The Ghost of Poems Past
Yesterday I received the coolest email from a couple in New Jersey, fellow participants in that Poetry Postcard Project Little Miss Talkalot and I participated in back in August 2013. They were on the receiving end of one of her postcards (you can see it and read the poem here) and they wanted permission to reprint the poem along with a photo of a windmill from their backyard on their Christmas card this year. Also, they needed to know Little Miss Talkalot's actual name, because I don't believe she wrote a byline on this particular postcard.
I was only able to talk about it with her last night right before she went to bed, after an entire evening of shuttling back and forth between our house and the middle of town -- first, violin lesson drop off and pick up, and then a late-night (7:30!) trip to the school offices where she gave a report from her Student Council to the PTA members. The little girl is turning into her mama -- meetings up the wazoo, involvement in absolutely everything. Poor thing.
I'm swamped -- swamped -- by grading and meeting bullsh** right now, and not particularly thrilled with it. On the plus side, I've just begun my section of the Gender, Bodies, and Identity course that I'm team-teaching with a visual arts colleague and a sociology colleague, and it's fun and inspiring and *almost* makes up for the terrible power-struggle nonsense that's occurring in one of the committees I'm on. There's an undercurrent of anti-union sentiment that keeps me involved and attentive, but really I'd rather stick a screwdriver into my ear than listen to a bunch of people posture and exclaim without actually listening to what the other side has to say.
Anyway. It's Veteran's Day and classes are cancelled at the college, but I still have a ton of work to do -- so I'm going to get to it. Or attempt to get to it -- Vampire Toddler has been waking up earlier and earlier since the time change which means my sacred morning writing time (which has become more like sacred morning grading time since the end of September) is less and less sacred.