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Location: Brooklyn, New York, United States

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Renate Wood

My first poetry teacher, mother of childhood friend Chris Wood, died this week in Boulder. I remember her asking me to hold my hands over my eyes and write down what I saw, to go outside and listen to tiny sounds—dried leaves dancing on warm concrete. I remember her melodious soft voice with its quiet authority, her sadness at missing a mysterious world far away, her long blonde hair and gentle laugh. She was the first person to recognize and call forth my secret world and need to hold on tight to language. In other words, she helped me become who I am.


Cleaning my desk today: the two blue jay feathers inside an envelope
I had taken to Germany for my mother before she died—
She didn't remember the jays, which had come to her feeder
in this country. Didn't remember their flash of unearthly blue.
Feathers? She had forgotten what they were for.
What are they for? Like the soul after death, detached from the body
that was their home, they're nothing almost,
so light I barely knew their weight,
flying with me all the way to that hushed bed, and back.

Renate Wood

Thursday, March 22, 2007

While I've always found John Edwards remarkably bland, I was impressed by the way he and Elizabeth handled their press conference about her returning breast cancer today, and came across this picture from the 70's...

Subject Headings from Recent Nigerian Scam Emails

Seeking for Partnership
Get Back to Me Urgently
You Have Won
Urgent Respond Needed