I'm sure you still look like a movie star

[sovay]

For dinner, spatch and I made a sort of black bean chili with steak sliced into it and belated grits on the side, after which we watched Mae West get away with anything she felt like in I'm No Angel (1933). Every one of the famous lines sounds even better in the original. Some of those entendres weren't even trying to double.

Before dinner, I had the pleasure of reading a poem I had written earlier in the day as part of radiantfracture's birthday Zoom, whose other contributions included an opening meditation, poems of trees, yizkor books, fish teeth, 'zine titles, and vultures, and a Hittite incantation of the underworld. It was like a concentrated mini-shot of a convention. It was great.

In the afternoon, I wrote my first poem since the demise of Bertie Owen, meaning the first poem on this new machine, which I somewhat had to wrestle it for.

For a day in which I didn't sleep and ran around to a bunch of appointments, it worked out pretty all right.

Comments

[sovay]

I love the idea of a recipe called belated grits, though I suppose it's grits made at the last minute or even after.

They took much longer to cook than we thought they were going to!

*hugs*