Had brief glorious moment of list making this morning--writing projects to get done, stuff for the press to do over the next three months. And then I realized, unlike the last four summers, when I felt like I had to get as much done as possible before school started in the fall, I now have ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD. Huge glorious swathes of it. Endless. For my own work, I have to finish up these two small projects this month and into next, then sit down with in the bird museum and make sure the final version is the way I want it to be. Other than that, poems for the new manuscript, maybe another small chapbook. Trying to find a home for girl show. All of which I can do at my leisure. And novels! I can read fiction again, without thinking I should be reading poetry instead. Poetry, I'm always trying to learn from it, to see what the author is doing and why, and how I can apply it to my own work. Fiction, though, is pure escape. Plus, I've been wayward on the visual stuff these last eight months, and I miss it terribly.
Friday's reading went very well, and was much less stressful than going to commencement chaos. And pretty swanky to boot. Plus, the faculty gave us pretty little moleskine notebooks and said very nice and ridiculously flattering things about us. After that, I spent the weekend in with my parents, went to IKEA yesterday, bought a cool paper lamp, then arrived home feeling like I didn't have much of a weekend at all. There must have been one in there somewhere, though…
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oops..and I nearly forgot about the new Kulture Vulture...
