The countdown continues--or maybe it's a count up? I mean, with a countdown you know when you reach zero hour. With a baby, you just keep counting. But everything's in position. So. Counting.
I'm into the final stages of the initial draft of the focus essay. And I should hope so. The fucker's way too long already (15,500 words. Are you kidding me?), but I'm still working on fleshing parts out (and that's a joke that will go in search of a punchline until the end of the post). I've been reading responses to Gary Snyder--also referred to as lord god king ecodude--and I've been amused at the way both of the commentators (in this case, the late Leonard Scigaj and the very lively Bernard Quetchenbach) have avoided Snyder's, um, excesses. Part of Snyder's overweening didacticism comes from his generation; a lot of older poets have this essayistic quality to their work that makes for dry going. But Snyder couples the essay quality with lengthy tales of ecological mismanagement. There's a dead whale poem that's a risible nadir--or at least I think it's about dead whales. Maybe just whales. Anyway. "Axe Handles" is nice. And given the man's reputation, I should be doing more bowing and scraping. But I'm not.
And now... These aren't very sustainable, I guess, but damn. Seasonal cards. For those who resist grasping after tiresome mysteries. And those who don't mind getting a little blood on their elfs. And lots of other cards that, as they say, you won't find at Hallmark. Sweet.
