Reading
Be warned, this “cozy” and “rustic” place to “commune with nature” is just a 10 by 15-foot room, like a wooden prison cell. Not sure if the listing used a fish-eye lens, but if I wanted a tiny house I would have filtered for one, buddy. — 1 Star
No Wi-Fi? Unbelievable. — 0 Stars
A good price, but the place is shoddily constructed. Makes sense, as I’ve since learned it was built by the owner, some Harvard liberal arts dweeb. — 2 Stars
Pretty, but hard to find. Listing just says “on the shore of Walden Pond” and “on the side of a hill.” Would it kill them to send a Google Maps pin? — 2.5 Stars
No streaming services, just a bunch of dusty books on crude shelves. When I complained, the owner just stared and said, “Books are the treasured wealth of the world.” WTF? I missed the premiere of Billions. — 1 Star
This is going to be the first of what I hope many more updates regarding the Pitchburgh initiative and the projects involved. Some months, and depending on interest, I’ll be talking about innovation in Drupal as well, and I’d love to see this as a space for dialog and discussion. If this feels like something you are interested in, keep reading and watch this space.
Just as a recap, the innovation initiative, Pitch-burgh was held last month in DrupalCon Pittsburgh, and we can confirm it was a success. We received 35 submissions, which ideas and videos the judges reviewed and voted on. This resulted in 7 finalists.
Across his first five—and now six—collections of poetry, Michael Earl Craig has developed a poetry as whimsical as it is serious, diffusing the gravitas not by leaving it out, but by building out a surface—a texture in language—that feels disarming, direct, omnivorous in its references, and impishly playful. Parataxis is Craig’s friend, but more often he’s just describing the way he sees the world, and leaving out the boring parts. There’s as much Edward Abbey in this poetics as there is Nicanor Parra. Iggy Horse is his latest book, and though much of it was written while the poet had a life-changing six-week residency in an Italian castle, the work’s roots remain in the western United States, in a deeply felt but unpredictable experience of what it means to be rural, to live in the open spaces of Montana. But this is not the rural poetry of the pure pastoral or the didacticism of Wendell Berry, but rather the gallows-tinged idiom of Charles Simic, blended with the peculiarity of a Lorine Niedecker.