This morning I woke up with an Alfred de Musset poem in my head--"Tristesse"--one that I had to memorize for a French class in high school. Most of the poems we had to memorize were by Musset, Jacques Prévert, Verlaine, sometimes Rimbaud. Nothing really surprising. Although I guess we did do a whole unit on Apollinaire and caligrams. And we also read Ionesco's La Cantatrice Chauve and Beckett's En Aattendant Godot. My French teacher had us reading Beckett while I was still hung up on T.S. Eliot and writing imitations of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Meanwhile, in French, I was writing awful but strange poems about salamanders and gypsies. You will never see any of those poems.
I'm not sure I have anything else to say about the "Numbers Trouble" article that I haven't already said before. Doubtless I have much to say about gender and avant-garde art. Yes. Much to say.
I've been reading back issues of Elsewhere and also Hanna Weiner.
I've been trying to figure out what I did to my neck.
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