Good morning, Maurice. I am sorry you broke your foot. I am moved particularly this morning by your positive outlook.
I am frankly horrified by the political party that is planning a full-on fascist coup and disheartened by the people who are trying to get an old man doing a good job to quit. I just spent a fortune on surgery for one of my beloved dogs, but the surgery was not a success. I am still fighting for my own health to be fully recovered after a freakish antibiotic-resistant bacteria put me in the ER multiple times and required me to have multiple surgeries . My husband is over cancer, thank God, but as I look into a future that may be fraught with dangers not seen since World War II, when some churches have turned to a cult, the only way I can even begin to keep my sanity is to sublimate all of it into the next book.
My next book is odd. In it, I have resurrected Walt Whitman from the dead, where his Camerado from his “Song of the Open Road,” his lover, has been waiting for him in Brooklyn. Whitman loves the more modern country but is grief-stricken by our violence and divisions, so he decides to go to the “womb” of America, to Jackson Hole Wyoming, where he goes fishing with Liz and Dick Cheney. This at once mends divisions and deepens divisions.
Writing poetry in the voice of Walt Whitman is a real pleasure. One time Richard Howard hung onto a poem I had written and submitted to THE PARIS REVIEW for over a year, kept it on his desk, and finally sent it back to me saying, “I would publish this, but it is too Whitmanesque.” Where he saw a bug, I saw a feature, especially for this project. Whitman takes a look at us and loves us all ecstatically.
Writing in the voice of Liz Cheney is the opposite of writing in the voice of Whitman. Where he is effusive, she is staccato, terse, understated, even anti-poetic. And yet I am writing poems in her voice where the metaphor happens around her, not from her.
This is the madness i just got a contract to publish. I take courage reading your improbable and delightful narratives and find myself dancing to a similar beat.
If America has gone mad (and indeed it may have), what is the writer to do but make sense of it through strands of narratives that help us remember who we really are or who we once meant to be?
Good morning, Maurice. I am sorry you broke your foot. I am moved particularly this morning by your positive outlook.
I am frankly horrified by the political party that is planning a full-on fascist coup and disheartened by the people who are trying to get an old man doing a good job to quit. I just spent a fortune on surgery for one of my beloved dogs, but the surgery was not a success. I am still fighting for my own health to be fully recovered after a freakish antibiotic-resistant bacteria put me in the ER multiple times and required me to have multiple surgeries . My husband is over cancer, thank God, but as I look into a future that may be fraught with dangers not seen since World War II, when some churches have turned to a cult, the only way I can even begin to keep my sanity is to sublimate all of it into the next book.
My next book is odd. In it, I have resurrected Walt Whitman from the dead, where his Camerado from his “Song of the Open Road,” his lover, has been waiting for him in Brooklyn. Whitman loves the more modern country but is grief-stricken by our violence and divisions, so he decides to go to the “womb” of America, to Jackson Hole Wyoming, where he goes fishing with Liz and Dick Cheney. This at once mends divisions and deepens divisions.
Writing poetry in the voice of Walt Whitman is a real pleasure. One time Richard Howard hung onto a poem I had written and submitted to THE PARIS REVIEW for over a year, kept it on his desk, and finally sent it back to me saying, “I would publish this, but it is too Whitmanesque.” Where he saw a bug, I saw a feature, especially for this project. Whitman takes a look at us and loves us all ecstatically.
Writing in the voice of Liz Cheney is the opposite of writing in the voice of Whitman. Where he is effusive, she is staccato, terse, understated, even anti-poetic. And yet I am writing poems in her voice where the metaphor happens around her, not from her.
This is the madness i just got a contract to publish. I take courage reading your improbable and delightful narratives and find myself dancing to a similar beat.
If America has gone mad (and indeed it may have), what is the writer to do but make sense of it through strands of narratives that help us remember who we really are or who we once meant to be?
I think that's exactly right, Anne. Go forth into the madness. Thank you for the well wishes 🙏🏿
Your next book sounds fascinating!
Thank you very much!!
Only a minute into this episode, and I gotta say, I never thought your podcast would have me yelling out "NO!!!'
Lol stuf happens! ❤️🩹
These are always so uplifting and inspiring! Sorry to hear about your injury but it's great you have such a good attitude to everything!
Beats the alternative! A positive attitude makes life worth living. That's for your comment, Harvey!🌟