I read a short story in the Brooklyn Review on the way home from NY, on a claustrophobic propeller plane, about a plague. Then last night, quite appropriately, I dreamed of a plague that took us by shuttles to quarantined hotels, and I was screaming at mother and father for somehow losing three key members in the "family" (all of whom were my good friends). Before the plague, the narrative of my dream was set in sweaty parlors with stand-alone beds and swaggering young men. I think someone was out to kill me, so I was playing hide and go seek while managing multiple lovesex affairs by broken stairs. Before I fell into dreams, I was thinking about mountains and seas with the boy in my arms, he smells like fabric softener and brightness and I murmur "thank you... thank you... thank you." I don't do poets, but I've loved Rob Herrick ever since "Upon Julia's Clothes." In Baker's class we're moving onto Love/Erotic poetry, and I want to chortle at him to explain why I haven't been the most studious example. Dear professor, I'm too busy living the poetry.
Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
Lately, I've been thinking about the landscape of oceans and seas, of lakes and ponds, of mountains and hills, and grasslands and plains, looking out with eagle's eyes from plateaus and monuments, on this earth I proclaim, that I would love to reclaim the soil, the dirt, the earth, to swallow the breeze and feel the trickle of a stream. Once upon a time, all I loved was music, stars, and the mountainseas. Today, I dream of kisses from lovers and heartfelt words from people. PEOPLEMOUNTAINSEA.
Ham Lam says I'm whimsical. Still, I intend to rule the world, the way Sasha and I dreamed it on a roof six years ago. The writers' conference was funny because, all the writers were such flimsy things. They walk with their thoughts and their feet take slow dainty steps. There was a bar association conference next door, and all the lawyers walk with their chest forward, their suits pressed, and their sturdy minds ready to wrestle their piece of the world. Writers' are funny because 2/3 of us are cat people and the rest are academics. I don't want to be a cat person. To be honest, I just want to be hot to trot and melt the world with prose.