Marie Gauthier

My husband hid in our bedroom napping while I played with Vincent, chasing him around the apartment, etc (which I’m sure our downstairs neighbors love) & generally keeping him occupied & sneaking food to him–which is the only way you can get V. to eat sometimes, by pretending that the eating isn’t happening, no sir, we’re twirling in the kitchen, not eating our lunch…. So after I get V. down for his nap, I find Lance reading the NYT at the kitchen table. He looks up & at least has the grace to look sheepish. “I hid,” he says. “But I did take him for a walk this morning. That should count for something.” Smile/grimace–okay, sure. Why waste valuable naptime being annoyed? Plus he brought me Tylenol for my poor aching head. So we’re good.

Those of you in the area, the next reading in the Collected Poets Series is this Thurs, Jan 3, at 7:30pm at the usual spot, Mocha Maya’s in Shelburne Falls. The poets this month are Doug Anderson, author of The Moon Reflected Fire and Blues for Unemployed Secret Police, and Kevin Goodan, author of In the Ghost-House Acquainted.

I’ve read Kevin’s book several times, and I’m a fan–there’s one particular poem, and I’ll tell you the title the next time I get my hands on the actual book, but this one poem, it’s the sexiest poem I’ve ever read, and yet so utterly subtle in its sexiness. I think so, anyway, though L. is always pointing out sexual references that have escaped my notice entirely: “But I thought that was about lollipops. Really.” Anyway, do come if you can, it should be fun. And I’ll be there in my capacity as bookseller as well as substitute host so you can buy yourself your very own copies of their books.

I spent most of the end of this year neglecting friends & getting woefully behind in xmas shopping while I concentrated on my poems, writing some new ones, and assembling my very first chapbook, which is terribly exciting and hopefully enough reason that I be forgiven my grave sins. You know who you are. Of course the process never ends, it’s one of constant reshuffling and re-visioning–which is actually fun as well as elucidating, seeing how my poems work bumping up against each other. We’ll see what happens as I start shipping them (different versions of the chapbook) off to the various contests/presses etc. If I don’t mention it, don’t ask–no news is bad news.

While biting into one, Lance just got pepperoncini juice in his eye; don’t ask me how, I didn’t see, just heard his swearing yelps from two rooms away, I thought he was bleeding or otherwise mortally wounded–but apparently pepperoncini juice in one’s eye is highly painful, and to be avoided by all means. He can be very dramatic, but I’ll go along with that.