River of Play

Back in the Saddle--and Relaxing

AWP was last weekend, and it was...immense. I ran into Matt Buresci who told me that 8,500 people were there for the panels and the 700 tables and booths in the book fair. And this has been a goad for me to think about the Prairie Schooner brand, if you will. The good people at CLMP suggested a book to read, Buying In. So I'm reading the text. Very interesting stuff about the psychology of buying, and it raises intriguing questions about innovation v. novelty. 

The conference is a good place to meet old friends and to remind myself that there's a lot of light and smoke in literary publishing but very little that's all that interesting. I also noticed that our price point was a little steep for current economies. We'll see what the year brings. But the worst thing about the conference was my conveyance: a Jeep Compass. Nice enough on the inside, I suppose (though the cup holders were in terrible locations), but it maxed out at 20 mph on the highway. Oof. And don't get me started on the extensive blind spots. Cars around me would disappear entirely for miles at a time only to reappear when I needed to change lanes. 

Plus, did I mention the mileage? 

Which takes me off the AWP issue and onto the much more meaningful engagements of ecocriticism (oh, before we leave AWP: I did get a chance to meet up with some ASLE and Wofford folk). D handed me a rather appalling little board book when I got home. I Love You, Little One by Nancy Tafuri. In this book--firmly in the tradition of reassurance narratives--a variety of wild animals ask their mothers if their mothers in fact love them. We'll leave the talking animals aside and concentrate on their maternal responses. Yes, the mothers say, I love you like the pond/river/stars love you-- And there's the trouble. I finished each of those sentences while D was reading with "which is to say, not at all." I know for a fact that D loves Wendy more than the stars love her. The stars don't care. At all. Hell, the pond can drown you. And will, no matter how fond of it you are. I understand that we're talking about childhood treacle, but still. Not all the treacly books suggest dangerous attitudes. 

But the illustrations are nice.

The Great Windy Way

Tomorrow (2/11), I'm off to Chicago. This will be my second year as the logistics head of the Schooner contingent. I've dotted every "i" and crossed every "t" I could find. We'll see what happens when we get there. It's usually madness, though in a contained sort of way. 

In the world outside the hothouse of academic writing, it looks like we're in for an interesting struggle between nineteenth century technology and the twenty-first century. Certainly, we're having to consider coal v. alternatives, but I'm also thinking about "shovel ready" projects that simply patch up power grids, transportation infrastructure, and water systems that instead need to be overhauled. So while I'm very interested--thrilled and stunned, actually--in the green jobs and technology the new administration is putting in place, I'm concerned that the money might go to prop up the status quo for another generation instead of doing the difficult work that needs to be done.

Last random blog-jump: Since I've turned in the big drafts of the comps, I've been turning to research on place. Nebraska: It used to be an ocean. I learned yesterday, for example, that the watershed we're part of (Platte River and, more locally, Salt Creek) is shallow and complex. Something like eleven creeks drain 1000 square miles of land right around here. Lincoln, in the middle of this complex, has experienced one hundred floods in one hundred years, thirty-odd of them major. And, in fact, we have posted flood warnings today. We had some heavy downpours yesterday that washed ice into jams at bridges and culverts. So keep your galoshes handy.

A Week at a Time

Life is pretty compressed right now, as you might think. Wendy is sleeping four, five, or eight hour shifts at night, so we're doing pretty well. We are in the six week "fussiness" window, so daytime hours are trying. But, we persevere. Worse, I think, are the frequent trips to stores to pick up a this or a that. Diapers. Formula. More, different bottles. Means to warm the bottles (is it better to have a hyper-efficient electrical warmer or use natural gas?). I shudder to think of the cash passing through our wallets. Like shit through a goose. 

So much of the baby stuff is plastic, too. Dear gods, you have to work to find natural materials. Every toy and geegaw is bright, molded plastic hanging in a plastic bubble in an airless store. Still, we've managed to find rattles and toys of wood and cloth, and they just feel better.

Anybody care for a round up? Sure...

If, like me, you were a bit fretful about the "climate change is irreversible" report, fear not! Or, rather, continue to fear--or loathe powerful denialists like W for whom vocabulary is insufficient to describe their cravenness. As it says in the title, Irreversible is not Unstoppable. 

And shall we mourn for Michael Phelps? Dissenting opinions here and here.