My Girl is back from a shift in the waffle wagon at the county fair, late shift. (Band boosters sell waffles as a major fundraiser throughout the year. The fair earns us an amazing amount of money. I work on the batter crew rather than in the wagon for various personal reasons, first being that I don't WANT to work in the wagon, would rather wash dishes and mix up batter). I stood for a while on a street corner so that the my daughter and the friends I was picking up from the fair could see me when they left, but we got signals crossed and timing off, and I stood for way too long waiting. I'm glad the kids didn't drive themselves; it's a little scary down there.
Why wasn't I scared standing on the corner by myself like an old hooker? I don't know. I was wary and aware, but not scared.
I've been reading poetry almost all day (and writing a little bit, too, but nothing related to anything I learned during the MFA residency - hee).
Things I'm learning about myself and poetry:
I don't love (and barely like) W.S. Merwin's poetry. There. I stated this out loud in a public place where my mentor can read it, and the director of the program can read it and my classmates can read it. Maybe Merwin will grow on me. I recognize his mastery, but his poems do not reach me on any kind of emotional level, spiritual level, human level. I feel like I'm running my hand along a brick wall. The texture is interesting and the color of the bricks is beautiful, but when my hand leaves the wall, I've forgotten that I read the poem.
I thought I wasn't ever going to love Louise Glück, but I was wrong.
I was determined not to like Jorie Graham, but she's bewitched me.
I'm terrified to crack open the John Ashbery book, and the Charles Wright book is mocking me.
But I've been read Cummings and Li-Young Lee and Belle Waring (LOVE) and Mary Jo Bang and Peter Campion. I'm going to pull David Citino off my shelf and mourn him. I've been reading Tess Gallagher, Elizabeth Bishop, a little Lowell (Robert, not Amy, though I should read Amy, too), some Plath (only a couple, "The Eye-Mote" for a friend who is in pain after eye surgery).
I'm suddenly so tired I can't see.
My lower back hurts from last night's dish washing. I feel as if I pulled something. Bought myself some Aleve, but keep forgetting to take it. Maybe it's time?
My Girl is ready for bed, stripped off her powder sugar sticky waffle wagon clothes. She says she's going to stay up all night working on English summer reading notes, but I have a sense she's going to crash pretty quickly. She sugared waffles for four hours.
I have towels in the dryer that should soon be finished, and then I want to stay up late and listen to the cicadas while I sip a glass of wine or down a bottle of water.
I need to let myself fill in the empty spaces on that poem I started writing yesterday. Have a lot more to write and can then begin to revise/cut/structure/figure out what it's about (because it's about more than it appears to be about).
My kid smells like waffles.
"You smell like waffles," I say quietly.
"YOU SMELL LIKE WAFFLES!" she shouts then says, "sorry," in a whisper.