She dig Doty, don’t she.

September 2, 2008 § 1 Comment

This blah-gger’s life has become massively eventful in the last 48 hours. At least, massively eventful where poetry & automobiles are concerned.

First, a wonderfully kind email from E., a fellow CWP-er, informing me that a spot opened up in Mark Doty’s workshop. One day & countless logistics later, I have successfully snagged me a spot. The workshop met today — it’ll focus on the poetic series, longer poems in sections or poems strung together thematically — & it’s going to be fabulous. I’m certainly the baby of the group, & I can only benefit from all the learning I have to do. I couldn’t be happier.

It would seem, however, that things were going too well for me not to fuck it all up. On my way to classes today, I rear-ended some poor man while I was scoping out the chaotic parking scene on Cullen Boulevard. Luckily for me, the fellow (unhurt) wasn’t interested in exchanging any insurance info — “This isn’t even my car, it’s my boss-man’s car” — so I got off easily enough. What I have to show for it: A bent bumper, a scrape on my forehead that looks like the mark of Cain, & a whopping tension headache. (A. is fine, for those concerned.)

Gustav has been a blip on the hot Houston radar; we’re anticipating Ike & hurricane-hopeful Josephine will shake off some rain in our direction, & little more. I’ve yet to bear the full brunt of The Weather, & I’m no worse off for it.


Culinarily speaking, Recipe The Second:

L.E.’s Flash-Fried Garlic Pasta w/Chick Peas

1 onion

2 cans of chick peas

1 box o’ yer favorite pasta shapes

2 cloves garlic

salt ‘n peppa

cayenne peppa

olive oil

Fry the onion, chopped, in oil until lightly browned, adding salt & pepper to taste, & a little of the cayenne. Add the chick peas & heat thoroughly. Meanwhile, boil the pasta until it’s al dente (or any other favorite “Al”). Add pasta to chick pea & onion mix, & heat through. In a small frying pan, heat oil & add the garlic, chopped. Flash-fry for 20 seconds, then dump onto the pasta mixture. Photograph & devour.


I’ll leave you with this, lovelies.

The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed, / Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars. / One frozen trackless smile … What words / Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we // Are overtaken.

–Hart Crane, “Voyages.”


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§ One Response to She dig Doty, don’t she.

  • I plan to throw some blackening spices onto the onion while I fry it up, to give the sauce a darker essence. Or effervescence. Or just plain fervescence.

    My pasta just asked that I call it “Al.” Now I’m its bodyguard.

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