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Dream fragments

January 8, 2017


All I recall is a bunch of leaves from different plants (no pots, just the leaves), filling up about a 2 foot sphere, against a background of white walls. The only type of plant I recognized was Oxalis; there was something I couldn’t identify that had curly tendrils.

A marigold that had budded, when I looked the next day was in flower: solid bright orange. (Which was puzzling as I was pretty sure the flowers were supposed to be variegated yellow and brick red.)



A male relative of Spouse’s, that I’d hit it off with on previous visit out West (where he lived), contacted Spouse to say that his mother, “Mildred Pierce”, had died at age 102. Gave funeral arrangements.

I remarked to Spouse that I knew “Mildred Pierce” was a movie with Bette Davis, but I’d never seen it.

Spouse and I discussed attending the funeral, despite the geographical distance. Spouse didn’t have any particular interest, since he hadn’t known MP or her scion. I said that I’d attended funerals in my youth out of curiosity (where I hadn’t known the person myself, but my father did), and they were uncomfortable because my emotions mismatched everyone else’s emotions. That it felt an extra degree of prickly because it was unseemly for me not to feel the grief everyone else felt. So we decided not to go.

A conversation with my FIL.

I was in a back bedroom of my in-law’s house, with my MIL. She was speaking from a far corner of the room, in front of empty built-in bookshelves. I was on a bed by the door, and wanted to stand up, but my back hurt too much. I said something to my MIL, who laughed, and did not move to help me. So I dropped to the floor, crawled over to the door, and tried to straighten my back from that vantage.            Later, my MIL talked about how “this is the only house we will ever have”, which seemed to be a contrast with the male relative out West. With his mother/aunt’s death, he was going to inherit her extensive properties.

Some weird behavior when I flushed the toilet made me think the pipes might be frozen.




{It was Joan Crawford in the movie “Mildred Pierce”, not Bette Davis.}

Even in the dream, I wasn’t clear on how the male relative was connected to “Mildred Pierce”: son, nephew, grand-nephew, cousin?

The “out West” part seems significant, but it wasn’t New Mexico or even Arizona. It might have been Texas.

The house that belonged to my in-laws in the dream had the same layout as my Uncle Ed’s house. All the walls were newly white.



Last week, while grocery shopping, was the first time I saw indoor plants and thought, “I want a big plant in a pot”; later at home, looked around to see where I might put a potted plant.

I have a marigold plant right now, but it’s just one shoot, with 2 small leaves. The one I grew from seeds last year never did flower. (But the leaves were really pretty, and I took lots of photos.)

Lots of white walls, and empty shelves, seems significant. A marker of things being in flux.

With as cold as it’s been (20 F for the past few days, unseasonal), my muscles do stay even tenser than usual, so my movements are less fluid than when it’s warmer. I’ve never been unable to get out of bed before though.

It’s strange enough to have a dream my FIL appears in, but both my MIL and FIL is unprecedented. I don’t know what to make of it.

Nor am I close to any of Spouse’s other relatives (despite multiple efforts on my part). The part of the dream with the male relative and his inheritance feels significant somehow, but I can’t figure out why.

Orange is a powerful color for me lately.


Sometimes when I get too much sleep, my dreams right before waking are a confused jumble of elements that don’t hang together. That might be what these were.

Small changes 1w

January 5, 2017

Sitting with the discomfort of having no plans. Refusing to make any. Waiting to perceive something needful in the moment.


Studio: 5 hours

  1. Sorted through bag of pennies Spouse gave me. Ordinary pennies went into my penny jar. Nonpenny coins … put into small orange bowl on writing desk. Coins from 1964 or earlier … put into Turkish flowers cup.
  2. On small bookcase by door, all shelves below first changed, rearranged. Now rainbow basket of ribbons on bottom shelf; greens glass shell on second; lilac glass jar froths iridescent purple ribbon on third; fourth contains opaque white glass jar with silver lid, clear blue paperweight with etched Chinese ideogram, dark silver heavy metal ring. On top of bookcase, grooved elliptical unglazed clay jar with blue-green/violet rim (by that Lithuanian-American ceramics artist ~ Jeselskis?), along with 2 dried pink cactus flowers.
  3. Pot with 6 cacti (with pink flowers) moved from my work table to right side of windowsill. Swapped places with bluegreen glass bottle and mellow-moss green mug with paintbrushes. (Didn’t want cacti to absorb sunlight that needs to reach potted plants on bookshelf further into room. Did want to preserve reflections from the glass bottle onto the wood, near the translucent rock. Good for “light” photos.)
  4. Dragon taper-holder now on tall white bookshelf, near globe.
  5. Small glass jar containing Grampa’s crayons, pencil stubs, chalk, emptied. Put with other glass bottles on floor. Crayons, chalk put into indigo square box with daisy on lid; pencil stubs put into mug holding pencils, pens.
  6. Pile on work table of books, papers, shifted to left side, clearing a space to work.
  7. Taped bank notices to closet door — I’ll still see them, but they’re unobtrusive. And they’re no longer taking up space on work table.
  8. Coloring pages partially filled in, from 2013… cut out the shapes. Dated them on back. Taped them to closet door, under birthday cards.
  9. Decided Van Gogh mug doesn’t go with the colors of the room. Put it in kitchen cabinet (after washing). Moved around which pencils, pens, go into which containers.
  10. Textured blue glass jar now on nightstand in bedroom, holding white-out, eyeglasses cleaner and cloth. Maybe now they’ll stop getting knocked to the floor!
  11. Emptied paper berry basket of its oil pastel sticks. Photos. Inserted pink chalk in middle. That displaced brain coral, half-orb of rock, which are now on work table surface where Van Gogh mug had been.
  12. While dusting oil pastel sticks, created impromptu sketch [warm colors]. Dated the back, propped it up on fourth shelf of bookshelf near door.
  13. Emptied yarn basket, looking for brown fibers. Didn’t find any, but did rediscover 2 interesting skeins: hazel-green-brown, like my long ago forest dream; and the very first skein I ever bought! Circa 1997, had no thought then of being a fiber artist, it was just so pretty to both eyes and fingers… (muted but silky shades of light green, brown, red). Put all skeins back in: blue-green and yellow-green on bottom, multicolored, yellow, yellow-orange, orange, red-orange and pink. On top, the 2 greenish skeins. Put 2 long branches back in, along with long metal piece with holes that I took out of mug on windowsill.
  14. Tree branches moved around.
  15. Brought bag of colored pencils into studio to see if they’d all fit in one mug. They won’t. Rediscovered a second set of colored pencils. Decided I need to sort through, determine which ones “go together” and which don’t. Put that off for another day.

Time spent thinking about various things, much of them tangible, but some were philosophical/metaphysical.

I definitely need to do something with Chesapeake Bay this year.



  1. Affixed 2 bamboo sticks to serve as “curtain rod”, under mosaic table (newly in bedroom). Hung pale green fabric over rod to obscure my backpack, and TBR magazine pile, under table.
  2. Moved orange art piece, small bowl with stones, milky glass jar, to top of mosaic table, from second nightstand. (Which is now cleared, except for smooth black rock, formerly of my bedside nightstand.)
  3. Eventually found yardage in forest green. Cut in half, then quarters. Laundered. Then wrapped each section around one (forest green metal) bedpost (of unattached headboard, leaning against wall opposite bed), so we no longer need those unsightly paper towels doing the same thing.
  4. Found yardage in light brown, with mottled pattern, that I draped over box between 2 wooden chests. Put stuff back on it. Much more restful to look at.
  5. (I’d dreamed about a little tree in the bedroom.) Thought about putting the tree, once I find it, on the newly-cleared extra nightstand. What if I got a bonsai? Spouse had expressed interest in bonsais a few years ago. Maybe he should have a say in the little tree. Last night, talked to him about it. He’s amenable to at least looking at bonsais. (Neither of us have any idea if they’re easy to care for.)


Writing about these kinds of things every week seems a lot like… maintenance. I avoid maintenance.

But in a way, keeping track of (at least) some of it, functions as notes to future versions of me. And I know from past experience, whenever I read a blog post that functions as such a note, I wish it were longer, I wish there were more of it.

Maybe that’s because… when other people recall me as being different than now, they wish I’d stayed that older way. (Or they’re now pretending I did stay that way.)

But when I read these notes from me to me, they’re chronicles of change. That’s the whole point.

If I weren’t constantly changing, I don’t know what I’d write about.


Last night I dreamed I was in one of Ann Leckie’s worlds. Valskaay, maybe, although I just finished rereading Ancillary Justice, the first one, where you haven’t been to Valskaay yet. It’s just come up because of its songs.

Three days ago, when I first reread [the Orsian song] “My heart is a fish”, I welled up with tears. That song has, has always had, such power for me.

Even though I use metaphors a lot, even though human beings generally think in/with metaphors, sometimes I have trouble with metaphors. I often don’t know what they mean, I just sort of … feel… them. That might be part of why I’m a poet: I feel things, but explaining them (if that were even possible; it often isn’t)… misses the point.


One of the things I grok the most deeply about Breq… she never knows why people around her behave the way they do. She’s constantly surprised by Seivarden’s actions; when Seivarden explains, Breq is even more confused.

Every time I consider how I could possibly write fiction, I confront the same conundrum: why do (neurotypical) human people… do anything? I don’t know. I’ve never known.

Maybe it’s just being autistic, but, I don’t think Cause and Effect works the way neurotypical people assume it does. For one thing, variables having an effect on a cause? Well, the shorthand I use is “42,000 variables”. Way too many for human beings to even be aware of, never mind be tracking. Neurotypical people aren’t intaking nearly as much data points as we are, so obviously those data points aren’t contributing to their ideas of Why Things Occur (the Way They Do).

I don’t know… anything. I have ideas, always changing. I experiment, constantly. I’m always (re) evaluating what seemed plausible before.

When/if new data comes in that seems to falsify everything I thought I understood, I consider it. Experiment with updating my models and metaphors. Leave my mind open to re-assessing what seems to be happening. No matter how much I loved a label, I can let it go. I have.

(It’s almost like I’m a (life) scientist. Except that life scientists (ironically) routinely kill, maim, traumatize, nonhumans in the process of answering their own questions. I don’t. If committing harm appears to be the only way to answer my question, I ask a different question. Gradually my whole philosophy–praxis shifts.)


Last night I read Joy Harjo’s poem collection, Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings. There are so many things about the First Nations’ philosophies–praxes that I admire, but the deeply communitarian bent, alas, is not one of them. Up until a few weeks ago, I had assumed that, since I/my position was clearly wrong, I would need to undergo a seismic shift to “fix” it. Currently, I’m perceiving things… differently. I’m not wrong, so much as… I’m operating from a distinct worldview: not the generic USAmerican “individualistic” one neither. I have my own worldview, and it’s not communitarian nor individualistic. I don’t know what to call it. (A label seems the least interesting thing about it, frankly.)


My worldview shares some qualities with how I perceive Breq’s worldview. Although Breq… attracts people to her in a way I do not. So her actions have broader (human-social) consequences than I feel I can assume my own do.

And yet.


Last night, I was inscribing new poems into My Favorite Poems, Volume 2 {1 by A. R. Ammons; 3 by Joy Harjo; 1 by Sinéad Morrissey}, when I had a sudden, odd fancy: what if the niece (whose poem opens Volume 2) were to inherit these volumes from me? What could she learn about me, from what I’ve written about the poets, and/or their translators? What is visible of my values by which poems I’ve loved?

It’s a much more intimate picture than even reading my blogs would be.

I record the date I first read the poem, if known, so it’s also a diary of sorts. Sometimes I’ve penciled in notes about rhyme schemes. I’ve separated some with swirling tendrils of color (usually reflecting my mood or wyxzi).

Occasionally I include notes from related things: if the anthology included illustrations, perhaps the illustrator’s name and biographical data. Sometimes bilingual lists of words of interest.

{Last night, I reread Juan Ramón Jiménez’s “La Verdecilla”. As I felt its English translation in the anthology didn’t do justice to the beauty and power of the original, I made this poem the only one in either volume that appears solely in its originating language, Spanish in this case.}

{I skimmed the title of Douglas Kearney’s “Tallahatchie Lullaby, Baby”. Such power in his repeating sounds, rhymes, expressing the mounting horror of the subject, the death of Emmet Till.}

{I skipped over Etheridge Knight’s “The Idea of Ancestry” because it always breaks my heart.}

{I laughed, as I always do, rereading Kaylin Haught’s “God Says Yes to Me”.}

{Then I reread Lucille Clifton’s “anna speaks of the childhood of mary her daughter”. And sobbed.}


Poets I’ve met, mostly on Twitter, have poems in MFP. Some are friends, or might become friends; some are ex-friends. 2 are married to each other.

One poem is unpublished; no one but the poet, and me, even knows it exists.

There’s poems by political prisoners from many places, many times.

Lots of poems in translation.

Poems with animal protagonists; plants, much less often. An occasional fungus or bacterium. Surrealism. Mythological elements. Magical realism.


What’s important to discern about me? Maybe my philosophies–praxes matter solely to me, but perhaps what may persist is those thoughts of others I clustered together.

Maybe someday, some poet I’ll never meet will include one of my poems in their own volume of favorites.

Dream: 1.3.2017

January 3, 2017

I guess I’m in high school, although I feel older (19, 20-ish). I’m walking around an immense academic building, with my brother D and a woman friend of his. We’re discussing 2 things: (1) in a folder, I’m carrying around a (paper) standardized-test-thingy that serves as an application for Stanford. I’ve missed the cutoff for the 2016 test, but I can just take the 2017 test. (2) I was supposed to be working on a paper all year, that’s due on Friday [today is Wednesday], and I haven’t started it yet. (It won’t be graded, but I have to turn something in.)

The paper I’ve supposed to have been working on all year is supposed to concern who I am as a person, and what I want (to accomplish).

I like the idea of the paper, but I don’t want to write it. I don’t even want to think about it, and indeed, I haven’t thought about it.

What I’m excited about is the Stanford test. That seems full of possibilities in a way that writing about myself does not.



[2 false starts, 400 words deleted]

This month’s experiment is turning out to be unexpectedly primal.

Knowing myself is its own authority. And that authority is salient in a way that ‘Stanford’ can never be.


Certainties are boring, while possibilities excite me.

Why does dream-me think of ‘who I am’ as being a certainty, while being judged by other human beings is somehow a tantalizing suite of possibilities? Isn’t my lived experience almost-exactly the opposite?

Pernicious. Persistent. Wrong.

I haven’t heard from Mrs. Nocerino [introject I inherited from my mother] in… years, I think… and yet, this is her style. Every assessment I make of my own worth, I first find other people to weigh in on, and then I interpret the data in the most unflattering, unprepossessing manner possible. And then I resign myself to having rediscovered that yes, I am a disgusting failure, at everything that counts. But I still have to ‘soldier on’, even in the midst of (utter) despair… otherwise, I’m a quitter, the (self-evidently) worst thing a person can be.

There’s a lot going on here.

If I stop deferring to outside authority figures, this whole Gordian knot dissolves.

But then I would need to devise my own standards. CRUX.

‘Standards’ isn’t even the type of concept that appeals to me much. It’s too rigid. It’s too persistent. It doesn’t take context into account enough.


What do I value?

  • Learning, growth
  • Creativity
  • Change
  • Surprise / Serendipity
  • Friendship & affiliation

4 of these 5 contain Change. Friendship & affiliation, in my own experience for sure, mostly do not contain Change. They resist change.

So I leave people behind. Jobs, hobbies, places. Bits of identity. I’ve walked away from it all.

That gets me called a quitter. As if “consistency” and “predictability” should be one’s highest ideals.

The world changes. All the time. How can we not change with it?


What do I, personally, even know about Stanford? Nothing. So why does it persist in my unconscious as some sort of gold standard?

I probably won’t replace it, quite. A ‘gold standard’ is persistent and consistent.


Chesapeake Bay.

I want to write.

Poetry. Painting. Creating sculptural things.

Paper. Balancing.



I want to be a fish.

Dream: 1.2.2017

January 2, 2017

I’m a freshman in high school. The school year is drawing to a close, but I’m panicking because I have a paper I haven’t even started writing that’s due soon. I haven’t carved out the time to write it because I haven’t been able to settle on a topic; I keep getting busier, with everything else that needs finishing up, so I never have the breathing room to think about what I’d actually like to address. So if I were to talk to my teacher, to ask for an extension, I don’t even have a tangible reason why I’ve made no progress. I’m stuck, but time is moving forward.



2012–2015, on this blog, I averaged 109,055 words per year, in an average of 115 posts per year. In 2016, on this blog, I wrote 35,414 words in 50 posts.

I’m writing less.

Some of that is due to spending a lot of time reading (as I always have). Most of it, isn’t.

I’ve been keeping myself very busy doing things that don’t further any of my own aims. And then, when free time surprises me by appearing, I dither it away.


I’ve been reading too much. Not too many books, so much as… too much time spent suspended in someone else’s life, being someone else.


It’s only in dreams that I interact face-to-face meaningfully with anyone who isn’t Spouse. I miss that, but truthfully, it was almost-never very satisfying. Reading fiction, I get to participate in social situations that are interesting.

Probably some people’s real lives are like that, but mine wasn’t. People at work could sometimes be interesting, but often, outside of the job, they were utterly dull. Which makes it seem like it was the job that was interesting, not the person doing it, but that’s not quite right either.

On a job, you can talk process, because you’re all invested in getting things accomplished, and process is part of problem solving. Off a job, other people don’t seem to think about process much at all. But I do.

I enjoy hearing other people discuss processes I don’t even understand. If I can somehow participate, even better. (But then, why would such people listen to me, if I don’t ‘know’ anything? Well, they wouldn’t.)

It’s not just talking I miss. It’s being listened to. It’s being sought out as a subject expert. It’s discussing things of interest (with someone besides Spouse, as I have many more interests than he does).


But I’ve spent… months and months, maybe even years, trying to recreate something like what was available when I worked. And I have utterly failed.

People don’t enjoy talking to me. And they definitely don’t enjoy listening to me.


I need to try something else.

Here’s an image I thought of recently: I’m like a fish who’s been spending increasing amounts of time in marsh when the tide’s out. I’m gasping in the air, I’m suffocating, I can’t swim because there’s air where there should be water. But I keep trying to talk to… ducks. And they don’t understand me, and they don’t care, and I’m slowly dying, but I’m just so lonely that I keep trying, all day.

Instead, I should spend tide-out time buried in mud, waiting for the tide to come back in.

I’ve gotten my own rhythms all out of whack. I need to relearn what being a fish is.


I think my dream was alerting me to how all these activities I’ve been doing have been like air, displacing my water. When I’m back to swimming freely, surrounded by volumes of water and space to move around in, my whiskers will again pick up electrical signals, I’ll again hear whispers. I’ll find subtle rhythms that are my own, long lost.

And I’ll write.

Creative Year in Review ~ 2016

December 30, 2016

Writing poetry

  • First poem published by a lit journal! Spiral Orb, issue Twelve
  • People in 16 states + Washington, DC / 21 watersheds [HUC8’s] have read or heard my poems.
  • Wrote my first poem mixing English with Spanish (title is in Spanish), plus a word or two in Anishinaabe, Gaelic, Lithuanian, Maltese.
  • Wrote a poem whose title is a created compound word in Gaelic.



  • Began a spatial–dispersed poem {emergent, constellation}
  • Have a name for what I’m doing ~ vallo
  • Re-imagining how I number poems.
  • Section separators in daybook => sketches of my moods. Noticed I’m incorporating a lot more white space into my entries.
  • Feeling rhythms of time differently. Becoming aware of (personal) fluctuations, subtle patterns, formerly overlooked.


Emotion~color~flavor Synesthesia

  • Blue and Orange are a significant colorway related to my genders. (I’ve been wearing a lot of outfits including both colors, but the combination also appears in many of my photos this year.)
  • Custom coffee mix: varying amounts of clove, nutmeg, and (freshly-ground) black pepper, added to freshly-ground coffee beans. Sometimes cinnamon; zests & peels of Meyer lemons, clementines.


Interior Design

  • Studio design beginning to resemble a forest outright, not just metaphorically:
    • Streambed lined with polished stones;
    • Storage structures of various heights, as symbolic trees;
    • Tree branches, from various types of trees, scattered throughout;
    • There are several more living plants (3 transplants, and 1 grown from seeds), plus a pot full of cacti with pink flowers.
  • Fabric for studio color scheme purchased; contents of some shelves concealed with tissue paper, in blue-green and yellow-green.
  • Writing nook now has a color scheme: shades of blue-green and yellow-green, accented with purple and pink. Contents of shelves concealed with fabric; chair has been slipcovered. {Amelia-friendly}
  • Bedroom now has a color scheme: robin’s-egg-blue and spring green, accented with orange. {Amelia-friendly}



  • Chincoteague Island, VA ~ April
  • Harpers Ferry, WV ~ June
  • New Mexico ~ northern and Albuquerque ~ September



  • Took photos with main (red) camera, and phone all year.
  • [[Spouse had a solo show of framed photographic prints at the Delaplaine Arts Center, Frederick, MD.]]



  • I’ve been corresponding with a poetry penpal since March.
  • Sent out 12 Winter Holiday cards, mostly to Twitter-friends (who span 11 time zones).


Visual texts

  • Watched 73 feature films, including
  • 14 foreign films.
  • {Spouse is making videos, and} I’m thinking about making videos.



  • Read 332 books all the way through;
  • Read (at least) 53 books part of the way.
  • 6 periods of non-reading.


Writing prose

  • Wrote 35,435 words in 50 blog posts (including this one). This year had the fewest number of posts, and the second-fewest number of words.
  • {10.19.09–12.30.16 inclusive, have written 568,734 words in 730 blog posts.}



  • {Red§cted}
  • My GI issues are being managed fairly successfully.
  • B: 13.5 (9), 25; P: (4), 5


Potager [balcony garden]


Social Media

  • Still on Twitter.
  • Joined Instagram.
  • Currently supporting 12 creators on Patreon.



Reading List 13 of 2016

December 28, 2016

Covers the period from 12.1.2016 through 12.28.16

I/we own 11 of these items. I saw 3 movies in the cinema; 1 on my phone; 4 on Netflix. Baltimore County Public Library system supplied 19 of the books and movies; libraries in other parts of Maryland, via Inter-Library Loan, supplied the other 28.


Films, chosen by me:

  1. Annie [2014], dir. Will Gluck
  2. Arrival, dir. Denis Villeneuve
  3. Bend It Like Beckham, dir. Gurinder Chadha
  4. Hail, Caesar!, dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
  5. Love at First Fight, dir. Thomas Cailley
  6. Oppressed Majority, dir. Eleonore Pourriat
  7. Pitch Perfect, dir. Jason Moore
  8. The Secret Life of Bees [director’s cut], dir. Gina Prince-Bythewood
  9. Sirens, dir. John Duigan
  10. Today’s Special, dir. David Kaplan


Films, chosen by Spouse:

  1. A Royal Night Out, dir. Julian Jarrold
  2. Cake, dir. Daniel Barnz
  3. Certified Copy, dir. Abbas Kiarostami
  4. Fantastic Beasts…, dir. David Yates
  5. Frozen, dir. Chris Buck and Jennifer Lee
  6. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, dir. Mike Newell
  7. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, dir. David Yates
  8. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, dir. David Yates
  9. The Imitation Game, dir. Morten Tyldum
  10. Pitch Perfect 2, dir. Elizabeth Banks
  11. Rogue One, dir. Gareth Edwards
  12. Tracks, dir. John Curran



  1. A Taste of Honey by Kai Ashante Wilson
  2. Babel–17 by Samuel R. Delany
  3. The Geek Feminist Revolution by Kameron Hurley
  4. Mother of Souls by Heather Rose Jones
  5. The Stone Boatmen by Sarah Tolmie
  6. The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps by Kai Ashante Wilson
  7. Tomb of the Fathers: A Lydia Duluth Adventure by Eleanor Arnason
  8. Vermilion by Molly Tanzer
  9. The 2015 Rhysling Anthology, edited by Rich Ristow
  10. The 2016 Rhysling Anthology, edited by Charles Christian



  1. Afro-Cuban Poetry de Oshún a Yemayá by José Sánchez-Boudy, tr. Claudio Freixas
  2. FSG Book of 20th Century Latin American Poetry: An Anthology, edited by Ilan Stavans
  3. Looking Out, Looking In: Anthology of Latino Poetry, edited by William Luis
  4. The Place Names of New Mexico, revised edition by Robert Hixson Julyan


Thinking about glyphs:

  1. Alphabetical: How Every Letter Tells a Story by Michael Rosen
  2. Cuneiform by Irving Finkel and Jonathan Taylor
  3. Essential Swahili Dictionary by D. V. Perrott
  4. Farsi–English / English–Farsi (Persian) by A. M. Miandji
  5. Hindi, Urdu & Bengali phrasebook and dictionary by Lonely Planet
  6. Reading the Mayan Glyphs by Michael D. Coe
  7. Say It Right in Thai by Clyde Peters
  8. Visual Bilingual Dictionary: Arabic and English
  9. Visual Bilingual Dictionary: Mandarin Chinese and English



  1. A Long High Whistle: Selected Columns on Poetry by David Biespiel
  2. Compass Rose by Arthur Sze
  3. Green Movement Poets, edited by Rosemary M. Canfield Reisman
  4. The Nesting Ground by David Wagoner
  5. On the History, System, and Varieties of Turkish Poetry by J. W. Redhouse {published 1879}
  6. The Poet Speaks: Interviews with Contemporary Poets… [1960s, mostly English poets], general editor Peter Orr
  7. Soviet Poets and Poetry by Alexander S. Kaun {published 1943}
  8. The Space Between Our Footsteps, selected by Naomi Shihab Nye
  9. Through the Forest: Poems, 1977–1987 by David Wagoner
  10. The Voronezh Notebooks — Poems, 1935–1937 by Osip Mandelstam, tr. Richard and Elizabeth McKane
  11. Who Shall Be the Sun? by David Wagoner



  1. Balsamroot by Mary Clearman Blew
  2. Coast Range: A Collection from the Pacific Edge by Nick Neely
  3. The Narrow Door: A Memoir of Friendship by Paul Lisicky
  4. This is Not the Ivy League by Mary Clearman Blew



  1. [Fiction] Age of Consent by Marti Leimbach
  2. The Bloody Crossroads: Where Literature and Politics Meet by Norman Podhoretz
  3. Give and Take by Adam Grant
  4. Visual Language for Designers by Connie Malamed
  5. The World Beyond Your Head by Matthew B. Crawford
  6. Wrestling with Moses [Jane Jacobs] by Anthony Flint


Reading List 12 of 2016

November 30, 2016

Covers the period from 11.6.2016 through 11.30.16

I own 5 of these items. Baltimore County Public Library system supplied 2 of the books and movies; libraries in other parts of Maryland, via Inter-Library Loan, supplied the other 23.



  1. Collected Poems by Robert Hayden
  2. Contemporary Polish Poetry, 1925–1975, edited by Madeline G. Levine
  3. Dying for Beauty by Gail Wronsky
  4. Like Water on Stone [Armenian genocide, in verse] by Dana Walrath
  5. Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara
  6. Micrographia by Emily Wilson
  7. The Redshifting Web: Poems, 1970–1998 by Arthur Sze
  8. Selected Poems by Diana Der-Hovanessian
  9. Unseen Hand by Adam Zagajewski
  10. What I Say: Innovative Poetry by Black Writers in America, edited by Aldon Lynn Nielsen and Lauri Ramey



  1. And the World Stood Silent: Sephardic Poetry of the Holocaust, translated and with commentaries by Isaac Jack Lévy
  2. Anthology of Armenian Poetry, tr. & ed. Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbad Margossian
  3. The Captive Mind by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by Jane Zielonko
  4. The Human Tradition in the Black Atlantic, 1500–2000, edited by Beatriz Mamigonian and Karen Racine
  5. Notes from No Man’s Land: American Essays by Eula Biss
  6. Onions and Cucumbers and Plums: 46 Yiddish Poems in English, edited by Sarah Zweig Betsky
  7. Proletpen: America’s Rebel Yiddish Poets, translated by Amelia Glaser
  8. Revolutions in Reverse by David Graeber
  9. Warsaw, Lodz, Vilna: The Holocaust Ghettos by Linda Jacobs Altman
  10. [Film] Woman in Gold, dir. Simon Curtis


On Writing, on Living:

  1. About Writing by Samuel R. Delany
  2. Body of Work by Pamela Slim
  3. How We Learn by Benedict Carey
  4. The Motion of Light in Water by Samuel R. Delany
  5. On Living by Kerry Egan
  6. Upstream: Selected Essays by Mary Oliver



  1. The Art of Movement by Ken Browar and Deborah Ory of NYC Dance Project
  2. From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture, edited by Elizabeth Bell, et al.
  3. How to be a High School Superstar by Cal Newport
  4. [Fiction] In the Language of Miracles by Rajia Hassib