Kristin Prevallet, I, Afterlife: Essay in Mourning Time. "I have come to compose a fragmented system of believing. I call this poetry." p. 45.

Can't stop being oxytocinated by Lydia Davis's "What You Learn About the Baby" in Varieties of Disturbance. "You are lying on the bed nursing him, but you are not holding on to him with your arms or hands and he is not holding on to you. He is connected to you by a single nipple." p. 119

And completely different, also Eileen Myles piece "Rene" in latest issue of Shiny. Makes me nostalgic for NY I never knew. "The houses are open and all you need is about three of you to go everywhere and make these gauzy invisible strings between people. It just makes sense that so many of us had time during the day and would stand in one another's kitchen. Smoking and talking and watching our faces change in the light." p. 41

From Barrett Watten's section in Grand Piano 4: "I associate the act of writing with the sound of doves in the neighborhood, at about eleven o'clock in the morning under a high fog, or late at night. The mournful sound of the dove indicates that writing is a matter of long duration that it will take a long time before we get anywhere with it." p. 64-65.

Also Kit Robinson on Oakland Mail Center. Rae Armantrout on writing in Rubio's. Ted Pearson on typing the "day's words" on index cards and taping them to the front of bus as he does his shift. Lyn Hejinian on the news, or what else was going on.