I'm a would-be poet. I ran a web group of poetry games, and used to have a weird hobby of making strangers write poetry for me. I still have notebooks full of poetry by waitresses, gamblers, shoe-shiners, Welsh firemen. I love the written word. I don't have a lot of truck with flowery prose, but that grab-you-by-the-gut stuff-- oh, the beauty of economy in language! Turner is good at that. My favorites of the night were his short pieces, in which a short story was taking place in three sentences.
|dreaming of food|
|felted daemon, 10/11|
I had a visit from an old friend and her family a couple of months ago. They'd moved away four years ago, and I'd not seen them in a long, long time. They didn't know about the anosmia. I hadn't seen their boy, now eight, since then. The dad reintroduced me to him, saying, "Do you remember Jana? She always used to smell your head when you were little." I teared up right away, even while reassuring him he didn't need to worry about that now. He'd been the youngest in our circle of friend's children, and I do, or rather did, love the smell of a baby's head.
|The pear I really want to be eating|
Back when I cooked food, and liked it, and was the poetrix for the word game group, we had an assignment to write a recipe into a poem. Click here to read my Gumbo recipe on the wonderful Very Bad Poetry website. It's bad poetry, but good gumbo.
Off to dream of eating something satisfying...