Accommodatingly

Posting still difficult even though Jon’s girlfriend who was staying in my parents’ computer room has gone back to Michigan with him.

Jessie and I go to NYC tomorrow for one night. Her first night away from him. His first night away from her. A big deal. A cool thing. I’ll miss him, though. Good thing my mom knows an awful lot about babies. And loves her first grandchild a great deal. I predict we’ll love seeing our friends (though we won’t get to see all of our friends) in New York but miss Nathan a lot by the time we get on the train (yes, train) to return.

I’m in the new TLS (warning: PDF) but you’ll have to buy the issue to read the piece, just as you had (grrrr) to buy the last-but-one New Republic to read Helen Vendler reviewing the same books.

Drove my brother Andrew to the airport, and stopped at Bridge Street Books on the way: it’s really the best place to buy “experimental” poetry that I’ve ever seen. I bought some Canadians, though not because Andrew goes to college in Canada– that’s just coincidence.

Details on my reading tonight (Mon, Nov 27) right here.

As I predicted, posting is rather difficult Chez Burt, mostly because someone is staying in the computer room, and I don’t want to disturb her. Good argument for getting a portable device that will allow me on the internets. So just a quick note now to say that Nathan seems to be thoroughly enjoying his Thanksgiving premiere, and we’re enjoying showing him off. Steve’s family is, as always, a fantastic swirl of personalities, all different but pretty wonderful.

Unrelated note: I think I swallowed a Whitestrip this morning. When I went to take them out, the bottom one was missing. I’ll have to research the health implications of Whitestrip injestion.

and don’t know how much I’ll be able to post while we’re in Washington, so I may be defeated in this Nablopomo thingamabob. Trying to get us packed tonight without bringing everything we own. This is difficult, especially with baby clothes. Since they’re so little, it’s so tempting to bring a ton of stuff. However, we have access to a washer and dryer at the Burts, so it is silly to pack more than three outfits apiece for the grownups and six for Nathan.

The little man appears to be learning to talk, walk, and scoot/crawl all at once. He was really getting around today, and jabbering up a storm (Mama, Daddy, Hi!, and I think he said Moo, along with countless indecipherable things that nonetheless had the tones of conversation). Tonight, he was so dear when I was reading him stories, so sweet and smiley and attentive, I read him a few extra and snuggled a bit longer than usual. He wasn’t happy to be put in his crib at the end of it, but things seem to have calmed now.

Tomorrow, we fly.

A very articulate writer of Native descent thinks about the holiday.

We’ll be in DC. We will be delighted to see my family, and to see Rebecca and Zach and Leonard, and to see, um, Lyra and Lee Scoresby and Mrs. Coulter.

But I can’t even think clearly about how delighted, because it’s 7:30pm and I’m still in my office writing recommendations for students who are applying for internships, recommendations for students who are applying to grad schools with early deadlines (Duke’s deadline already passed– yes, A., your rec is already in), and replies to publishers’ formal letters concerning copyrights and permissions. What’s wrong with this picture?

Oh, and come hear me at KGB Bar this Monday. If you happen to live in or near New York. I fear, I greatly fear, that I haven’t told all our friends individually about said reading, and that almost none of them will come… I owe every single one an individualized email, but, um, who has the time? Should I even be blogging this dilemma right now? To ask, alas, is to realize the answer.

Jessie and I had a genuine date last night. We ate at Cue. It is extremely modernist, surprisingly spacious, brilliantly designed, and a superb place for a date. Dates are good.

I recommend the quail. I asked Jessie if she wanted the last bite of quail, and by the time I registered that she had said “yes,” I had already eaten the last bite of quail. I think I’m going to be hearing about the quail for a good while now. (turns red)

Last week I had the feeling that my administrative responsibilities were grinding me down into powder. This afternoon, fortunately, not so much. Maybe it’s because we’ve also figured out the best way to work our shifts at Nathan’s day care: rather than trying to alternate weeks, so that Jessie does one Thursday all day and I do the next unless one of us has left town, we’re going to try to split in half each day, so that Jessie does the morning and I do the afternoon, or vice versa. Some hours of seven babies and toddlers = preferable to no hours– it’s fun working there, esp. since we see the developmental stages Nathan has yet to go through; but four solid hours of seven babies and toddlers = preferable to eight.

Geeky sidenote: when you Google “roasted quail,” one of the top five responses is this. The quail at Cue is better. Mmmm, quail.

…so says Robert Schnall, in a really flattering new review of me.

In the same new Boston Review, at much greater length (and rightly so!) a review of the new Lisa Robertson, easily the new book of poetry in which I am most interested and which I have not yet read.

I’m (still) reading at KGB Bar in NYC on Monday Nov 27 (the Monday after Thanksgiving). Please come if you can.

Also reading: the remarkable and enigmatic Elizabeth Willis, whose Meteoric Flowers gets reviewed in the remarkable new-ish poetry-and-criticism online mag Cold Front. Why have I not seen this mag before? I’ll certainly view it regularly for a while.

Jessie and I are trying to visit New York together for the 24-hour period around my reading, leaving The Cutest Guy in the World to hang out with my parents for a day: why is it so expensive to take a train from DC to New York? I blame ever-declining Amtrak subsidies, which require the Northeast Corridor service to earn ever-more cash so the rest of the system can try to stay afloat. Maybe the new Congress can do something here. (Or not.)

I haven’t always admired Liam Rector’s verse, but this poem rules: stark, sad, shockingly comprehensive, and more or less representative of his good new book. If you ever see his first book, The Sorrow of Architecture, snap it up. (I would not say the same for his second, American Prodigal, coincidentally one of the first books of verse I ever reviewed for a journal.)

American Apparel 20% off coupon, anyone? First five to respond get the discount. I’m a huge fan of their baby basics.

We just got our internets back (after being down since Thursday) and now we’re heading out the door, but had to share!

have my name written all over them.

Snazzy new website, btw–it’s Gap’s new shoe store. I wonder if it’ll be as schizophrenic as the clothing store, which seems to have a hard time deciding if it’s selling to people like me or slutty 13-year-olds.