Felix the Sheepdog — also known as Dumpledore, Noodlebutt, Gassy McPootsalot, or Felix P. Hoenikker, Attorney at Paw — recently celebrated his 12th birthday, for which he received and demolished a double cheeseburger (hold all the vegetable fixins’, please). It was the least we could do to acknowledge his continued ability to live, and also to stay on his good side.
I was browsing the archives of the inestimable Cheri Lucas Rowlands, and paused on this post of “found poetry” — poems made of unedited phrases from her unpublished draft posts. I’ve had poetry on the brain and thought I’d give it a whirl to see what could be learned, using her same rules.
Big Gulp Weevil
Which one of these seems like the better choice?
Option A: You have a great job, a great relationship, are happy and healthy, get to travel the world, and look adorable in hats. Also, you have really fantastic hair. You cherish all the wonderful things about your lucky, privileged existence. Oh, and you are fat. Like, fat fat.
Tonight, we saw Billy Joel perform — his 20th sold-out show in a row — at Madison Square Garden. Itzhak fricking Perlman came out to play on several songs, and rocked the shit out of the fiddle bits in “Downeaster Alexa,” and possibly the beautifully plaintive tone he pulls out of his instrument made me tear up a little.
“When it was time to write, and he took his pen in his hand, he never thought of consequences; he thought of style. I wonder why I ever bothered with sex, he thought; there’s nothing in this breathing world so gratifying as an artfully placed semicolon.”
– Hilary Mantel, A Place of Greater Safety
I’m working at my new afternoon coffee shop working spot, which makes a mean iced latte. But I think I’m gonna take a break in a while and go to the beach for a bit, then maybe have an ice cream cone while I take the dog for a walk along the lake. Because I can do that, because the ocean beach is four blocks away and the lake is in my backyard. I LIVE ON VACATION.
I literally have no idea how things ended up like this; truly, there is hope for anyone.
FYI, this is an actual thing that is possible:
“One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, ‘this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid’… She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.”
Of course you don’t; not for me. But just in case…
I recognize that white dudes generally do not feel a need to protect me, avenge my honor, or care if I’m sexually assaulted at all; after all, I’m a hairy-legged, unabashed feminist. Shrieking harridans are not high on the damsel-in-distress-o-meter.