It's Sunday & I'm Boring: Some Thoughts from the Well-Rested

Hi Darling Ones,
Added: I am slowly recovering from my stupid, self-inflicted emotional upheaval, which is good, but has left me a little scattered. So for today you get a listicle of random nonsense, the way the goddesses of the Internet intended when Al Gore invented this shit.

I’ve listened to Eddie Vedder’s cover of R.E.M.’s “Drive” roughly twelveteen floppity jillion times. The original song isn’t even in my Top 10 All-Time Favorite R.E.M. songs. However, there’s something about Vedder’s deep gravelly voice and all those hard echoing K-sounds (what if you rock around the clock, tick tock tick tock) that hit me in my sonic sweet spot.

I’m reading The Equivalents: A Story of Art, Female Friendship, and Liberation in the 1960s and am angry all over again about the 1950s. I also kinda want to be Anne Sexton to someone’s Maxine Kumin, even though Maxine Kumin is the coolest name in all of literary women.

I think I read a Sexton poem in 11th grade American Literature about flying over rooftops while being in the midst of a nervous breakdown. I have been searching for this poem since 1989 and have yet to find it. I’m not even sure if it was Sexton. I’m 85% sure it was written by a woman in her cohort and about 90% sure of the rooftop imagery. If you know this poem, I will love you forever for telling me the name of it.

I just learned that I share a birthday with Maxine Kumin which simultaneously feels like kismet and something I should have known before today.

Scheduled send in Gmail is my favorite thing and allows my obsessive brain to do work without letting clients think I respond to email on weekends.

I like to give myself real & imaginary awards for all the things I do. Today I called for a humanitarian award for not wasting food by eating a donut that contained sprinkles. Sprinkles are pointless, tasteless trash. I als decided when I get my novel published I should win a National Book Award for being the first novel (probably) to very specifically mention the airshaft version “Can’t Hardly Wait.”

In related news: I wrote one-thousand, five-hundred, and eighty-nine words of fiction today and now my finger tips hurt.

That is all,
Jodi

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Barb Durham 22.Aug.21 at 8:58 pm

Is it this one?

Her Kind
By Anne Sexton
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
1. Jodi Chromey 23.Aug.21 at 12:01 pm
  
  I want it to be the one, but it’s not giving me that spark of recognition in my heart. Even so, this poem is amazing and I love it.
Morgan 22.Aug.21 at 9:01 pm

I was also going to suggest Her Kind.

I Will Dare

It’s Sunday & I’m Boring: Some Thoughts from the Well-Rested

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