Cami Park

Posts Tagged ‘Vanity’

I’ve never almost almost won anything before

In Art, Confessional, Prose on January 20, 2010 at 7:55 am

Rose Metal Press announced the winner (the excellent Mary Hamilton, for We Know What We Are) and placers of its Fourth Annual Short Short Chapbook Contest this morning, and I was so blown away (LITERALLY!) to discover that I am part of a finalist, for my collection, The Sun Has Packed So Many Suitcases. Other partials are Thisbe Nissen, Tiff Holland, Roxanne Gay, Spencer Dew, and James Tadd Adcox.  Entire finalists are the very fine Mary Miller, Tim Jones-Yelvington, John Jodzio, and Elizabeth Colen. Dinty W. Moore was the judge this year, and judging by the company I’m keeping, this can’t have been easy. Thanks, Rose Metal, for a quality contest and great opportunity.

Simon Schijnvoet Konstboeck

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Mungo Millenium, Best of (+ bonus new image and link)

In How to, List, Science on December 31, 2009 at 12:01 am

The last 6 months of 2009, anyway. It’s a young blog.

6/2009
Post-Civil War Re-enactment
Not Really*
It really is a lion

7/2009
The goddam regrets
How poets die

8/2009
Things to do on a plinth
Achy
Things like other things
Girl World

9/2009
Counterpoint
Some strange gravity
Stockings
Maybe crying

10/2009
We are in love
It’s nothing, nothing at all

11/2009
Lucia, Luis, and the Wolf
Easter Rabbit is here
Also, eggs

12/2009
I wanted to fuck a robot
I cried once when snow stopped falling
Somewhere graphite grey
A fastening

Fakes is fakes

In Confessional, Fashion, Philosophy on November 19, 2009 at 2:15 pm

Something I’m struggling with right now.

We are not freezers of bears

In Art, Household, Poetry on September 29, 2009 at 12:13 am

Hitler's Mustache, poems by Peter Davis

These Things
Peter Davis

I’ve been meaning to say something.
I’d love to go on and on about how artists aren’t conduits
or special. We are not freezers of bears. We aren’t
shaman or conjurers and nothing we do is mysterious.
I could just go on and on about how people are like
“it just flowed through me” and “it happened” and
“enlightenment” and, you know, the general
mystery thing and super good, good thing. It’s like
everyone is special. I mean, like artists
as prophets and whatnot, getting all deep
in the belly of the goodness shark, gnashing away at injustice
and silliness, being better, being more than, being
the Jones’. O how I hate the idea of Talent and Exceptional
and Gifted and Blessed and Touched. I could go on and on.
Or, I’ve also been thinking about family and how it happens
that one has one and one lives with one and so on. But then
other things happen, like not going on and on. Like not
saying these things. Like not anything happening.
At those moments I end up slightly confused, looking
at myself in a mirror and feeling like a dead god.

I had another post

In Confessional, History, Opinion on September 3, 2009 at 11:42 am

I spent a lot of time on it. It was terrible, so I thought, fuck it.

It’s gone now. This is better.

I’d be smug, too

In Beverage, Household, Opinion on August 8, 2009 at 2:15 pm

Apartment Therapy San Francisco

People I wish I could be more like

In Confessional, List, Mathematics on June 21, 2009 at 5:05 pm

Julia Child
Thomas Jefferson
Socrates
Halle Berry
Albert Camus
American Maid
Mr. T
Hypatia

Hypatia Problem

Tangents too often ambiguous.

Hey, Darby Larson reviewed me a long time ago–

In Confessional, Prose, Surprises on June 13, 2009 at 10:39 pm

in Kelly Spitzer‘s excellent blog. I just noticed. He talks about my story On Mondays, Francesca Takes the Stairs published in Smokelong Quarterly XVI. Anyway, I like Darby Larson, so it was nice to come across this.

Twisted utensils

In Confessional, Household, Philosophy on June 11, 2009 at 11:09 pm

There was a guy in Dodgeville who would twist old forks and spoons into different things, like key holders, windchimes, napkin rings, stuff like that. They were pretty, and he was proud of his work. I bought a keychain that I used for awhile, but it kind of bugged me. Spoons and forks have already reached their fullest potential. I thought it must suck for silver, or stainless steel, or whatever, to know its truest purpose, and then be torqued into a completely different, vain, petty object. My keychain sits in a dish on the dresser, wishing for soup.

surr7

Hat to Bed

In Confessional, Exes, Film on June 8, 2009 at 5:00 pm

I had an ex who liked to wear an old wool cap to bed. He said he it kept him warm at night. He was also sensitive about his thinning hair, and I wonder if he secretly had some superstition about wool hats and the prevention of premature baldness. Anyway, I wouldn’t let him wear the hat to bed– I said I felt weird lying next to R.P. McMurphy. Now I wonder if I was petty, or shallow. Or both. I can’t decide.