Music Monday - Dolly Parton Covers Herself. Sort of.

While covers and re-interpretations of this song abound, leave it to Dolly herself (well with the help of some basic technology) to be capable of perhaps the best rendition. Jack White, Ellie Goulding, Laura Marling, Mumford & Sons, Fiona Apple and even Miley Cyrus, you can all take a seat. Turns out, all you gotta do is slow the original down by 25% (33 rpm) and you get a soulful, amazingly organic sounding piece of music. I can't stop listening. 

I do have a weak spot for A. this song. I was very nearly named Jolene. (I think we can agree it's probably best I wasn't.) B.) The country music and C. The Dolly. She is everything. If I could be a version of Dolly for the new millennium, I could die happy. She's blonde, has big boobs, gives herself permission to be sweet and even a little ditzy, but she's laughing all the way to bank as the most successful female songwriter of all time. No need to cover Dolly. Just let Dolly do it. 

Beauty, boobs, and heart, Ladies & Gentleman. And SKILLZ.

Neil de Grasse Tyson at Rice's 100th Commencement

This past week, Rice graduated it's 100th class,  wrapping up a year's worth of Centennial celebrations. And Rice couldn't ask for a more fitting speaker to bring it all home than astro-physicist badass, Neil de Grasse Tyson. Not only did his wife graduate from Rice (Baker!) but he embodies Rice's marriage to NASA and the American spirit of exploration, commitment to the future, and to the great unknown. 

I don't feel like I live in that America. But I'm glad Tyson is around to remind us to keep pursuing the unknown, the spirit of innovation, of advancing, and of defining the universe-- and thus, the universal. That our pursuit of these things is tied to so many other important aspects of our perspective.

I often miss my time at Rice, and what it represents. But this was one of the most stinging. 

Congrats, class of 2013!

Amy Poehler's Smart Girls

While there are so many reasons to appreciate Amy Poehler, today, let's take a minute to revel in her creation of Amy Poehler's Smart Girls. It's a whole channel and website of content expressing appreciation for the awesomeness of ladies and living true to your authentic self. 

They have several fun series, including Ask Amy, Meow Meow Music, Operation Nice (love it!) Boy's Minute (even) and Smart Girls at the Party, where they interview inspirational women. The website also features a nice rotating reminder of all the kick ass women who have changed the world. It features a good many of my favorites right up front: Dolly Parton, Bernadette Peters, Michelle Obama and Suzanne Vega. 

Basically, this is one of the happiest, funnest places on the internet and one of the best ideas ever. Appreciation rules. Change the world by being yourself. Word up. 

New Duncan Sheik - Lay Down Your Weapons - Free Download

Duncan released a new song today, available for free download off his website. It has a similar vibe to the other stuff he was writing at that time period, while he was touring Indonesia. And it seems to be coming from the same emotional plain. 

One of the things I've always liked best about Duncan is his ability to see how the pieces all connect. And in my life, Duncan has served as a little indicator light for connecting things as well. Whenever he turns up-- be it in person and we chant together, or in music-- I am reminded of my own proclivity and need to step back and see how the way we do one thing is the way we do everything. And to be aware of that. Here is his commentary on the song. You can download it for free here. 

I wrote Lay Down Your Weapons in 2011 while on tour in Indonesia. I have been playing it live during the past couple of tours and there have been many requests that I release some version of it. Because of the the senseless, ongoing gun violence that is plaguing America I felt even more acutely that I wanted this song to be available to anyone who wanted to hear it. The lyric was not written as a political statement and is obviously a metaphor about fraught human relationships but I do feel personally there are many types of weapons out there that need to be “laid down” for good and forever. Thank you for listening.

Amen. 

RIP, Dave Brubeck

What could I ever say about Dave Brubeck that "To Hope!" doesn't tell you? Or "Take Five?" Nothing I could say could duplicate, convey, or explain those feelings (and many many more) so let's just listen in honor the great man, Mr. Dave Brubeck. 

If I still lived in New York, I'd put on "Take Five" and wander through Rockfeller Center. Something about Dave always made me think of New York during the holidays. 

Cronin At Vroman's

Yesterday, my favorite Rice professor and writing mentor, Justin Cronin, was at Vroman's in Pasadena, reading from his new book, The Twelve. The second in The Passage Trilogy, the book has already garnered great praise and sales. 

I'm excited to delve back into that world. And it felt like a great touching base of the soul to see Cronin, get a quick bit of life advice, and remember that time in my life when I was just starting out. So much hadn't happened to me yet. So much hadn't yet happened to Cronin. 

But he believed in me then, and he still does now. Thanks to him, I've tried never to put my skills in a box... "you write how you write, no matter what you're writing." And thanks to him,  I still think success finds the right people. 

Happy 217th Birthday, John Keats

Happy Birthday to the jewel in my nerd crown, Mr. John Keats. Today is his 217th birthday and I've been saving talking about my experience at his house in Rome for today. 

Essentially, the Keats- Shelley Museum was the primary reason for my desire to go to Rome. I knew I'd love the whole place, but that was the main event. What I came to see. I find connecting to the artists I love gives me clarity. I wanted to see Keats' things. Be in the room where he wrote and where he died. (His death and illness being such a huge well of gravity for his persona and his writings.) I'd already been to the Keats House in Hampstead, but something about this felt more important. I'm not quite sure why. 

Trusty flatmate Fiona indulged my nerdery and I just took my time in the building, looking over his letters to Fanny, his handwriting, his watch, various comic book interpretations of some of his more epic poems. There was a lock of his hair there too and I was surprised to see his hair was blonder than most renderings of him let on. 

I believe there is a soul to buildings. And I could feel the soul of this place. The legacy of those who lived and died there and a kind of cool quiet in contrast to the bustling Spanish Plaza and famous Spanish Steps just outside. There is a steadfast energy to the place. The kind Keats himself so much admired.

Of course I loved all of Rome. But if I had only gone to see my man Keatsy's last domain, it would have been worth it. Happy 217th!

What is a Rebel?

Here's a Saturday quote from my most quotable boyfriend, the sexy/brilliant Albert Camus:

"What is a rebel? A man who says no."

From the most amazing The Rebel. 

If you've never read it, run don't walk to the bookstore or internet. 

Franzen's House For Sale at Transport Group

While those in NYC start bundling up for Fall and Winter, I'm still sleeping with door open and swimming in my pool. I doubt I'll miss Winter in New York, but I will miss the start of this and every theatre season. I'm impressed with Broadway's line up this season. (They snagged Paul Rudd for...anything at all... so why complain?) There's always the spot of drama with some show never making it to performances. (Rebecca. In this case due to shady, dead investors, who, it turns out never existed in the first place.)

I've also been energized, and then of course, depressed that I would miss a few great off-broadway showings. I mean, Jake Gyllenhaal's stage debut alone was enough to make me question my decision to leave. But of all my celebrity boyfriends, no one gets me more turned on (theatrically speaking) than my very own personal abusive boyfriend, Jonathan Franzen. 

This season, one of my favorite theatre groups-- Transport Group-- is presenting a theatrical adaptation of one of Franzen's essays, House For Sale. 

Adapted by Daniel Fish, a man I think might be spying on my thoughts, is the same guy who adapted the strange and trippy stage incarnation of DFW's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. Fish's House For Sale seems to be along the same lines, with five actors interpreting the same essay "word for word" in different ways. I think Franzy's language stands up to repetition. I suppose I'll have to get someone to give me the recap. Theresa, I nominate you.

House For Sale starts this Sunday, October 14th at the Duke.
229 West 42nd Street

You can read the full essay House For Sale here.
Image via

House For Sale from daniel fish on Vimeo.

Happy 100th Birthday, Rice University!

Today, I am wishing a wonderful Centennial Celebration to my beloved alma mater, Rice University. We are a small, strange, and lovely place. I hope we will always fight to keep it that way. We are a small, strange, and lovely group of people; filled with wild, brilliant, silly thoughts. 

I had a hard and lesson-filled four years there.  I remember the joy of winning the world series, jumping in Gillis's pool (no longer the president's house. They've filled the pool in now) and the more than one occasion I sat locked in my car out in the parking lot, staring up at the stadium and crying. They were an intense four years. Sometimes it just felt good to cry it out. In many ways, I think I made the absolute most of them. In other ways, I wish I'd worked a lot harder. 

But out of all my decisions, in my whole life, no decision (or the lead up to it) has had more impact on my life than choosing Rice. It is the fulcrum on which the everything else pivots: my career, my friends, the way I interact with the people I keep in my life. 

I haven't always agreed with the direction our current president has taken the school, but I insist that there exists an inherent Rice-ness at the soul of those swampy acres that no ambitious professional academic administrator could squash. Try all you like, but I think you'll never make Rice like Duke or Columbia or Harvard. And I'm glad for that fact. I always think of the West Wing: Let Bartlet Be Bartlet. 

Let Rice Be Rice. 

I wish I could be there to celebrate homecoming with everyone, but I am sending all my love and thanks to a place I love so dearly. Happy Birthday, Rice. Gurrrrl, you look good for 100. Go Owls. 

Vegas Road Trip Friday Links

Today I have the great honor of showing a Brit the wonderment that is Las Vegas. Even though we'll be there less than 24 hours, I'm excited to see my Tigerlily, my Emily and my Dad. I'm excited to begin steps (again) for getting my driver's license back. I'm excited to show people the Elvis Museum. Here are your links.

- My college prof/friend/mentor's new book comes out. Nice when the Times does a feature.
- Becoming a stylish writer
- Or! Just say whatever the hell you want. Then take it back. Works for this guy.
- This was good. I went to a University with the good sense to skip fraternities, but I get it. 
- I wholeheartedly agree with this in the nerdiest way possible.
- Milo Greene at the Wythe Hotel
- Forget your past

Happy Roald Dahl Day!

Today, let's celebrate the flawed man and the weird, wild, amazing mind of Roald Dahl. I've said before that Roald Dahl is perhaps the largest influence on my writing. I wonder if it shows up to you all, but his work is always looming large in my own mind as I write. As child, his stories used to frighten me, but tickle my mind into insomnia, where I'd spend all night in the dark dreaming up and playing at my own stories. 

In my darkest moments, his stories felt like what my childhood felt like. Also in my lightest. And I suspect, most children. Because I think, fundamentally, there is something fantastical and also something spooky about what it means to be a child. 


Dahl is also the source of one of my favorite quotes about writing: "A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom." 

Amen, brother. 


I cannot pick a favorite story of his. Though James & the Giant Peach is up there. Along with Matilda. Both of which have been turned into musicals. Matilda being one of my favorite musicals I've ever seen. Man, I wish I were working on that show... I digress... 
I eagerly look forward to its arrival here in NYC, so that everyone else can experience the strange glee I felt every moment of those hours in London watching those Revolting Children. 

My Grandmother is Maggie Smith

While we only have a few days left to wait until the premiere of Downton Abbey's Season 3, I feel the urgent need to tell you something: My Grandmother is Maggie Smith. She's Maggie Smith in The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood (A movie I'm still surprised Maggie Smith was in, but moving on...) because, obviously, my grandmother has a Southern accent. 

She looks like her, (startlingly so, actually) she acts like her, and she's just as funny. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend some time with her in the hospital this week, and even though the Perry, Georgia Hospital is not my ideal scene setting for hanging with the GrandMary, it did allow for some of her most Maggie Smith-ness to flourish. She had quips and one-liners about the food, the annoying man who always came to do her breathing machine after she'd taken her ambien, who was common, her continued annoyance at people's incorrect use of grammar, and of course, how she missed the gossip of being amongst her friends. 

I will admit that my relationship with my Grandmother has never been quite the same since my Grandfather died. We used to have a kind of deep understanding, some kind of unspoken fun wavelength we were both on at the intersection of historic homes, love of novels, and UNO. There's so much I'm desperate to make her understand about my life, the way she used to so effortlessly when I was a little girl. But instead, we meet at a new intersection: Queen Elizabeth. She wanted to know all about the Jubilee. Which reminded me all the more of Maggie. And I was happy to tell her all about it. 

Even though I'll be missing my Grandmother, I'll be riding high from my time with her happy to have Maggie back on telly, reminding me of my fab family matriarch. 

Everything Is Ok Links

Well, if it's not now, it's going to be. Right? I'm off today for the Southland. South Carolina, Georgia & North Carolina. I wish I could tell you I was going for purely happy reasons. Some of the reasons are happy, but mostly, I'm going to see my Grandmother, who is ill. Please send your good thoughts to her. She's pretty much my last link to positive myth-making about my childhood and I love her very much. 

- Ralfalca Romney might be the 'dark horse' challenger to Kim Kierkegaardashian as my fave twitter. 
- More Rafalca
- The Revolt of the Rich from the American Conservative
- In case you were under a rock and missed MOBAMA. Ooh, she's classy. I love her. 
- The dream of the 90s is alive in Charlotte. Thank YOU, Big Dog Clinton. 
- Gorgeous Light of Scotland's Isle of Harris
- Finally the official trailer for Downton - 2 weeks!
- Tobey Maguire cut from Life of Pi, replaced with Brit Rafe Spall. Hm.
- Broadway's Emerging 25 under 35. (Hint: We're not on it)
- Procrastinators are perfectionists. I agree. 
- Novelists fight internet addiction. Yes. 
- DFW's childhood writings
- Still want to be friends with Claire Vaye Watkins
- Everyone is all about being from Nevada these days. Everything is Battleborn. Don't. I. Know. It. From Claire Vaye Watkins to The Killers. Battle Born. 

- Speaking of album releases, also out soon-- next week!-- The xx, Coexist. Here's the first single:

Battleborn, Or Be My Friend, Claire Vaye Watkins

Comparison is the thief of Joy. It's a lesson I've always had to learn the hard way. I'm hard on myself. Always. So I stack myself up against others all the time. I transfer my own judgement of myself onto my dealings with my family-- and make them the people who are disappointed in me, when really I am the one. It's me. I'm comparing me to others. Not them. 

In college, my friend Parisa had this great rule we always tried to follow whenever that feeling crept up on us about other women. Whenever you feel tempted to feel jealous or envious of another girl, you should immediately become their friend. Nothing will kill that jealousy faster than becoming friends. It really works and I've done it a lot. Some of my best friends came from The Parisa Method. 

It's also the inspiration for the series I do on this blog: "Be My Friend, So & So." I've talked about Liz Merriwether, Liz Gilbert, Allie Brosch and others.  So here's a new one in honor of Nevada writer, Claire Vaye Watkins' new collection of short stories, Battleborn. 

If you know your state mottoes, you'll see right away that these are short stories about our shared (ambivalently felt, in my case; less so, in hers) home state of Nevada. Drifters, wanderers, that washed-out old photo feeling that comes from the place... that's Battleborn. I'm only one story in, but that was pretty much enough. I'm sold. 

She has lots of interesting things to say about writing and the Battleborn State (NV was admitted to Union in 1863 during the height of the Civil War, thus the moniker) on this Granta podcast. The sound is rather low, so crank up that volume.

One of the things I like best about Claire is the free writers workshop she's put together for rural Nevada teens, The Mohave School. It took me a long time to own where I'm from (or at least accept it and love it as one of the places I'm from) but now that I've arrived in that mental state, I'd love to get involved in her endeavors there. The thing I could always say is that there are far more stories in Nevada than anyone would think at first guess. FOR EXAMPLE, in Claire's case, this little teeny tiny bio detail. My most extensive experience with Charles Manson was playing Squeaky Fromme in Assassins where I sang a love duet to him (while John Hinckley Jr. sang to Jodie Foster.)

Perhaps because that song is called "Unworthy of Your Love," that detail feels simultaneously like a joke and also massively significant. I suppose, I think it's interesting to look at the parallels and the diversions between any two people. Like me, Claire was born in California and thereafter moved to Nevada (Pahrump in her case.) Like me, she had an alcoholic mother (she describes her mother as "this incredible dynamo; a great bullshitter.") My father is the opposite of Charlie Manson's right hand man. Unlike me, she stayed in Nevada and went to UNR. We both did postgrad writing programs in places you might not expect.  

Bringing this back home to the beginning of this post, and in my continued effort to get really seriously real with myself and you on this blog,  I suppose I want to say this. (In addition to "Be My Friend, Claire Vaye Watkins.)

I want to say that Claire is two years younger than me and has been published in all manner of places I envy. The Paris Review. Granta. She gets compared to Cormac McCarthy and Annie Proulx and Joan Didion. My teeth hurt, I am so envious. But here's my confession: I don't even send my stories out anymore. I have been propped up and pared down so many times now, I don't know what to think. I don't send any fiction out into the world, save on this blog. I both know and don't know why that is at the moment. I have been hoarding. I have been waiting for people to ask. And when people finally ask-- and mean it; not just as a courtesy-- it feels like my heart is going to explode. I cry on the spot. 

I am trying to work through this unworthiness I feel-- with my family and with myself. And in the odd manner in which I choose and sometimes choose not to share my work with others. 

All photos from the author's (really beautiful) website

First Friday Back in NYC Links

Well I'm back. What do I do now? There's still this lingering flakiness juju in the air that I am trying to effing sage-smudge out of my general vicinity. More things have fallen through lately than my patience level can really cope with-- and yet, I'm remaining relatively calm. I feel like I end up having a lot of conversations with people about my standards. That I expect too much of people (only what I expect of myself, for the record) yada yada yada. While I think I've become softer in my existential angst towards the parts of the world that don't make any goddamn sense, I don't see myself being any less demanding anytime soon. 

It's weird to be here without a job and weird to constantly answer so many questions (How long are you here? Where are you living? What are your plans now?) with a big smile and an "Uhhhh.... that's a good question. I'm not sure about that yet." For the most part, though, I'm trying to stay positive and looking ahead. I think there's a lot to be excited about this Autumn.

- What if Olympics 2012 had been in NYC instead of London?
- Wait, the power of negative thinking??
- Six Reasons Your Move Abroad Might Not Work Out. I laughed.
- The world's most perfect man? Just. Might. Be.
- Owls are assholes. No... I love them. Go Rice.
- What if I lived here?
- Behind the scenes of the Chaplin musical and his famous bread roll ballet
- I can't wait for Season 2 of Homeland. Counting down the days.
- Everything Is Fiction from Keith Ridgway. So good.
- Speaking of writing, The Fall Book forecast looks gooooood! I want to read almost all of these. Junot Diaz short stories! NW from Zadie Smith! And The Twelve is out! Huzzah for Cronin.

- Speaking of Cronin, here he is reading from The Twelve. Have a great weekend!

What I Did For Love - We'll Miss You, Marvin Hamlisch

Like most everyone else in the theatre community, I was heartbroken to learn yesterday that the wonderful Marvin Hamlisch had passed away. I only got to meet him once, when he came to a tourism event I participated in when I worked for the Shuberts, but it was enough. What a role model. He's one of only eleven people to have all four of the major arts awards: A Grammy, a Tony, And Oscar and an Emmy. And he's one of only two people to have all those things plus a Pulitzer. (The other being Richard Rodgers.) 

And what I lovely, funny man. I have a special place in my heart for "The Way We Were" (and all things Redford, obviously.) And I don't think there's any kid who ever dreamed a Broadway Dream that didn't listen to "What I Did For Love" on repeat and know in their hearts it was written for them. Marvin, you will be much much missed. 

Liz Meriwether, Please be my friend

Josh Haner/The New York Times

When I finally figured out there was a job that combined all my strengths; that didn't ask me to choose between  being a writer and a producer-- in fact, happily blurred that line-- it felt more like vindication than revelation. See? I thought. I didn't have project or purpose attention deficit disorder. There was (is!) a whole, special, powerful position for people exactly like me! Ideas people! Bossy people!


Showrunner. It just sounds good doesn't it? It's your show. Your idea. And you run that shit. You control the arc, make the final decisions, weigh in on all the important matters, but you have a whole room full of people to handle some of those nuts and bolts issues. Transitions. The episode to episode. Amazing.


I had my show idea. (Still have it.) Had it two and half years ago. I knew what to do. But of course, a few years ago, I had a lot of people in my ear saying 'you can't be a showrunner at your age.' Or without previous television credits. 


Enter Liz Merriwether. A playwright and messy dabbler who graduated from Yale the same year I graduated from Rice. Another blonde who loves politics, weird people, and sometimes feels like she should have been born Jewish (past life?) 


In one fell swoop, she went from playwright to Obama firee to screenwriter (of rom com No Strings Attached) to New Girl showrunner. (I'm sure I'm simplifying, but that's part of the fun, right?) Is she in over her head? Probably. Does she sleep in her office? Yes. Either way, it seems to be paying off. 


I don't watch New Girl and in fact, don't want to. Maybe because I don't want to be influenced?  Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and do it. Is this stuff probably the best stuff Liz Meriwether is going to do in her career? Probably not. And that's a good thing. Just think of where she's starting and where she might go. And bless her for doing it. 


Mostly, I just want to say to Liz Meriwether: thank you. Thank you, Liz for being exactly who you are. For being the glaring example, the name I blurt out spastically whenever anyone talks about "starting over" in film and TV in Los Angeles. Also, Liz, do you want to be my new best friend? Call me. 


And finally, thanks yet again for this quote: 

As she balances the logistic and creative challenges of parallel careers in New York and Los Angeles, Ms. Meriwether remains determined to pursue both theater and Hollywood. “I don’t think I’d be satisfied leaving the theater,” she said. “But I’m really getting a taste of what it is to do both.”

Do it all. More is more, bitches.  

American Soul Links - And Some on Losing it

There was a lot of goodbye-ing this week. From all my friends in Scotland to some opportunities, to-- this very morning-- when I awoke to hear of a tragic shooting in Colorado and the death of one of my childhood inspirationals: the father of my very first friend. I've always really internalized the pain of others to a kind of a detrimental degree. I have a hard time with it. I suppose it's all part of my greater existential grapple. I stand by the point that its futile to compare suffering, or rank it. Suffering is suffering is suffering. But some loss, you can wrap your brain around. My friend Guy Mitchell fought the good fight. He lived a joyous life, watched his grandkids be born, inspired and advised those around him on matters of the soul. In short, his soul was smiling... and striving... for understanding all the time: a quality I admire in people to the utmost. 


But then there's the losses that make no sense. And there you have something I worry about--can't ignore-- in the world today... and especially in my country. I worry about the modern American soul. The way we're starving it and ignoring it and paying it off with money and tuning it out or crowding it out with more work. There's no room for it. There's no time for it. I left the US, in part, to take a step back and look at where I came from-- to get some distance from, and then hopefully clarity on, all that was troubling my American soul about the American soul. 


My academic (and fiction!) writing is frequently, and in my opinion, meanly accused of being too American, too conversational, and not argumentative enough. To the people who say this, I say, respectfully, suck it. 


Life is a conversation that we're not really having anymore. We espouse, assume, back up with facts, or versions of "facts," we beat people over the head, or stonewall, or shut out. Or post! We put up academic formalities for distance and we're lacking in real dialogue that asks for a response. We're all rhetorical questions, and very few honest or earnest ones. I don't know why James Holmes went into a movie theatre and shot over 50 people. Maybe there is no why. Maybe he's just a sociopath. But my instinct is to tally these types of violent acts as moments when starving souls snap. And the food of the soul is human connection; dialogue. 


I have been accused of starting too many sentences with "and." Guilty. And I won't give it up. Because there's always more. You don't "get to the bottom" of any soul situation. If  you show up at all, it should be with the understanding that you start with the fact that there's always more to talk about. I am brimming with these things that still need to be discussed; that we'll never get to the bottom of. So I start with and, and, and. And keep on fighting the good fight. And keep writing, yeah. 


Your links:
- More on why women are leaving academia
- This is some of the bureaucratic mess I'm thrilled to be leaving. Several of my friends suffering from this right now. Five months, no passport. 
- More Franzen hate. I think this chick is mean and misses the point. And doesn't understand self-deprecation?
- The Newsroom's woman problem, etc etc
- Barack, Mitt, & Adam Smith. Oh, economics.
- More on my fave band, Milo Greene, and where they got their name. I approve. 
- Ah, hearing color. One of my favorite topics. 
- The Olympic rings projected on the white cliffs of Dover. Gorgeous. 
- The new No Doubt track isn't my favorite, but it sure is nice to have them back. 

How Can Lightness Insist?

Let's just say I'm still unpacking my experience of seeing Kay Ryan and Seamus Heaney and Simon Armitage and Wole Soyinka last night. I'm still unpacking it in light of all that's going on in my life right now. How unbelievably funny and serious it was, all at once. How just their presence on stage; the feeling that they knew what we were going through, made both Sarah and me cry. 


But for now, I'd like to leave you with these lines and her thoughts on lightness. Flipping the heavy into the light is a Buddhist karmic idea that I've long been drawn to. I'm glad Kay feels the same.

If a fairy makes a fist

who's impressed?

How can lightness insist?

Years ago I wrote a poem that went on too long but started well; it began, "If a fairy makes a fist/ who's impressed?/ How can lightness insist?" And that is what I would still like to know: how can lightness insist? In The Unbearable Lightness of Being Milan Kundera writes wistfully of the eponymous substance, describing how Beethoven once converted a perfectly inconsequential joke into a "serious quartet." Kundera contemplates how much more remarkable it would have been if Beethoven had achieved the reverse, making "heavy go light."

I don't know why lightness isn't more talked about, more valued, more pursued in poetry. I suspect it is out of the fear that one will be"taken lightly." But I ask, is there a sensation more exquisite than the feeling of having the burden of oneself borne off by a poem? The burden only, note; not the self. One's atoms are mysteriously distanced from one another. That is to say, one still has all one's own atoms, but for the moment they are not the trouble they were.

I think it bears repeating. "Is there a sensation more exquisite than the feeling of having the burden of oneself borne off by a poem?" No, no there is not. One still has all one's own atoms, but for the moment, they are not the trouble they were.  Yes.