey broke out a Hawaiian shirt ideally suited to the occasion, complete with sequined embroidery, which should have given her some kind of magical powers. But two poets and a novelist racked up a combined score of only...199. Ah well. I blame the fact that our beer supply was a mere watery pitcher of Yuengling; clearly, such athletic challenges require more potent lubrication.
On the upside, there's gotta be a poem embedded in a game whose vocabulary includes "strike," "spare," and "deadwood."
September 12, 2010
September 10, 2010
VIDA
I'm listening to Mazzy Star as I type this. So good. Hope Sandoval's voice = a bow being pulled, slowly, carefully, across the violin of a dream. She lent vocals to everyone from Air to Massive Attack to The Chemical Brothers to Jesus and Mary Chain, back in the day.
A few weeks ago I signed on to work with VIDA: Women in Literary Arts (formerly WILLA), which is run by the indefatigable duo of poets Cate Marvin and Erin Belieu. I will be one of several "sheriffs" of a new blog, "Her Kind," which will be launched in October. The goal of the blog will be to pair writers (ideally from different genres and cultures) for the purpose of moderated dialogues--probably 10 days to two weeks in length--over major issues facing women today. One of the inspiring features for "Her Kind" can be found here (a conversation between Erin and Cate hosted by She Writes, another vital community-building site for women writers).
I'm a little terrified of taking on a new project right now. But as someone who has reaped the benefits of programs and institutions striving to empower women--it is the Barnard Women Poets Prize, after all--it's my responsibility to give back. And it helps when you admire your new colleagues. Just reading Erin's fierce and illuminating essay, "Full Disclosure: I Was A Teenage Poetry Bride," reminds me of the importance of speaking out/up for the generations that will come after us.
Interested in finding out more? Check out VIDA's brand-spankin' new website, or this essay, posted over at Slate, which ties into a VIDA project called "The Count." "The Count" evaluates statistical evidence for what otherwise might be dismissed as generalizations--or even fear-mongering--about gender disparities in publishing. I there wasn't so much data to be gathered, but the numbers are (sigh) a bit damning. Between June 2008 and August 2010, of 101 books that received The New York Times' one-two punch (review in both the daily edition and the Sunday Book Review section), 71% were written by men. 71%!
I'm a little terrified of taking on a new project right now. But as someone who has reaped the benefits of programs and institutions striving to empower women--it is the Barnard Women Poets Prize, after all--it's my responsibility to give back. And it helps when you admire your new colleagues. Just reading Erin's fierce and illuminating essay, "Full Disclosure: I Was A Teenage Poetry Bride," reminds me of the importance of speaking out/up for the generations that will come after us.
Interested in finding out more? Check out VIDA's brand-spankin' new website, or this essay, posted over at Slate, which ties into a VIDA project called "The Count." "The Count" evaluates statistical evidence for what otherwise might be dismissed as generalizations--or even fear-mongering--about gender disparities in publishing. I there wasn't so much data to be gathered, but the numbers are (sigh) a bit damning. Between June 2008 and August 2010, of 101 books that received The New York Times' one-two punch (review in both the daily edition and the Sunday Book Review section), 71% were written by men. 71%!
September 08, 2010
Flights of Fancy
Thanks to the National Endowment for the Arts, Virginia Center for Creative Arts is offering two special residency opportunities right now. One is for those of "Limited Economic Means," and one of those is for those of "Minority Ethnic Heritage." All the usual amenities, but absolutely no pressure for a daily contribution--in fact, a $200 stipend. There are four slots for each category, and the deadline is September 15. Apply, apply, apply! VCCA will change your life.
On the schedule for today: working on edits to the memoir (due back to Crown this week, ooof), showing a friend around town--the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the National Portrait Gallery--and then meeting with another friend at Teaism to get his report from Bread Loaf.
Then...Big Boi at the 9:30 Club. I was browsing through the new album on iTunes, really liked "Night Night' and "Daddy Fat Sax," the tickets were cheap and still available and...well, why the hell not?
This kicks me back to college days, when I was part of a literary and debating society at the University of Virginia. One semester I was charged with coaching a class of probationaries into regular membership (yes, really: I was their pledgemaster). That meant encouraging them to confirm to all kinds of arbitrary rules of protocol, all of which they knew I abhorred, all of which were rules they were forever breaking. At parties when Outkast's "Ms. Jackson" came on, they would surround me and sing "I'm sorry Miss Beasley--"
You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can't predict the weather.
On the schedule for today: working on edits to the memoir (due back to Crown this week, ooof), showing a friend around town--the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the National Portrait Gallery--and then meeting with another friend at Teaism to get his report from Bread Loaf.
Then...Big Boi at the 9:30 Club. I was browsing through the new album on iTunes, really liked "Night Night' and "Daddy Fat Sax," the tickets were cheap and still available and...well, why the hell not?
This kicks me back to college days, when I was part of a literary and debating society at the University of Virginia. One semester I was charged with coaching a class of probationaries into regular membership (yes, really: I was their pledgemaster). That meant encouraging them to confirm to all kinds of arbitrary rules of protocol, all of which they knew I abhorred, all of which were rules they were forever breaking. At parties when Outkast's "Ms. Jackson" came on, they would surround me and sing "I'm sorry Miss Beasley--"
You can plan a pretty picnic, but you can't predict the weather.
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