kate greenstreet
kate at kickingwind dot com
about
some poems online
scheduled readings
case sensitive: get it here
January 2006
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eod current
eod archives
first-book & other interviews: here
blogs:
537neon
ada limon
almost i rushed from home...
a. lobster
adam clay
amy king's blog
anachronizms
andrea baker
a peek of reach
a poet's eyes
a sad day for sad birds
asthma chronicles
a tonalist notes
avoiding the muse
awfully serious
aye, wobot!
bachelardette
bemsha swing
big window
black and white
the blind chatelaine's poker poetics
bloggedy blog blog
blonde on blonde
boarding parties
bob marcacci
books, inq.
both both
brandon brown
brazier & inkstone
the burning chair
caconrad
cahiers de corey
can of corn
caterina.net
catherine daly's blog
charles bernstein's weblog
chaxblog
chicago postmodern poetry
chicana poetics
chicks dig poetry
clay matthews
conchology
croissant factory
cosmopoetica/cpb
coursing public thought
critical fiction
cruelest month
culture industry
da-crouton
dagzine
dbqp: visualizing poetics
the delay
desert city
the dishwasher's tears
DIY poetics
DIY publishing
do gummi bears dream...
dumbfoundry
elsewhere
epistle whipped
equanimity
esther press
e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e-v-a-l-u-e-s
the exquisite corpse
eyeball hatred
fait accompli
fewer & further
flowers that gloze
frank sherlock
fringe matters
geneva convention
ghostbrain
hammer loop
harlequin knights
heatstrings
here comes everybody
heuriskein
hg poetics
home-schooled by a cackling jackal
hounds of no
hum and ash
humanophone
hyacinth losers
i am yer grammer
i'll show you mine
immoweth
imprimatur
the ingredient
in place of chairs
iron caisson
ironstone whirlygig
isola di rifiuti
ivy is here
jacob's ladder
jane dark's sugarhigh!
jeannine blogs
jewishyirishy
jim behrle
kaya oakes
kinemapoetics
largehearted boy
lemon hound
lisablog
lime tree
litbyfire
little red's recovery room
lit up like the blood of a centerfold
litwindowpane
looktouchblog
lorcaloca
lorna dee cervantes
the lovely arc
lutheran surrealism
mappemunde
maximum go...
micawberesque
michelle detorie
million poems
minimalist concrete poetry
minor american
modern americans
morescotch
mr. tong bliss' journal
muisti kirja
my maserati
narcissusworks
the neglectorino project
never mind the beasts
nice guy syndrome
nikuko
noah eli gordon
nomadics
notes from a fellow traveler
nothing to say and saying it
now then
odalisqued
open reader
overlap
paul hoover's blog
the pangrammaticon
pantaloons: tykes on poetry
peek thru the pines
philly sound
plight of the troubadour
poetaensanfrancisco
poetry hut
poesy galore
poets' corner
postcards from the imagination
postmodern collage poetry
pseudopodium
pshares blog
pudgy pigeon enterprises
pugnacious pinoy
qbdp: the mailartworks
radish king
reader of depressing books
red slowly
reli[e]able signs
riverfall
rob mclennan's blog
rocket kids
rue hazard
said like reeds or things
saintelizabethstreet
samizdat blog
sam of the ten thousand things
say something wonderful
secret mint
serif of nottingham
shanna compton's blog
shikow
silliman's blog
slicker chumway's
snapper's effing junk(boat)heap
so and so series
spooks by me
stamped & metered flying fish
starnosedmole
steve's house of love
the steinach operation
swoonrocket
texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they?
third factory/notes/lipstick of noise
this is all your fault
this morning in poetry
tom raworth's notes
transsubmutation
twenty thousand thousand
ululations
understory
union square poetry series
the unquiet grave
venepoetics
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
we've been talked down
whimsy speaks
whirligig
wild horses of fire
wood s lot
the word cage
the world a letter
yes, starlings! yes!
you are here
ysleta poeta
zach barocas
<[[[[[[-[[[[0{:}0]]]]-]]]]]]>
.oar.
journals/small press/reviews:
1913
6 X 6
action yes
alice blue
apocryphaltext
barrow street
belladonna books
big game
bird dog
blazevox
black lodge press
black ocean press
boog city
bookforum
bookslut
braincase press
the brooklyn rail
calamari press
the canary
cannibal
carve
chax press
circumference
coconut
coldfront magazine
conduit
the constant critic
cue
the cultural society
cutbank
cy gist press
cy press
diagram
the duplications
dusie
effing press
eoagh
fascicle
faux press e chapbooks
fewer & further press
frame
free verse
frequency
galatea resurrects
gong press
gutcult
half empty/half full
hot whiskey press
jacket
h_ngm_n
the happy booker
the hat
hooke press
horse less press
house press
how2/barbara guest memory bank
jacket
katalanche press
kitchen press
konundrum engine
kulture vulture
la petite zine
lit
melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks
milk
mipoesias
new pages
no
no tell motel
octopus
octopusbooks
onedit
outside voices
the page
parakeet
pettycoat relaxer
poetry 365
the poker
portable press at yo-yo labs
practice: new writing + art
rain taxi
realpoetik
rhino
rhubarb is susan
rose metal press
rust buckle
saint elizabeth street
shampoo
skanky possum
sleepingfish
sona books
spell
the tiny
tool a magazine
three candles
transmission press
typo
ugly duckling presse
unpleasant event schedule
vert
wintered press
wire sandwich
womb
word for/word
xantippe
zafusy
audio/radio/video:
AudibleWord.Org
Factory School audio archives
Kelly Writers House webcasts
Laurable
LINEbreak
miPOradio
my vocabulary
Naropa archives
PENNsound
UbuWeb
14 JAN 06
Now we'll decide who comes from where.
Joan Didion is someone I read obsessively in my twenties and early thirties. I hadn't yet given up the idea of becoming a writer. I've never had a mentor, but her essays in particular had a strong teaching influence. They always stirred in me the desire to write and the weird belief that maybe I could, something akin to how listening to John Wesley Harding (the Dylan album) always makes me think I could write songs.
I approached The Year of Magical Thinking with caution. I'd been moved by what Steve Evans said about reading it--I felt a similar panic would arise in me. But I was already sad, sick too, when the book showed up in my mailbox.
"Do you always have to be right? He had said that." I identified, despite the big differences between our styles of living, with Didion's descriptions of her marriage ("we were each the person the other trusted")--& because I related so much to its round-the-clock togetherness, was especially struck by allusions to its difficulties and by what she seemed to feel, later, that she hadn't seen or seen to. (That old saw? Not in her hands.)
Certain scenes from the book keep coming back to me. For instance: she is under contract to begin a column for Life magazine. Life's idea for the first column is that she introduce herself, "let the readers know who you are." She plans to write it from Honolulu, where she and her husband and three-year-old daughter are when news of the My Lai massacre breaks. "It seemed to me that given this news I should write it from Saigon." It's a Sunday. She calls her editor, his wife says he will have to call her back.
"He's watching the NFL game," John said when I hung up. "He'll call you at halftime." . . . I wrote the column letting the readers know who I was. It appeared. At the time it seemed an unexceptional enough eight hundred words in the assigned genre, but there was, at the end of the second paragraph, a line so out of synch with the entire Life mode of self-presentation that it might as well have suggested abduction by space aliens: "We are here on this island in the middle of the Pacific in lieu of filing for divorce." A week later we happened to be in New York. "Did you know she was writing it," many people asked John, sotto voce. --Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking |
I got off the bus. I stood and watched it travel down the street, stop, turn left at the blinking stoplight. No one anywhere. A seagull. This is it, I thought. I picked up my suitcase. (Detectives are either alone or part of a team.)
It's been a bleak holiday season with/in my family. Doleful is the word that kept coming to mind. "Forlorn! the very word is like a bell"--but I thought forlorn was not exactly right, so I looked it up & found for the phrase "forlorn hope": "originally denoted a band of soldiers picked to begin an attack, many of whom would not survive; the current sense (mid 17th cent.) derives from a misunderstanding of the etymology."
In forlorn hope, some people in the family read the book on suicide. It was on his kitchen table. I finally read The Year of Magical Thinking. Managed to meet necessary deadlines. Fell further behind in correspondence (in both senses). Mostly I've been sick, twice since Thanksgiving, just now getting over my last weeks-long bout with the flu. Influenza, from influence: "the power of persons or things to produce effects on others by intangible or indirect means."
I wasn't strong enough to ward off the influence. After a while, you can start to feel that it will just be this way from now on. The line, maybe from a George Jones song, "I've aged twenty years in five" comes to mind. (This must be a list of visitors to my mind.)
"I don't know if you've noticed, but the family is shrinking." Right before the funeral, one of us slipped and broke his leg. "Many sitting in darkness." Some people in the family believe in things that they want the rest of us to believe too. Could be found in books. "Everything was there to teach us." Of suicides, only 15% leave a note. (Learned from a book.)
"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to this family." Yet somehow those of us who had quit didn't start to smoke again. The ones who really can't didn't drink or get high, though the subject was "on the table" a few times. A wooden chair was smashed in anger, but that was later. Its leg broken, this time unfixable. No rewind.
Stuff about our childhood and adolescence came up with my brothers--more than usual, I thought. Or maybe it was just that some of it was about me. Dancing with my friends to records in the basement back in Yonkers. And I remembered sitting on the swings with a neighbor girl, singing the new songs, talking about what the words might be. Not yet ten.
"Music--that's all we cared about then." "I think art, as we knew it, was just designed to get us through our twenties. After that, you're on your own."
Like any artist, I'm looking for something. Consistently. Devotedly. I look for signs as if they were signs, it's a habit.
believed to be a rock or ball of something fallen from the sky.
. . .
My biggest problem as a boxer, and what separates good from great--it's really not ability as much as it is mental confidence. If somebody goes out there--well, the way I compare me and Duran, when Duran was walking through the ring, he was licking his lips. When I walked in the ring, I was shitting my pants.
And that's the difference, because even though I became a pretty good fighter, I never had the confidence that you have to have to be great. The secret to being great at anything is being able to relax under extreme pressure. . . You've got to be willing to relax where most people would feel stress. (Paul Thorn)
2 JAN 06
We join the new year already in progress.
During the performance, I operated a video cue card system that provided the actors with their librettos via monitors on stage. Because the actors were all speaking simultaneously but not together, it was often difficult to determine where they were. . .
sometimes I missed my cue to change to the next card that would contain the next section of text. In these instances, Bob, playing the role of The Narrator, would yell, "Change!" as if it were part of the libretto. *
. . . . . . . .
