February 19, 2024

Last, next.

100: Leap of Faith (4,704c)
101: Kraft Plus (Wednesday Blue)

Two Field Notes memo books side by side: one used, one new

Field Notes
February 4, 2024

A story is what remains when you leave out most of the action; a story is a coherent sequence of picture cards: One: Samson in the vineyards of Timnah; Two: the lion comes roaring at Samson; Three: Samson tears the lion apart. That’s a story but actually the main part of the action may have been that there was a butterfly in Samson’s field of vision the whole time. The picture cards don’t show the butterfly because if they did they would have to explain it. But you can’t explain the butterfly.

—Russell Hoban, Pilgermann (1983)

SA4QE

SA4QE
February 4, 2024

I exist, said the mirror.
What about me? said Kleinzeit.
Not my problem, said the mirror.

—Russell Hoban, Kleinzeit (1974)

SA4QE

SA4QE
January 12, 2024

I wrote the last poems for Vessels in June of 2021.

But I feel like I finally finished the book this week when, after reviewing the galley proof, I submitted the last edits and my final About the Author and Acknowledgements drafts.

It’s all extravagant press junkets and groupies from here on out.

Three versions of a manuscript: One bound by a binder clip, titled Vessels December 2022; one in a 3-ring binder, titled Vessels March 2023, and a printout of the final galley proof as a series of small packets stapled together, titled Vessels with Dec 2023 written along the top.

meta writing Vessels
January 11, 2024

Last, next.

99: Snowy Evening (15,903)
100: Leap of Faith (4,704c)

Two Field Notes memo books side by side: one used, one new

Field Notes
December 21, 2023

My wife and I met thirty years ago today.

I was invited over to a friend’s apartment to meet her — and she ignored me the whole time. No hello, no eye contact. Absolutely nothing. She was utterly unapproachable. Instead, she spent the evening in the other room, forehead-to-forehead with her friend, discussing and analyzing a VHS tape of the modern dance concert she’d choreographed a few weeks earlier. And I could see instantly how smart, articulate, beautiful, and, most of all, strong she was.

We began dating eleven months later, and married eleven months after that. Twenty-two months that seemed, at the time, to span thirty years. And now, thirty years that seem, at times, to have spanned barely twenty-two months. Well, that’s time for you.

Some stories belong to the breath, not to the pixel and keyboard. Some stories need the counterpoint of digressions and indignant amendments, of interruptions to refill the wine glass or the bread bowl, or to choose more music, album by album. They need the bustle and patience of a long evening, the wood and steel rhythms of a well-provisioned table.

So: to hear the rest of the story, you’ll need to be seated across from us, favorite beverage at your elbow, and all the time in the world. And perhaps a story or two for us in exchange.

meta OTD
November 29, 2023

Last, next.

98: Harvest (Orleans Reinette Apples)
99: Snowy Evening (15,903)

Two Field Notes memo books side by side: one used, one new

Field Notes
October 15, 2023

Last, next.

97: Autumn Trilogy (Scarlet Oak)
98: Harvest (Orleans Reinette Apples)

Two Field Notes memo books side by side: one used, one new

Field Notes
September 7, 2023

Another bookmark for the series.

I just found this in a book I bought during my only visit to Elliott Bay Books (and to Seattle), in 2014.

A bookmark with a drawing of an old three-mast schooner at the top. Below, a quote from Andre Maurois: In literature, as in love, we are astonished at what is chosen by others.

(Original series here, with subsequent discoveries here.)

bookmark
August 31, 2023

Last, next.

96: Nat’l Parks (Yellowstone)
97: Autumn Trilogy (Scarlet Oak)

Two Field Notes memo books side by side: one used, one new

Field Notes