487: two anthologies

There are two anthologies I want to call your attention to:

1. From Orchards, Fields, and Gardens, edited by Kerstin Svendsen, which will be available in mid-August and is $4 off pre-orders. Of course, I'm extra-excited about this project because I have three poems inside: the title poem to my chapbook (which is still making rounds, but I promise an update, even when it's a bridesmaid again) "The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake," as well as "Kitchen" and "Palming Earth."


2. The other is a collection being published by Harper Perennial, and my tattoo, done by the lovely and talented Shawn Hebrank, will make an appearance in its pages. You can read more about my specific tattoo in this post, and you can check out the book's webpage here. It will be released October 12th.

372: the end of meat

There have been a few things leading up to it: first, my body decided it. I respect and trust my body.

Second, I got a tattoo. I spent seven hours with some of my favorite vegans; when I came home, I confessed to Ryan: "Well..." And he said, "You are not becoming vegan."

Oh. Oh, no.

But: I'd been debating it by then though. Not veganism, not when I love milk-and-cheese-and-wool-and-honey, but stopping the meat again.

And there it was, a little something, a particle of something, a something that niggled and now, I'm taking that plunge, with more thought than I did for my first venture.

There are thirds and fourths and fifths and so much else influencing me:

:: Food, Inc.

:: Jonathan Safran Foer's new book.

:: The considerations of No Impact Week.

:: But most of all, last night, when we went for our last visit of my grandmother in the nursing home. The four of us piled into the car, Mom and Dad up front, and my grandmother's white kitty between us (oh, and: interesting dream, if you haven't read it), Ryan and I poking our fingers through the bars, cooing, calming, and suddenly there is that metallic sound, that crunch that is car-upon-something-big, something-frighteningly-big, and it wasn't my father rear-ending someone, but instead that slam that-is-a-body. My father has bagged his third deer, each roadside creatures, and this one, leaving that gritty red-upon-red, those quill-hairs in miniature, something that looks like an organ-bit or something-fatty. I sat still for so long, my fingers pressed against my mouth, my mother fretting over the trip back home (flat tires, radiator fluid leaking, what-could-it-be?) and the cat, silent, a few mewls from her kennel. My mother confessed: "If we were in Wisconsin, that deer would be yours" after the pondering of what might happen to the body.

Fortunately for my father, just around the corner of his home is the Wildlife Sanctuary, and he can make some kind of karmic retribution.

I hate to admit this, but I'm glad, of the four of us, that it was my father who hit the deer: he has the right distance from me for me to not feel the hot shame (Ryan), he feels the right level of guilt (me: I'd spiral out of control in sorrow) balanced with the right level of nervousness at the car's ability to get its passengers to the nursing home (my mother kept repeating her hyperbolic fears--whatifwhatifwhatif!)--but my father, my poor father, who has now hit three deer in his life (this is the second from visiting his parents), who hasn't wanted to hit any--he knows how beautiful these creatures are and how good it is to contentedly drive a hanging-in-there car--

Can I now? The biggest images will haunt me: the chicken whose breasts are too-heavy to hold the bird upright, the cow whose hind legs couldn't hold it upright, the chicks separated so aggressively, and now, the sound of the thunk of bumper-on-deer.

337: on being tattooed and attention

(not a healed picture--instead, another just-after image)

I should know better. I read Meryl's essay (pdf, pg 190). This, from a woman whose tattoo extends onto her hand. I knew.

But I'm pleased at how my tattoo looks. I love wearing my heart on my sleeve, so to speak, and proclaiming that love of language by transferring it onto the body.

And, of course, in the days since the tattoo, the air has drawn sharply colder, and wearing short sleeves about is ridiculous. For now, I'm wearing short sleeves beneath cardigans, so when I enter Lind, I can slip out of it and show off my arm-art.



I've gotten a lot of good attention. Maxine Hong Kingston, visiting writer, touched my arm at dinner tonight and said, "I love this." (By the way, I'm posting pictures and musings from the reading in this post on my other blog.)

My classmates seem to really love it too.

This all makes sense. We all love words.

But I hadn't quite been prepared, not mentally though the logic was in place, for the strange attention. Nothing negative just yet, but:

At last night's reading (see post about it on the other blog), I tried to do something sneakily, but failed, and hushed the thank-yous in an embarrassing manner, and a woman in the audience said something about my only wanting to seem tough (or something like that). I wasn't quite sure what she meant until I realized my wearing all black / brown and having a giant tattoo--was this it? Did I seem "tough" because I had a large amount of permanent scrawl on my arm? I demurred, saying I was awfully squishy, my friends knew that, and Amanda was kind enough to say, "You're squishy and tough" (oh, I only wish I were tough).

Tonight, an audience member cornered me for a bit until a professor rescued me, asking about other secret, hidden tattoos. Erm.

I know, I may be brash here, I may be completely willing to share with you the foibles of my body, but I'm finding, surprisingly, that there are limitations to what I will share and where I will share it. Here, I don't mind telling about a tattoo I had at eighteen, a tramp stamp, so to speak, and how my ex-girlfriend held my hand as I swore and my little sister stood behind and watched--but not to some strange man who might have had too much wine at the reception beforehand.

And yes, yes, yes, I do not claim to not know I would get attention. But in my dim mind, the part that cloisters things off, I hadn't thought about how I might feel or react to misconceptions of my personality--having this thing makes people feel as if doors have opened in conversation.

And I didn't, truly no!, do it for the attention anyway. I did it because I love language, I love this poem, I love the way visual poetry looks, I love the talent of some artists, I love the way words on the body intersect with so many gorgeous things (I used to write drafts of poems on Ryan's arms when we first started dating; he won't let me do it any more). I suppose I'll have to adapt to this strange attention and now understand, on a new level, just what Meryl was talking about when she mentions the annoyances of the grocery store gawkers.

336: because you asked so nicely

The in-progress shots taken by Meryl, Shawn's wife:


The final-product, though a-little-hurty shots taken by the tattoo artist himself:


The wrapped-in-plastic, on-the-road-to-recovery shots taken by my husband at home (where he fed me homemade waffles and orange juice):


Honestly? It didn't hurt all that much. Just felt like those nicks you get from shaving. Over and over and over again. And I realize this area of my body is the most adaptable to this sort of pain, so the gold sticker I might feel I deserve is ridiculous.

For those who are curious, it took six hours and fifteen minutes of sit time.

I'm amazed at the amount of work that went into this tattoo. It really is awfully amazing, isn't it?

And Meryl kept me company the whole time, and we nattered on about poetry and other distracting topics. I need to spend more time with that sweet poetess and her hoosband. Them's good peoples.

Thanks again, Shawn.

I can't wait to see what you're going to do on that letterpress!

PS: I'll post some healed pictures too, promise.

Edit to add: Shawn's post about the one-of-a-kind-tattoo. (He even warned Meryl, when she was oohing over how neat it is: "Don't get any ideas! I'm not doing this again!")