I am drunk on Southern Comfort. The writing has stopped entirely and I've been surfing the Asian Mail Order Bride sites. Sonovabitch. I read an unpublished letter by Delany to the poet Juliana Spahr. More of what I did in my last entry, but good Goddess, he said it so much better than me. They both read at a reading here in Philadelphia in December and afterwards, Delany wrote a letter to her.

Jesus, I am such pea-brain compared to that guy. I can't quote much in my current state, but he wrote a funny but intellectual diatribe about how ambition (NOT genius) is squelched at writing workshops (academic and otherwise), as if being famous were some fucking awful thing to aspire to. It pulled some heavy heart strings for me because in my very first meeting with Rachel Duplessis (my first academic poetry workshop teacher) told me to stop trying to be famous and that I should stop trying to be published and that I was nowhere near ready to be published. Fucking dirtbag. To all my old Clarion-mates and other amigos - be as ambitious as you want. Don't let old haggard pricks keep you down. What else have you got?

Nothing but time. LOL