Ars bloggica.

We're home from walking the dog.

Me: I gotta blog. I gotta think of something to blog about.

The historian: . . . right--

Me: I don't think you understand how hard that is! Pulling a topic out of thin air.

TH: --I do get it. Because I never do it.  Whereas I, when I write, I just have to rely on . . . (rustling--he's in the kitchen, looking for an article in the paper. Or something.) . . .

Me: [what? facts? research?]

TH: (faintly)...things.

Me: [--and there it is.]

Little guy, big swashbuckle.

Recently, I saw a preview for the newest Narnia movie, Voyage of the Dawntreader. I have read nary a one of these books, so it's all movies to me; forgive me, then, that I don't know the name of righteous rodent who comes a-swashbuckling with his mighty (small) blade in service of all that is right and good. I'm just guessing, though, since it was just a preview. But I did think to myself Holy Yoda, what is it with tiny critters and mighty powers? You remember, when Yoda has a lightsaber fight with the Emperor Palpatine in Revenge of the Sith? It was kind of cool, but did you have a sneaking feeling that it was a little ridiculous? because Yoda was little. Super little. Agile as all hell, not to mention wise, but still: tiny.

This led me to think of Muggsy Bogues and Earl Boykins, both well under 6 ft. and credible, memorable players in the NBA. The very fact of their under-sizedness made their playing feel exciting and maybe even brave. Also--and no disrespect intended--a little comic, but in a good way.

Since this is the third paragraph, and I have a pile of examples, one might hope for a conclusion, but one will remain dissatisfied, since all my possible conclusions seem to veer for a cliche. Instead, I offer this,

Teacher's Pet - Small But Mighty | Movies & TV | SPIKE.com

and I do hope you are fully inspired.

Poemless in West Jordan.

Yes, that's right, dear reader, it's Saturday night, tomorrow's my poetry group, and I got nothing.

So, my options are:

1. Try some constrained poetry exercise thing-y, preferably from my notes from AWP, the small portion of my notes that I didn't lose on an airplane.
2. Take an old, hoary poem from the September Poem-a-day project of Dr. Write's and mine and see if I can make it better.
3. Finish the canzone I started last August. (To this, I say, ha.)
4. Be inspired by some new subject matter or bit of language or image. Or something.

To wit, there was a bit of wonderful dialogue in the movie the historian and I saw tonight, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, which was quite a charming little number, but that's not the point. Let me, for a moment, cite: Frances McDormand, dressed in a horrible brown dress and a horrible drab overcoat, and sad, horrible hair, stands with Amy Adams, resplendent in a robin's egg blue ensemble completed with beautiful burgundy shoes, at a shop window. Three mannequins sport scarlet dresses of various styles, but are also wearing gas masks--it's the eve of World War II. As they gaze at the window:

Miss Pettigrew (F. McDormand), who has lived through and remembers WWI: It's so frightening.

Delycia Lafosse (A. Adams): I know. Cap sleeves. What a nightmare.

I wish I could make a poem out of that.

Coursework.

Today's Doonesbury:

Friend of Zipper, perennial slacker student at Walden College: I can't believe you got into "The Poetry of Barack Obama," man! I didn't, and I applied last fall . . . I wrote the professor three times. Plus I've got the black thing goin' on!

Zipper: Yeah, who knows why I was selected? But that's the bodacity of hope! So what are you taking instead?

Roommate: "The Prose of Hillary Clinton." I don't want to talk about it.


See it here.