Re-Emergence
Thanks to everyone for the kind words about my new teaching position. It's going to be a busy summer of preparation, but now that I've jumped through the first round of flaming hoops the real work can finally begin. And I'm also ready to re-emerge from the last month of self-imposed-job-hunting exile and start updating more regularly, contacting people in L.A., calling people, etc. etc. etc.
Meanwhile, my dear Wildstar, in celebration of my career news, has been pampering me with champagne, Del Taco, foreign films, and the most exquisite book I could ever ask for - a 1928 first edition (which I believe may have been the only printing), one of only 750 copies sold, of H.D.'s nigh-impossible-to-find novel, Hedylus, her only work of extended prose fiction set in ancient Greece. Printed by a tiny private press in Stratford-on-Avon, no less, and purchased at my new favorite place in Los Angeles, The Iliad Bookstore (located next to Odyssey Video). Imagine a giant used bookstore, entirely filled with thousands of works of great literature (there was almost nothing on the shelves that I wouldn't mind reading, and Gertrude Stein alone was represented by an entire five-foot shelf), and decorated with dozens of gorgeous Greek statues. Resulting in a very happy Narcissus.
I've also taken full advantage of the wonderfully large downtown public library, where I've been checking out books by Guy Davenport, Robert Duncan, Daryl Hine, Susan Howe, Ai, and Callimachus. The place would be just about perfect if I hadn't witnessed a horrifying case of *child abandonment* the other day. A little girl, literally a toddler who was *barely* old enough to walk upright, was wandering the aisles of American poetry whilst screaming and crying. The place was empty except for myself and a rather imposing man in full West African regalia, so we joined forces and found a matronly librarian to comfort the poor child and call security. Security searched the floor and found the girl's brother in a corner looking at magazines. He was about eight years old, didn't speak of word of English, and was absolutely terrified. So they called in another librarian who spoke Spanish, while a crowd of women magically managed to find a diaper and a bottle for the little girl. According to the translator, the little boy thought his sister was around the corner with his mother, who had apparently *ABANDONED* both of her children near the American poetry stacks and disappeared. Terribly upset but ultimately helpless at this point, I decided to check out and leave, not realizing that I was being followed outside by The Resident Crazy Guy, whose craziness was triggered by the distressing scene. He somehow decided that *I* was somehow directly involved both in the abandonment of the children AND the wide-ranging federal conspiracy directed against him, which he loudly announced at the top of his lungs to myself and every passer-by who would listen, while I waited and anxiously read Susan Howe, praying that Wildstar would soon arrive with the car. He did, and we were then stuck on the freeway for over an hour. Welcome to Los Angeles.
More later . . .
Meanwhile, my dear Wildstar, in celebration of my career news, has been pampering me with champagne, Del Taco, foreign films, and the most exquisite book I could ever ask for - a 1928 first edition (which I believe may have been the only printing), one of only 750 copies sold, of H.D.'s nigh-impossible-to-find novel, Hedylus, her only work of extended prose fiction set in ancient Greece. Printed by a tiny private press in Stratford-on-Avon, no less, and purchased at my new favorite place in Los Angeles, The Iliad Bookstore (located next to Odyssey Video). Imagine a giant used bookstore, entirely filled with thousands of works of great literature (there was almost nothing on the shelves that I wouldn't mind reading, and Gertrude Stein alone was represented by an entire five-foot shelf), and decorated with dozens of gorgeous Greek statues. Resulting in a very happy Narcissus.
I've also taken full advantage of the wonderfully large downtown public library, where I've been checking out books by Guy Davenport, Robert Duncan, Daryl Hine, Susan Howe, Ai, and Callimachus. The place would be just about perfect if I hadn't witnessed a horrifying case of *child abandonment* the other day. A little girl, literally a toddler who was *barely* old enough to walk upright, was wandering the aisles of American poetry whilst screaming and crying. The place was empty except for myself and a rather imposing man in full West African regalia, so we joined forces and found a matronly librarian to comfort the poor child and call security. Security searched the floor and found the girl's brother in a corner looking at magazines. He was about eight years old, didn't speak of word of English, and was absolutely terrified. So they called in another librarian who spoke Spanish, while a crowd of women magically managed to find a diaper and a bottle for the little girl. According to the translator, the little boy thought his sister was around the corner with his mother, who had apparently *ABANDONED* both of her children near the American poetry stacks and disappeared. Terribly upset but ultimately helpless at this point, I decided to check out and leave, not realizing that I was being followed outside by The Resident Crazy Guy, whose craziness was triggered by the distressing scene. He somehow decided that *I* was somehow directly involved both in the abandonment of the children AND the wide-ranging federal conspiracy directed against him, which he loudly announced at the top of his lungs to myself and every passer-by who would listen, while I waited and anxiously read Susan Howe, praying that Wildstar would soon arrive with the car. He did, and we were then stuck on the freeway for over an hour. Welcome to Los Angeles.
More later . . .