a lot of beaujolais under the bridge

many birthdays ago

delight, felicity, upness, joy, gratification, pleasure, transport abroad, happiness, rapture, doublemint

I was very happy to learn that Pebble Lake Review and Margin nominated my poems this year for the Pushcart Prize. PLR nominated "Humidity," and Margin nominated "Grassland," which they reprinted early this year. Tomorrow is my birthday, & I think this is all I need.

the start of the letter from PLR:

Dear Sarah,

Congratulations! Pebble Lake Review has nominated your poem,
“Humidity” (PLR Summer 2006) for the Pushcart Prize.

The Pushcart Prize was named among the most influential projects in the history of American publishing by Publishers Weekly. Little magazine and small book press editors may make up to six nominations from their year’s publications by The Pushcart Prize’s December 1 deadline. Work from Pebble Lake Review was selected for inclusion in this year’s Pushcart Prize anthology.

Miles pays attention

I think I’m all unpacked: the kids’ new sweaters are in the closet, my books are on the nightstand, and Carlo got the bottle of vanilla extract he asked for. So with the bedroom floor clear of suitcases, Miles is playing with his Spiderman figure while I change for bed and talk to Carlo. Maybe I’m telling Carlo about “Borat,” or my aunt’s four terriers. Or maybe he’s telling me about his tofu omelette or visiting Trier. I don’t know. Everything is going in slow motion, and I sit down on the bed to take off my pants and pull on my pyjamas and, turning around on the floor, Miles says, “you got new underwear.”

And indeed I had.

Wayfaring Stranger

Worse than Contintental, Delta.
Worse than the turbulence, the 5 extra pounds.
Worse than the coffee, claustrophobia.
Worse than the rambunctious toddler, his mother.
Worse than the falling, the rising.

why don't we do it in the road

Driving around the mid-Atlantic region has kept me from blogging. This is America after all. Our presence is requested in the car. Drive from one end of the parking lot to the other. Drive to the store at the end of the street. Drive forfuckingever to every surrounding state. Drive at top speed. Slow to a crawl with your mom blasting the heat even though it's not cold and your eyeballs are getting dry as old raisins. Drive faster than everyone. Drive in the rain, drive in the smog, drive over hillock and dale, drive in the four directions, and then drive back.

This New Man

Here’s a witness quote from a article called “Man Severely Hurt in Police Shooting” in the NYTimes online.

“Some guys came running out screaming, ‘What are you doing? What are you doing?’” Karo said, adding that the officers tried to keep those men away from the injured man. “One cop was tending the injured guy, and the other cop was trying to deal with the screaming guys.”

I guess it’s not new that guy is the new man. When guy is combined with “this” and “some,” it takes on all kinds of wonderful nuances. Maybe we should just adopt it.

Guy Severely Hurt In Police Shooting

Police shot and seriously wounded this guy who had been firing a .45-caliber machine pistol in the air yesterday, police said. The guy, who was with at least two other guys, was firing a weapon near 179th st.
“I looked out the window and I saw two cops shooting some guy,” said Ron Karo, who watched from the office where he works. After that guy was shot, Karo saw three other guys in the alley. “Some guys came running out screaming, ‘What are you doing? What are you doing?’” Karo said, adding that the officers tried to keep those guys away from the injured guy. “One cop was tending the injured guy, and the other cop was trying to deal with the screaming guys.”

I’m going change all the headlines:

Manhattan: Four Guys Struck By Car
Guy Cleared of Murder Files Suit Against City
Some Guy Found Dead in Bronx Apartment

Last 3 Poetry Purchases

Picking up Rob's idea, here are the last three poetry books I bought.

Kay Ryan’s The Niagra River – I first read Kay Ryan in Atlantic Monthly, when it published her “Hailstorm.” Being a fan of short poems, I wanted to love this book. It does have a couple good moments (“Pitcher” and the title poem, z.B.), but it didn’t catch fire for me. After I bought this, I browsed through “Elephant Rocks” in a bookshop, which looks like a better book.

Nick Flynn’s Some Ether – This one I bought under peer pressure to be honest. But indeed, chiefly focused on a mother’s suicide, the poems are harrowing and beautiful. Expert language and real gravity.

Jim Moore’s Lightning at Dinner – I had never heard of Moore when I picked this up in a shop and read a few of the poems. But maybe because I had seven or so other books in my hand and it wasn’t on my list, I didn’t buy it. Still the pleasure of a couple of the poems I read lingered, so I said if the next bookstore I visited had the book, I would buy it. This book is also largely concerned with a mother’s death, in this case her dying, but it’s more a meditation on mortality than tragedy. No pyrotechnics or lexical acrobatics, but some satisfying poetry.

My favorite image:

I remember my mother toward the end,
folding the tablecloth after dinner
so carefully,
as if it were the flag
of a country that no longer existed,
but once had ruled the world.'

yemassee

my poem from the last Yemassee -

Summer’s End

Noon wounds me with its bees, its burning.
I weary of the season, whitewash
and blind arrows.

The sun has come to steal my outline,
come to sort me,
stretch me along its javelin.

It says, succumb, when
already the heat is lurching south
in one long exhalation.

Every night I’m more in love
with sleep. Closing my eyes

I let each blue dram
trickle back into my iris.

i have to say

I wish there were not so many ladies dying their hair blonde. It is just ugly. It is just unnecessary. It's been bugging the shit out of me for years. I can live with a highlight or two, or an older (read: grey) woman dying her hair blonde, but mostly it's just sad. Sad like floods are sad. Sad like mold is sad. Sad, and mean as bleach.

I am off to the states again on Wednesday. For a six-day visit. I am feeling very jetset. Or I would be feeling very jetset, except I am going to Scranton, PA! And Bound Brook, NJ! I have not been home for thanksgiving in about 15 years, and I always loved thanksgiving. And it's my 25th year high school class reunion. So why the hell not.

cool reception

radio reception which is very good (as in accurate)
giving the president the cold shoulder (as in precisely)

All the Time in the World

making small talk

standing on the escalator steps

not deciding

disquieting muses

I have two poems in the new issue of DMQ Review.

My favorite poem in the issue is Christopher Salerno's "These Dutch Doors."

I am also wild about the artwork by Ira Joel Haber. This drawing of his is "Singer."

Beautiful Nude Lesbians Embrace on the Cover of an Illicit Paperback at my Supermarket

I’ll be hogdrawn.
I’ll be bogswallowed.
Yes, I’ll be Weltschmelz.
I’ll be fogwracked.
Stripsearched.
I’ll be hornrimmed.
I’ll be oozing lazuli.
I’ll be cornfed and homebloomed.
I’ll be newly marooned.
I’ll be dogsledded.
Blue snooded.
I’ll be barebottomed.
Forktongued and thongtied.
Henpecked.
Well, I’ll be damned.
I’ll be goddamned.

dear little ferocity of mother love

The husband rented Poseidon for this evening. I insisted on seeing this movie. I remember watching the original as a kid and it being a defining moment in my film experience. There was that waifish little singer of "a morning after." I think she survives. Only thing missing is my sister. We saw the first one together. Aww!

Miles seems fine. Doctor told us as on the last day in the hospital that his problem was blood poisoning, not meningitis. Huh? We're going to our own pediatrician now, and watching him close.

surcingle

Well, i got three rejections in as many days.
But my poem is fixed at Wicked Alice.
And I'm up at Juked today.

a situation that could casualize your mind

Miles: doing fine and coming home tomorrow. Thanks to all who sent their good wishes here and by email. His meningitis was viral, which I understand is less dangerous than bacterial. The doctor thinks it was not tick-borne.
Carlo is spending tonight in the hospital with Miles. Of course now I’m freaking out about every little bodily complaint Miles makes. The headache, the charlie horse. Miles is 2nd from right in the photo.

Wicked Alice: I have a poem up in Wicked Alice, but I’m not linking because there is an error in it. The first line, which should end with a dash, ends instead with a question mark. That just kinda fucks up the poem. A formatting error I’m sure but I’m antsy for the fix.

Finished reading: Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy. Liked it. Felt Ann Patchett’s article in the New Yorker, conjured up with google, added a lot to her sense of despair. I have never read a Lucy Grealy poem. That is the weird thing. Anyone got one for me?

which returns me to a related note that often occurs to me in life: when we were kids, my little brother said his favorite song was Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze. He had never heard the song, but he was pretty sure anyway.

Reading: White Fang (Wolfsblut) by Jack London. Actually I’ve been reading it aloud to Miles in hospital, and even in German it’s better than the “grown-up” book I was reading and may not resume reading (The Old Men at the Zoo by Angus Wilson).

Added to ipod: Mellow my Mind, Come On Baby Let's Go Downtown (1975)

goodbye b&w world

packing up for a couple days at the hospital with miles. talk about boring. master miles is bouncing off the walls. mixing up the ipod. looking for my kenneth koch book to take along. not finding it. also among the lost: a pearl earring and a striped silk scarf. and where did the last 8 years go? must get luisa’s hair washed before I leave. but the house is cold and the water is sure to shred the skin from my tired hands.

added to ipod
John Wayne Gacy, Jr.
Solid Air
Stupid Thing
Hey Bulldog

deleted from ipod
Driver 8
Jockey Full of Bourbon
Black and White World
Pop Life

m

He had a fever for three days, a headache, a stomach ache and no appetite. I chocked it up to normal kid life, especially after a long trip. The symptoms improved over three days but then he couldn’t turn his head or look down or up. His back hurt. His shoulders started draping forwards and he couldn’t pull them back. Maybe he slept in a bad position? I tried that idea on but after two and half days I took him to the emergency room (dr.s’ offices close Wednesday afternoons in Germany). And bang he was checked into the hospital. I never thought of meningitis. I didn’t know what to think. I figured I was pretty much overreacting but thank god I did. He’s going to be fine, but has to stay in the hospital into next week. They let a parent stay with him so we’re taking turns. They think he got meningitis from a tick in NY state. He was bitten by at least two ticks. I mentioned Lyme disease to the doctors and asked them to keep it in mind while doing tests, since there is no Lyme disease in Germany.

yummy halloween treats

check out the recipe

halloween

Bob Dylan’s Biograph liner notes mention a costume party where everyone came dressed as a character from a Dylan song. I think that would be fun, though it might be hard to get enough willing fans together in one place. Anyway, I’m sure some of the folks at that party came dressed as these personages. If you like Dylan at all, you can probably name a couple the songs these appear in.

Jezebel the Nun
The Ghost of Belle Starr
The Jack of Hearts
Quinn the Eskimo
The Soviet Ambassador
The Mystery Tramp
Absolutely Sweet Marie
The One-Eyed Undertaker
Botticelli’s Niece
The Gray Flannel Dwarf
The Queen of Spades
Napoleon in Rags
Dr. Filth
Maggie’s Pa
The Motorcycle Black Madonna
The Two-Wheeled Gypsy Queen
Mr. Jones

doings

tollbooths & a red rug & reading Joseph Cornell's diaries
baked squash & ottoman & reading Joseph Cornell's diaries
the Hudson & fireplace & reading Joseph Cornell's diaries

sweet

red-drenched
and blood-orange autumn

insectual

it's the insects who teach us
carpentry
ambush
and to soldier on.
insects show us to work in teams,
to blend in and evade,
to feed on smoulder, rot,
or whatever's available.
it's the insects who teach us
sex is worth dying for,
and to hibernate through scarcity.

my heartbreak's back

having a wonderful time. wish you were here. for more than a week i've been looking for the words to undo the spell of these trees. Also the sky strikes me as much bigger here. I think every American must be a naturalist. even in the city, october trees are burning from the inside out, rippling with fabulous coins into gutters. I am numb with the wading out, the digging in. I have tried to write down the chattering brown angels that bite the roadsides. to no avail. forgive me for not addressing this postcard to anyone. there is no poem to work on but there are bookshops and black voices, there is rain while i'm sleeping and then there are puddles.

covey

i won't review because i should be packing, not that i am.
the birds are looking at me funny today.
so maybe i should take back what i said yesterday
and mention that i love birds
as well as many bird poems.

one bird
more bird
many bird

4

Here is the poem: August

Read it, then come back...

I am generally not drawn in to poems that start with birds and backyards. Of course there are plenty of exceptions, and I was giving this poem a chance despite regretting the bird feeder but this didn’t become one of them. There are a couple strong moments, like the “sear of August has crusted..” and the geometry simile. It’s certainly not a bad poem; it’s sad and meditative, but it doesn’t click for me in any remarkable way. It’s steady when I want electric. It goes on when I think the point is made. There’s nothing wrong with coming full circle in a poem, it can work great, but in this case it strikes me as predictable.

Review day #3

There’s a new Caffeine Destiny out so I moseyed over to find something to review today. I decided on Shane McCrae’s poems since I’ve never read him before – no baggage, no associations, etc.

Here are the two Shane McCrae poems. Read them, then come back.

Neighborhood Watch

I thought this was a good poem, not stellar but enjoyable. I like the parallel between the compost heap and the “whatever is inside me” – all that organic matter breaking down like a relationship. The idea of slowly painting a picture of a compost heap is a smart one since you know the longer you paint the more the subject will change, in this case blacken and rot. The guitar case was a surpise and maybe a misstep, but I can only assume it’s some kind of personal totem concerning the “you” of this poem. I felt the “Yes,” near the end presumed too much and the ending would have gone over better without it.

Songbirds Do Something Overhead

This was a much better poem, a really good poem. Lots of motion there helped by the use of space, punctuation, off-syntax. Don’t let anyone tell you the word “something” is bad for a poem. I love the something in this poem, and I liked it especially in the title because I wanted to know what the something was. The “yes” interjection in this one comes off more naturally, and the poem settles well, without a deafening “ta-da!” or a crippling whimper.

a letter from lament

Dearest Amy,

All night, insomnia stuck
like old socks in my gullet.

The fresh air this autumn
makes the rest of life seem putrid;
air, insulting and superfluous!

It is a shame about my horselessness.

Amy, I hope you are well.
I address you from the station platform.

The train is late
and I must pee
with a particular urgency.

Affectionately,
L.

the money in my mouth

ok, this may be the last "mini-POrc" review, and I'm only on day 2. My frustration is I can't link to the poem at Verse Daily. All I can link to is VD's main page, but the poem I'm reviewing is from Oct. 8, ie yesterday. Ok, I'm gonna count on you smarties to figure it out: go to Verse Daily, click on "Archives" at the bottom of the page and read my Mark Yakich's poem "Aerialist" from Oct. 8. Got that? Do that and then read my review.

... OK?

ya done?

Here's my review:
I love this poem. I googled the poet up.
Then I went right to Amazon and bought his book.
That's it!

freedom and restraint

Julie over at Carter's Little Pill asks poet-readers to spend a week doing short reviews of poems, in the spirit of her "Weirdness Evaluation Engine." So, listen, I have to fly to America on Friday so I may skip a day or two, but I'll try to get seven down along the way.

Chosen at random: The poem about freedom and restraint

This is the kind of poem that leaves me cold. What does it want to bring me? Attitude? Does it reveal something to me? Is it edifying, is it stirring, is it funny? I am left wondering if it is supposed to be funny – using the word “cause” for “because” for example makes me think the poet is making fun or something/one. Is it intended as a jab at Hallmarkian banality? I think I need an MFA to get this poem. If there is someone out there who gets this poem, please speak up. I mean it sincerely. Perhaps it is just not my thing.

It's interesting because Julie asks if in reviewing you worry about hurting feelings. I do, but what is the point of reading and thinking if you aren't honest? I've written a number of poems that I personally liked but knew wouldn't go over well with readers, or would make little sense. Partipating on poetry boards I can guess in advance when the poem will get 12 crits/responses and when it will get (hopefully) two. But that doesn't stop me from writing what I want to write, and it shouldn't stop anyone, including the poet whose poem I don't like.

the older gentlemen at Café Wacker

One ate a mound of gelatinous cake.
Another did the crossword, his voice cigarilloed
like a suffocating trombone.
One sold roses to no one.
They had creases in their trousers and good jackets.
Two at the next table talked about Bremen, leeks
and an herb similar to chives, but which is not chives.
They disagreed about who should pay
for the cake and cappucino,
and it seemed civilization might squeak
into the afternoon
without ripping.

Gentle Reader,

Dear probably-otherwise-nice Man who lectured me about people who don’t clean up after their dogs while I was walking my dog in a very clean fashion,

Dear Murderer who had a difficult childhood about which I am sorry,

Dear upright German pedestrian Lady who reminded me of the rules of the road while I was riding my bike slowly on a dirt path in the middle of nowhere without another bike in sight,

Dear Decent Writer who is otherwise somewhat of an egoistic foot-in-the-mouth kind of fuckup,

Dear I-bet-the-west-is-wrong-about-you Iranian President, sir,

Dear probably-nice-looking-dark-skinned lady who for some reason has made the mistake of bleaching her hair blonde,

e-poetry books

I'm looking for information on poetry e-books, ie where can I find some good ones (free)? I think Lily offers these, but I've seen them other places and unfortunately forgotten where. THanks.

-->here are the slow trains' e-chapbooks
and
2River chapbooks!

the weird smell

This morning there was a faint smell, a bit funky, but also inorganic. Is that me? I wondered. I hoped to God not. I plucked the fabric of my sleeve and brought it close to my nose. The shirt had stuck a little to the iron this morning – had some unmentionable melted? It didn’t seem so, but while not on my shirt the smell remained close by. It was on my hands! I went to the office bathroom to check if was emanating from all my skin. Unless you’re elastic man, you know it’s hard to get your nose up against all your skin. Feet to mid-thigh you can probably manage, and arms of course, but I bet you can’t smell your own hip or bellybutton. The rest of what I could get to seemed scentless. I washed my hands and the smell was gone. Later, at my desk, it seemed to come back. And I remembered all the bullshit I had yet to rend from myself.

yeah

Submitted five poems to juked yesterday evening and they got right back to me with a "yes" for

On Receiving a Rejection Note One Year and Seven Months After Submitting

which begins:

This morning I woke thinking
of the old, giant tortoise....

and is based on a true story. TWO true stories.

oh shoot

Join the blacklist.

i'm sad about my country

Dear little fucking mirage of a civilization
What is the fucking story with gun control
What the devil is y’all up to
Why does every deranged fuckup have a gun or a father who has one
What is with your children
Your airport security
Your screw-up police department
What is with those NRA dicks and their scum-money
I want to warn you
I’m visiting your fucked up chimera in two weeks
And I’m gonna buy a rifle down at Kmart
If there is still a Kmart
And blow a fucking hole in all of yas
If anything happens to my children

from the titular kingdom, part I

A is for Akond
B is for Blue
C is for Come in
D is for Dog

titularities

Got a submission ready this morning then suffered a last-minute crisis. I put it all in the envelope with the nagging feeling that one of the titles is wrong. Because I like the poem I told myself the title was secondary. But the more I thought about the title, the dumber it seemed. I was at least partly psyching myself out. But rather than suffer a two-day struggle session over it and sit on the sub, I’m leaving the poem out.

I knew I would get crazy when I started flipping through titles of poems looking for a jolt. (Now “jolt” is good, can I wriggle that in?). The search helped not at all, except in showing how may unremarkable titles are out there. Here's a chunk of what I turned up:

Acquisition * Race * Luck * A Man in Pearls * Consumed * The Overcoat * Desire * August Day * White Flannel Trousers * Sonnet * Obsession * The Deathmask of El Gaucho * Amputees * Glad All Over * Romancing the Bay Mare * Solitude * Voyage * Sandals * President of the Flat Earth Society Dies * Infinity

OK, which of those would you read first? Certainly those that are a little different are more enticing, but I’m sure most of us have resorted to generics once in a while. Of course, once you read the poem the title may be weirdly perfect. But I didn’t read these poems.

In other news, I got a rejection from Rosebud yesterday, one year and seven months after I submitted. Oh, with ink.

Been there, done that

Finished 30:30 at ITWS, & hope to get a poem or two out of it. The good thing is you get your arm twisted to write. So you can rant or just flex your sonic tenderloins. You can also be forced to write something you've been meaning to write. And no one says you suck.
On the downside, since part of the point is to buck everybody up, you're not allowed to discourage. So when someone says to me, "yer fabulous," it could just mean "Thanks for not making me read anything like what you wrote yesterday." And "Wow, I loved the end," could just mean "Sarah, I thank God this came to an end!"

30. Subway Station (Morning’s heft hangs lurid)
29. Stone (Red leaves smatter cobblestone)
28. Read my Lips (The crick in my neck comes from caring.)
27. For Crying Out Loud (oh the crumpled wing of it all)
26. Tinder Box (Burnt Sienna: the fence along my mother’s yard, spanning the lawn like a long silence)
25. Biergarten (My homesickness outlasts hades’ blazes)
24. Summer Staples (Back where I come from)
23. Wine Reviews (A round young wine that can’t concentrate)
22. Notice in the Window(Dear students)
21. The Deal (I’m taking back my scream.)

Coverlettering my Butt

When I send a cover letter with a submission, I keep to the point and avoid being funny, fawning, arrogant, etc. I don’t know who’s going to be on the other end. My cover letters run pretty much: 1) this is a submission; 2) my poems are X-Y-Z; 3) I’ve been published in A,B & C (sometimes I omit this); and 4) thanks for your time.

If the guidelines ask for something like a bio, I include that. If they accept simultaneous subs but want to know right off, I tell them.

That’s about it. I have, on occasion, mentioned something I enjoyed about the journal, whether a particular poem, or layout, or column or whatever. But I feel inhibited saying “I loved your last issue,” or “You’re one of my favorite publications.” Isn’t that brown-nosing? I mean, even if it is one of my sincere cross-my-heart-hope-to-die favorites?

So I was reading juked today for the first time after Arlene mentioned she’d have a poem there. The guidelines go:

“Warning: If it's obvious you're just mailing out something you wrote to every single publication without actually knowing who the hell you're writing to, i.e., you don't know what we put up, nor do you care, you simply want someone, anyone, to publish that precious story you wrote in a stroke of alcohol-induced genius about rotting zombies hijacking convertibles for joyrides, we'll know, we'll cackle gleefully and forward your e-mail address on to our resident juju doctor, who'll know best what to do with it. We will, and we love to cackle.”

I really liked juked. The latest poems there are by Lisa Zaran and Jack Conway, two poets I like. I certainly can imagine submitting, but I’m just curious if there are other poets out there who mention in cover letters why they’re submitting to a particular place, in general. Obviously at juked, you need to say something, um, about why you love them so much. smile.

Alter egos

Hi there. I’m the unsupervised suitcase at the airport.

Hello. I’m the fungal beard growing on your yoghurt.

Hi folks. My name is Marty
& I’m gonna be your waiter tonight.

PLR

The new Pebble Lake Review is online.

new joe

Dear boss!

Thanks for this machine with its twenty-seven buttons! Scarlet Johansson can keep her curvy figure – I adore this machine’s tall rectangularity. And the sound effect! Frruuurrrr, frrruuuurrrr! Dear boss! I know how you worry about money. In an office full of mechanical and technological apparatus, it is striking that the one thing on your desk is a calculator. So besides you, I would like to thank that calculator for being a friend to this machine. Can I say generous? Can I say munificent? Beneficent? Magnanimous? Can I say the Koran backwards? I wish!

It's a boy

Our new au pair, Maxim, arrived Friday from Russia. The kids are in heaven. We were always a little wary of having a young man, but after years of au-pair girls, I guess it’s time to admit that one moody female in the house is enough.

Let’s see… we’ve had Muriel from France, Sabine from Germany, Tatjana from Estonia, Xenia from Russia, Monica from Bulgaria, Darina from Russia and Maryna from the Ukraine. A couple of them were wonderful. But one was a drinker and heroin dabbler, one was a thief and another sat in the dark in the living room listening to Billie Holiday sing Gloomy Sunday and Strange Fruit.

Darina recommended Maxim. Since we liked her so much we figured he must be okay. We didn’t know then that he’s her boyfriend. But no matter -- the kids adore him. Miles keeps talking about his muscles and Luisa is batting her 10-year old eyelashes all around the house. On Sunday I came downstairs for breakfast with Miles to find Maxim’s shoes. Miles said, “Check out how big those are! Man, look at those shoes!” And he picks one of them up like a new baby. They’ve played hide and seek, they’ve play Monopoly, they’ve played Memory. Then Maxim fixed my bicycle and helped Carlo make dinner. Yup, it’s a real Wow World over at my house.

In poem news, the print journal River Oak Review accepted “Some Things I Didn’t Tell You about Tuesday.” I also got rejections from Frigg and Boxcar - I really like both of those so I plan to submit again. I’ve got such a bunch of poems in my file. I’m having a hard time coming up with appropriate places to submit them. Or I’m having trouble finding the time to come up with them, and go through with it.

Short Reprise for Mary Todd who Went Insane, but for Very Good Reasons

I talked all day long. It was quite exhausting. The mouth and lungs tire; the furrows in the brow tire; and also the mind gets tired of putting sentences together. And of acrobating between languages. I talked about the economy. I talked about how-to. I talked about writing news for what seemed like hours. I talked staff illnesses and vacations. I talked about getting around writing problems and dealing with editors. I talked tabloids and magazines. I arranged schedules and weekends with colleagues. I talked about who should do what. I talked to reporters, translators, editors, managers, the sandwich lady, the dog, the kids, the husband, and Maxim, our new au pair. I talked to Idun, Ulrike and the coordinator at Luisa’s music school. I gave directions to Wiessenauplatz. I wished three people a nice weekend and thanked the cashier. I talked to the barefoot girl who wanted to pet Stella. I said she could and that Stella liked girls, and also playing with other dogs and that she wanted to go home now to get her dinner, goodbye.