mon / overcast key west ready for rain!
last nite i watched & watched true blood season 3 & made a 5 hr pasta sauce. [& i wrote between episodes. poetry fodder goodness on the tropics backporch.] now that i only have like 4 episodes left i dont want to watch it anymore b/c i dont want to be done with it already. i lurve true blood. & poetry on the backporch. i found a bottle of wine in town called 'tres rios' RED SPANISH WINE for 3 bucks a bottle--it's pretty much amazing. i have a fishmarket on caroline st right down from my house & a lil family market right down the road on fleming st. everything's right here. i rigged the backporch so that the lalabears can no longer scoot under the house & out on the street, much to their dismay.
just got back from lunch w/ past hemingway papa mr fred & his lovely mrs jean & also sweet mrs june. we went to azur: classy. i had seafood gazpacho & a frissee pear/date/gorgonzola salad. yurm. went to sloppy joes & rita had just hired a bartender the week before so it's nose to the grindstone as i need a lil something part-time this summer. mr fred says 'the cafe' right down the street has the best mussels he's ever had in his life so im going to head down there for dinner after awhile.
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im currently doing an interview w/ bill wetzel & he asked me for two folks to give a statement on me/my writing. i asked my mija mara v of course & then half my poetry heart, gordon massman. i adore gordon. here's what he had to say:
Shelly Taylor is the real deal, the genuine article; she stands, I believe, in contrast to materialist/literary/intellectual conformity which wants to enslave all peoples. Shelly’s constitution just resists such designs on her body and soul and, therefore, she suffers. Like her compatriots in authentic rebellion—artists, poets, musicians, philosophers-- she is neither wealthy nor secure. Her future mirage-wavers before her eyes and all too often evaporates at her grasp. She prefers children to adults, animals to children, and baby animals to grown-up animals, for fine-grained reasons. She’s bared her heart to idiots, assassins, pyromaniacs, and fools. Who hasn’t? From my thirty year seniority, I love Shelly as I love a hillside of wildflowers. Sure, booted humans crush some of her, but they’ll never crush her all. Well, I’ll just leave it there. I don’t actually know her very well.
Life is a LP album and Shelly knows how to lift the player arm off the awful grooves and replace it on the beautiful, thereby creating a sumptuous symphony. One just feels in her brilliant compositions that she includes in a satisfying way only movements that matter, and in so doing is a virtuoso. Such noise in the world and here in her book is the music within the noise. Thank heaven for writers like Shelly Taylor who mute for humankind the background chatter and noise of distraction while concentrating and memorializing what matters. Shelly’s book, Black-Eyed Heifer, beautifully produced by Christian Peet at Tarpaulin Sky Press, elicits the response , there’s a magician at work and inspiring the question, how did she do it?
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i'd like it to rain. havent seen rain in months & months & months...
just got back from lunch w/ past hemingway papa mr fred & his lovely mrs jean & also sweet mrs june. we went to azur: classy. i had seafood gazpacho & a frissee pear/date/gorgonzola salad. yurm. went to sloppy joes & rita had just hired a bartender the week before so it's nose to the grindstone as i need a lil something part-time this summer. mr fred says 'the cafe' right down the street has the best mussels he's ever had in his life so im going to head down there for dinner after awhile.
---------------poetry stuff--------------------------
im currently doing an interview w/ bill wetzel & he asked me for two folks to give a statement on me/my writing. i asked my mija mara v of course & then half my poetry heart, gordon massman. i adore gordon. here's what he had to say:
Shelly Taylor is the real deal, the genuine article; she stands, I believe, in contrast to materialist/literary/intellectual conformity which wants to enslave all peoples. Shelly’s constitution just resists such designs on her body and soul and, therefore, she suffers. Like her compatriots in authentic rebellion—artists, poets, musicians, philosophers-- she is neither wealthy nor secure. Her future mirage-wavers before her eyes and all too often evaporates at her grasp. She prefers children to adults, animals to children, and baby animals to grown-up animals, for fine-grained reasons. She’s bared her heart to idiots, assassins, pyromaniacs, and fools. Who hasn’t? From my thirty year seniority, I love Shelly as I love a hillside of wildflowers. Sure, booted humans crush some of her, but they’ll never crush her all. Well, I’ll just leave it there. I don’t actually know her very well.
Life is a LP album and Shelly knows how to lift the player arm off the awful grooves and replace it on the beautiful, thereby creating a sumptuous symphony. One just feels in her brilliant compositions that she includes in a satisfying way only movements that matter, and in so doing is a virtuoso. Such noise in the world and here in her book is the music within the noise. Thank heaven for writers like Shelly Taylor who mute for humankind the background chatter and noise of distraction while concentrating and memorializing what matters. Shelly’s book, Black-Eyed Heifer, beautifully produced by Christian Peet at Tarpaulin Sky Press, elicits the response , there’s a magician at work and inspiring the question, how did she do it?
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i'd like it to rain. havent seen rain in months & months & months...
