PS: Can we finish our Exquisite Corpse Sestina please? It is so good but needs so much more work. A mad leg of universe grieves me. (As does marmalade hysteria.)

Steveo, we are terrible bloggers, and the dash key on my lap(crap)top is broken and bleeding. OH well. I hope that someone is reading this. Is it Egg Nog Season in Asheville yet? They are advertising for Egg Nog here at the local supermarket, Shaw's. Today, I renewed my vow to walk everywhere, and to sit and meditate, and to not let my students run my life (I have one who is too much in need for me to deal with properly), and to be conscious of my apathy and needs. Bangor is burning bright today, but it is a nice 40something outside. When I woke up it was 28 degrees. This is still flip flop weather for Mainers. I hauled much dirty ragness past the gaybar to the laundromat this morning. Got good news that Alice Notley will be here soon, available for all, and I am trying to erase my wreck of a life from becoming any more (in)visible than it might be becoming.

Love, Monica (in Maineo)

today some cooler air came along that's one item
no old dead writer falls into my foot
my left tarsus from out of the sky
where I scan whatever pop up windows flash between me and the planets
under which I advance with this dog
why somebody abandoned a fully suspended bicycle maroon
while down the road a grey cat collapses
the cat population around here being unusually dense

I would like to recap by saying that I am interested in reading carefully what Butler’s text ("What is Critique: An Essay on Foucault's Virtue") is "doing," especially in relationship to Foucault’s essay. Butler firmly links herself to Foucault’s essay, and I will (necessarily) be linking myself to Butler in my reading of her essay. As much as her text is not explicitly a theory of reading, it is an example of how Butler reads Foucault.

By looking at how Butler reads Foucault’s theories, and what she says about the relationship of the self/subject to an object of study, I hope to understand both what Butler is “doing” in this essay and also what I am “doing” in my reading of Butler. Ultimately, I hope to frame my understanding of what I am doing around an understanding of how Butler herself, based on the theories outlined in her essay and the structure of the essay itself, might evaluate (or appreciate or scorn) the way in which I am reading her work.

taking the reject material into the body of the new intact

something

I'm stuck with

likewise consider

the discomfort of
"taking a stab" often

preceeded by "at it"

consider counting chowder

testing an introductory sentence:

Thomas Hardy embodied the repercussions of chivalry at the turning into another dreadful century with his whacky love poems.

grim chowders chuckle

I went seeking ravines only ack
seeking ravine

I heard a rumor anyway

and now we know wild islands
not in the sense

I know what you're thinking
no no ack

I went bushwhacking after that elusive ravine
and christed it chowder

that's its calling
now any wild island

isn't every any's any
I got down there on the everywhere nedge

it might have been the beginning of that
dread riverine

you no the place
asheville medal finishers

buckets thereby corrosive
and saw there some chowders

then everything scrambled with my up
the slope

I went up to slopes
nobody said it would be squeeze please

that ravine
wasn't no keyboard shortcuts

on g=foot
fair proof of this

words worthy christed it delvetian
hell but it was just a stupid ravine

written in chowder I rode over some sod dropped
this caused some speculation on sod in particular
and then suddenly chowder intruded

it was all over the highway

Bucko, this blog is not currently very poetical. Do you think Eileen still stops by?

If so, I have written some Bangor (Bangah) hay(na)kus. Here's one, that describes what I used to do when I wasn't lazy. I have probably gained back the ten pounds I lost when I got here and panicked and took very long walks and ate nothing. I was staying elsewhere (not my own place, since I did not yet have my own place) and felt weird eating some strange girl's food.

Morning Routine

Walking
the wrap
of the river

Tonight is laundry night and rid (I typed ride) the new apartment of fleas. Olea!

There aren't many, but any sign of scratching from my little pusser-butt makes my heart weep. She is on vetrinary fancy-pants medicine but still scratching, which I can't stand to watch.

Oh shit. I have 25 student papers to grade by Friday, no Friday class plan, and some serious Judith Butler research to undertake. All the grocery stores close at 10, and I am also out of jam.