Welcome to the first week of school! My classes aren’t until Thursday, so it’s a short week, but I’m psyched to get a schedule. I (sadly) always work better under a deadline. My film school son is here for a few more weeks, so we’ve been hitting the celluloid pretty hard. Besides that, I’ve been dabbling at the clay studio (I got a new space all to myself), working on my syllabus for College Writing 1, and generally hanging around the house, soaking in the last few days of air conditioning before I’m forced to wander out into the inferno. Here’s some stuff you might find interesting.

I was almost totally unaware of Lindy West until the recent rigmarole about her polyamorous marriage. I was vaguely aware of Shrill as a book and TV show. A few months ago, I barely made it through the first season (as background noise to other things) and would never in a million years describe Aidy Bryant in that show as shrill. Since moving to San Marcos, my husband and I are avid users of the town activity center and have made it over to the adjoining library a few times. On our most recent jaunt, we were with my son checking out DVDs, and I saw Adult Braces on the “new” shelf. I picked it up on a whim. The last few years have been so packed with dense lit that I’d forgotten how delightful it can be to binge an easy-read in a weekend. It takes a brave (crazy?) person to air their personals for the world to judge. I really empathize with her impulse, both as a freeing exercise and as one that begs to be trolled. It made me glad I got out of “mommy blogging” when I did. As for the throuple part of the narrative, I will say that her paradise is akin to my worst relationship nightmare. But, to each their own.

My father introduced me to Palissy ceramics a while back, and I’ve always been equally awed and horrified by the process. It’s a very distinct style of pottery created in 16th-century France by Bernard Palissy, who was famous for life-casting animals like snakes, frogs, and lizards. I’ve been dabbling in a similar style using Texas-based creatures I’ve met on my screen porch. The Texas blind snake and the Mediterranean house gecko. I’m not great at sculpting animals, but I’m getting there. I’m creating them by hand rather than the Palissy way. Let’s say he was an Audubon-style artist.

Bernard Palissy’s best-known works are the plates on which he vividly depicted lakes and ponds, including flora and fauna. For the three-dimensional representation of the flora and fauna, Palissy went into nature. He caught snakes, lizards, frogs, and insects and kept them alive in jars in his workshop. If he needed a creature for his work, he first dipped it in vinegar or urine to kill it. After that, he rubbed it with a fatty substance. Palissy then covered the animal with clay and made a lifelike model. After it hardened, he removed the animal and filled the cavity with clay. The figures were then arranged on a plate and painted in such a way that they resulted in a kind of diorama that looked like a pond.

Movies! I watched Pillion (better than I thought it would be), Song Sung Blue (as meh as I thought it would be even though Kate Hudson was at her all-time best), and The Odyssey (fantastic, but I’ve seen better). There were a ton of rewatches, like Muppet Treasure Island on the big screen for a dollar. Tim Curry is for sure one of the most dynamic and charismatic actors ever. That prompted a rewatch of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (a first time for my son), and his icon level is off the charts. My son saw Hereditary for the first time, and damned if that performance by Toni Collette isn’t astounding. My son called it a perfect movie and said Collette not getting nominated would go down as “one of humanity’s greatest failures.” Facts. We rewatched Grizzly Man (one of my son’s faves), Some Kind of Heaven (The Villages are nuts), and Once after Glen Hansard’s untimely death. The end still got me, all the more penitent when bookended with actual death. What a great portrait of musical collaboration.

And speaking of musical collaboration… I hate to lean so heavily on my son’s influence, but admittedly I have no curiosity when it comes to seeking out music. I love when it finds me, but my brain is way too preoccupied with other shit to keep up with what’s going on in the world of tunes. As I said, I’m very lucky to have him. He recently turned us on to Dijon’s five-year-old short film (long music video?), Absolutely, released following Dijon’s breakout debut album of the same name. Starring Dijon, Mk.gee, and a medley of other young, talented musicians, it’s the perfect way to experience artistic collaboration in real time. Give it a watch.

The big news on campus is that Ada Limón was hired to replace Naomi Shihab Nye as Distinguished Professor of Poetry after her retirement last semester. She served as the 24th Poet Laureate of the United States under President Joe Biden, the first Latina in the post. Needless to say, the whole department is gobsmacked. When they announced her appointment at the staff meeting last week, the awe was visceral. I’m so happy for the poetry students, and hope I get to angle my way into one of her workshops before my time is up.

Quote of the week?

Til Tuesday, friends. (Or whenever!)

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Welcome to the end of summer. I wish I could say I’ve gotten a lot done, but on my scoreboard, I’m still lagging. I got off to a great start writing a lot this summer, but then petered out when my son and his girlfriend arrived. Too much fun stuff to do. Not that they wanted to hang out with me all the time, but their mere presence kept me distracted by the lure of excitement at a moment’s notice. Same with pottery/quilting/reading taking care of myself. It’s hard to detach from mothering even when it is no longer needed and wanted. And now the school year awaits. Oh well. Still, I did learn a few things since last we spoke.

You know how many books I have read this summer? ZERO. I did listen to Lonesome Dove on audio (I still have two hours—of 36— left) and dipped in and out of a few others, but I’ve been tremendously neglectful in that department. Lonesome Dove is one hell of a book. My husband and I listened to it on our 4K-miles-in-ten-days road trip, and having only watched the miniseries before, it’s easy to see why that book has left such an enduring legacy. The audiobook was the older version (not the new one narrated by Will Patton), and while Lee Horsley did a great job with the voices, his bombastic Augustus yelling at us nonstop got to be a little much after a while.

My husband is a history buff, and while we’ve visited many a battlefield and historic sight, here and abroad, he’d never been to the Appomattox Courthouse in Virginia, the site of the end of the Civil War. Well, it turns out this side quest taught me that the Civil War did not end in the actual courthouse, but in the parlor of a house nearby. “As the fighting came to an end that morning of April 9, 1865, the village of Appomattox Court House lay between the two armies. General Robert E. Lee sent a final note to General Ulysses S. Grant asking for a meeting to discuss the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia. Grant received the note and replied that he was on his way and asked that Lee choose a suitable location for the meeting. With nearly 95,000 combatants within a few miles of the village, most residents had fled the area. The McLean family remained, however, and Wilmer McLean began looking around the village out of curiosity. He was approached by Lieutenant Colonel Charles Marshall of Lee’s staff, who had been sent ahead to find a suitable structure. After a brief discussion, Wilmer agreed to let the generals use the parlor of his house.” After visiting the McLean house, I was struck by the enslaved quarters just to the rear, and wondered what that day must have been like for the people who lived there. There isn’t a ton online about the two enslaved families and how immediate their emancipation was, but wow, what a story they had to tell. The mothers Bettie Love Steward and Mary Ann—and their eight children—who more than likely had to prep the house before and clean up the mess after this momentous event. The place was looted and stripped by soldiers wanting to take a piece of history home with them, so I’m sure the whole thing was a shit show. And how soon did Mr. McLean make good on the freedom he helped bring forth? I’d love to see a movie from their POV.

I spent a good amount of summers in the mountains of North Carolina when I was wee, but rarely get back. My husband and I are thinking about spending more time there in the coming years, so we did a quick drive through to get the lay of the land. We returned to Pisgah Forest where I spent many an adolescent afternoon swimming in the beautiful Looking Glass Falls with my sisters, and I visited Sliding Rock for the first time since I was young. Sliding Rock is a place of huge nostalgia for me. I remembered it as this monumental thing to overcome. A huge rock so precarious to slide down that it could rip your bathing suit right from your body. The memories are equal parts terrifying and titillating, but revisiting it as an adult, I found the horror surprisingly underwhelming. When my mother was in college, it was a secret place in the woods that only the cool kids knew about. When I was little, there were rickety stairs to get down to it. Now, it’s a full-fledged tourist attraction. No longer scary, it’s still impressive to watch a buttload of strangers standing in line for the joy and thrill of sliding down an ancient rock into a vat pond of the coldest mountain water you’ve ever felt. It’s nuts to think about all those places in your mind that are trapped in memories but still alive and well in reality.

It may have been the summer of waterfalls because I also saw Niagara Falls for the first time in my life. My husband thought I was nuts for repeatedly saying I wanted to jump in, but there were enough suicide prevention signs to let me know I wasn’t the only one contemplating a dip. Watching the raging rapids and the sheer scale of the falls, it’s hard not to imagine yourself being overtaken by the majesty of Mother Nature’s performance. Thousands of people have gone over the falls in the past 200 years, and I can understand the siren call. The first person to intentionally go over Niagara was Annie Edson Taylor, a schoolteacher who made the 169-foot plunge in a barrel in pursuit of fame and fortune. She survived, but plenty of others haven’t, whether by choice or by chance. Like North Carolina, I have a feeling I’ll be dreaming about those waters for the rest of my life.

On the trip we also listened to a lot of “cock rock” from the ‘60s and ‘70s. And while I love classic tunes as much as the next gal, between McMurtry’s continuous talk of “poking” whores and arena anthems about boinking 16-year-old girls, I think I got my fill of male culture. One night, I streamed only female artists for a few hours and was shocked at the emotional detox that happened. Songs about beauty and longing and feeling out of place and abuse and political anthems. No shade to Led Zeppelin or Mick Jagger, but just how many songs about getting laid must one endure in a lifetime? I’m glad that much of the music my son has fallen in love with reaches deeper than the waistband. One song he introduced me to this month is “Billy Came Back” by Nate Amos, known musically as This Is Lorelei. It’s a peppy jam about the songwriter’s friendship with a karaoke singer that will get stuck in your brain if you give it a listen. I love having a child who shares new music with me.

Even though I was fighting it, I guess this whole thing is about the road trip. We saw lots of friends and family along the way, and in New York, I did get to see Clinamen by the French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenot. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures going around online. It’s a “massive immersive sound installation featuring roughly 800 floating porcelain bowls drifting and gently colliding in shallow pools of water to create a spontaneous, chiming auditory symphony.” As a newbie potter, I wanted to touch one of the porcelain bowls so bad, and looking around, lots of other people were so inclined, snatching and reaching out. Afterward, my sister and I immediately went to the gift shop to see if they had a bowl for sale or on display, and zilch. The gift shop guy said everyone asks that. It seems like art is either overexploited or so snooty that they wouldn’t even have sample bowls for children (or me) to touch on the way out. If ever there was a call for an artist’s “touch tank”, this was it. It would have been a great way to see what goes into a large-scale project like this. Oh, well.

Lastly—and this is NOT from the road trip—we finished the James Dean film trifecta. If you’re wondering which came out the winner—East of Eden, Rebel Without a Cause, or Giant—I’d say skip the first two and just watch Giant three times. How have I never seen this film all the way through? A girlfriend recently described it as the most woke movie of the twentieth century. And it is, but it’s so much more than that. Hugely entertaining, and at more than three hours long, there’s not a dull minute in it. It’s now a top-five movie of all time for me. The cinematography. The story. The script. Fucking Elizabeth Taylor. The best! Ten thumbs up!

Quote of the week?

“I would rather face a cannon than go over the falls again.” — Annie Edson Taylor

Til Tuesday, friends. (Or whenever!)

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

I think I realized I was turning invisible a few years ago. At first, it was awesome. As a woman, reaching the age where you’re finally exempt from the male gaze is liberating. You can cruise through life unnoticed and get away with things you couldn’t before. Being invisible is one of aging’s perks. That, and being freed from the physical and emotional shackles of menstruation, feels like the reward for years of pain and unwanted advances. At 50+, you can plow through with a steady hand and get shit done without hassle. As great as it sounds and is, I am turning 54 this month, and I am beginning to feel the full ramifications of female invisibility. Not just as an object of lust but as a human being capable of anything.

As for the physicality of age, I’ve always been an avid gym-goer, dabbling in running, spin, swimming, yoga, Tai-Chi, all the things. Even if I wasn’t always my ideal weight, my exercise level has been pretty consistent. After Covid, I let that part of my life slide. Then I started school full-time, transferred to grad school, and stopped going to the gym, exercise classes, even my daily 45-minute walk. My bike gathered dust. My online workouts went untouched. I spent so much energy on my brain that I had nothing left for my body. I imagine most neurodivergent people know exactly what I mean—that feeling of being overwhelmed and unable to do the one thing you know will make you feel better.

Sometime after Christmas, I made a pact to get active again. I started swimming, and by March was waylaid by what they first diagnosed as a hamstring issue then later told me was a Baker’s cyst. I put off dealing with it for months, and the pain and the dragging and sitting on my ass got so bad, I looked like a zillion year old lady hobbling around. A few weeks ago, I finally started PT and swimming again, but I still have a long way to go. While I’ve never been super focused on how I look, how I feel is another matter.

Beyond the physicality, recently I’ve been passed over for a handful of opportunities, and I’m beginning to think this age of invisibility isn’t so much fun anymore.

My husband is 16 years older than me and recently retired. He is having the relaxation of his life, and there is this tremendous urge to lean into that. To think of myself as the same age as him and not worry about being passed over. To accept being older and cede the jobs and fun and life to the younger generation. But it’s not my time yet, right? I still have so much I want to do.

Why at almost-54 do I feel like I have to work to validate myself when I’ve done so much and built a life for myself? Why all of a sudden should opportunities be starting to dry up, just like other unnamed parts of my anatomy?

Which leads me back to the pool. The university pool is off-limits over the summer, so I've taken to going to the activity center in town. Last week, I was enjoying a swim, basking in the fact that my knee was finally feeling better. I love the pool because I can sort of blend in with the geriatrics. I shuffle around in my ratty old swimsuit with great swaths of rotted elastic showing through. Fearless. No one can see me there, right? Especially if I take off my glasses. If I can't see you, you can't see me. In the water, everything aches a little, but I'm joyful. Buoyant. Weightless. Moving in ways I can't on land.

Suddenly, I get stopped mid-lap by a small voice swimming in the next lane.

“Excuse me. I need help,” the man said.

Earlier, I had blurrily watched this man enter the pool. He was late 30s or early to late 40s and struggled with a marked limp, the kind I associate with MS or polio. From that, I made all sorts of incorrect assumptions about what sort of “help” he might need.

I must have given him a quizzical look, because he repeated and expanded, “I need help understanding women.’

I laughed, “I don’t think that’s something I can help you with here.” In my naivete, I pictured us on a bench somewhere, me holding his hand and explaining the intricacies of the female psyche, how to treat women well, what they are looking for emotionally, and all the other wonderful secrets to what women want.

Then he said, “I’ll pay you.”

All of a sudden the pool got really dark and close and sad as what he was really asking came into focus. I wasn’t scared. I did the Gen-X thing and immediately started making excuses for him. He obviously had physical limitations. Maybe cognitive ones, too. He seemed harmless, I told myself. I laughed nervously and swam away, only slightly offended when he ducked underwater with his goggles every time I passed.

When I was 19 or 20, I was propositioned by an older co-worker for sex. He offered me $5,000 to sleep with him and prefaced it by saying I could drink as much as I wanted beforehand. At the time, when he handed me a check—already filled out and signed—I laughed it off. Maybe even briefly flirted with the idea of cashing it and getting black out drunk to stomach the thing. Taking him for a ride, literally and physically. $5,000 was a ton of money to a young adult in 1990-whatever. Sadly, it didn’t seem creepy or lecherous to me at the time. It was kinda sad. He was sort of a friend, and I felt sorry for him. Pity sex with a price didn’t feel like prostitution. Until it did. Once the dollar signs stopped flashing before my eyes, I saw the situation for what it was. A so-called “friend” trying to take advantage of a person sustainably younger and dumber and more broke than them. Needless to say, I did not fuck the guy, and as recently as a few years ago, I did not accept his friend request on Facebook. I mean really, WTF!?!

When I think about the audacity of these two men—juxtaposed in my life experience—it shocks and shames me. As a young woman, especially one born before the 1980s, you put up with these sorts of advances because, well, you were taught they were a compliment. The male gaze meant you were wanted, and attention—no matter how inappropriate or grotesque—was attention none-the-less. Age and the changing times have disabused me of this notion.

My mother’s best friend was raped and murdered in her own home by a stranger when she was 63. That after a lifetime of hassles from her ex-husband and legions of men who wanted to take a smart, beautiful woman down a peg or two. Another close friend of mine was raped in her own home in her 60s. She let her guard down because she assumed she was safe.

I mean really, who would want an old maid right? Kind of makes us easy prey. Maybe being older doesn’t make us invisible. Maybe it just makes us vulnerable.

When the school gym opens up in August, I’m going to hire a personal trainer. Not because I give a shit what I look like, but because I don’t want to be passed over for things because people think I’m too old or used up or tired. I don’t want people to assume I’m vulnerable. Over-ripe for the picking. I want to be ready for anything. I want to be able to kick the ass of the next guy who asks me to help him “understand” women. Because really buddy, if you haven’t figured us out by now, then leave us the hell alone.

Summer is slipping by fast. I know everyone is out and about soaking up these days here in Texas that are not too too hot while the rest of the world cooks, but enjoy the air-conditioning on a couch somewhere and fall down these rabbit holes with me.

I found myself up the Guadalupe River yesterday, at the origin of so much sadness a year ago. It was amazing the amount of clean up that has been done, and how you can already see the landscape beginning to heal itself. I hope the same can be said of the people, though I imagine a good deal of them will, sadly, never be able to escape that moment. There was a hand-painted sign up as you drove into Hunt that said GRATEFUL, and it felt like such an amazing sentiment. It’s such a beautiful part of Texas, and one that I know has meant so much to so many people. It’s a reminder of how frail this life is, and how we should all take every opportunity to shine a light on the people and things we love rather than tear each other down. I’m working on that myself. We all should.

On our drive, we listened to a few podcasts in hopes of finding something to replace the breadth of my husband’s favorite, Slate’s Culture Gabfest, which ended this week after nearly two decades (RIP). We didn’t come across any one thing directly comparable (any ideas?) but we did listen to The New Yorker’s Critics At Large. One episode called “An American Playlist” asked listeners to leave voicemails about their favorite “American” songs. Someone offered a sing-along with Joan Baez recorded in 1963 of The Battle Hymn of the Republic. I’d never heard this version before, and it was quite extraordinary to listen while roaming the Texas Hill Country. I didn’t know it was written by the female abolitionist Julia Ward Howe during the Civil War; she was inspired to write it after meeting Abraham Lincoln in 1861. The song became the unofficial anthem of the Union Army and still holds the incredible ability to produce goosebumps. Have a listen and then Google Ms. Howe. Her life is worth a generous side quest of its own.

Someone who is inspiring me lately is Harvey Fierstein, the actor and playwright, who is now an incredible quilter. I’ve been following him for a few years, but something he posted for July Fourth really resonated with me. “This is MODIGLIANI’S BOYS which was inspired by a drawing Modigliani did of a hermaphrodite (central figure) and some other sketches of his. Free motion quilted and then I added Mexican macrame cording to outline the figures. When I first saw this fabric it reminded me of a green chalkboard so went with that. Looking at it now I’d love to turn this into wallpaper. That would make the gayest bedroom decor ever. HAPPY 4TH everyone.” I love the idea of fabric as chalkboard, and his execution is perfect. All of his quilts are incredible but this one was such a ray of hope in contrast to the Supreme Court decision this week. As usual, I am reminded that art is the most positive form of protest. All you creators out there, keep at it!

Speaking of amazing people who make stuff, sadly, today is the last day to see the Angelica Raquel show at The McNay Museum of Art. Doesn’t mean you still can’t get your online fill of her art — “fiber-based work inspired by a rich familial and regional cultural history rooted in folklore. Expanding upon her family’s oral storytelling traditions, Raquel conjures a mythical visual narrative, woven from childhood memories, dreams, urban legends, and ancestral lore.” I’m new to her stuff, but got-damn is she good. If I had another lifetime to be a full-time artist, Raquel’s work would be something to aspire to. I hope this local girl goes a long, long way.

As part of my indigo learnings, I started reading Black in Blues: How a Color Tells the Story of My People, Imani Perry’s incredible book tracing the color blue through Black history. Here she touches on so many fascinating threads from the West African indigo trade, the history of enslaved people throughout the world, and cobalt mining in the Congo to blues music, the meaning of God and the stars and the heavens, the myth of superior origins, and her own life as a Black woman in America. I love personal narrative that includes large swaths of world history, especially when they are steeped in the divine, the American story, and human understanding.

We’ve been down the Cape Fear rabbit hole over the past couple of weeks, keeping up with the current Apple + series as well as rewatching the 1990s Scorsese film, the 60s Robert Mitchum version, topping it off with Sideshow Bob’s spoof. Each has something different to offer. Javier Bardem’s Max Cady is anxiety-inducing in a thoroughly modern way, while the other two films are infused with so much child predator doom that it’s amazing how far we’ve come as a society. The current series avoids killing the family pet—as both earlier films do—yet has no hesitation about showing a man impaling a human head on a dumbbell or depicting the amputation of a main character’s toes. All that ick, and we had to do a soul cleanse by rewatching Bart and Bob’s delightful version of HMS Pinafore in The Simpsons “Cafe Feare” episode. I CAN NOT WAIT for the Boots Riley film version of the stage play Mr. Burns, a Post-Electric Play which—in a post apocalyptic world—remembers The Simpsons parody episode as a cultural touchstone and full-length opera, timestamped for the ages. The “best of” from all include Javier who is exciting to watch in anything, Juliette Lewis’s stunning performance as the daughter in Scorsese’s version, and seeing Gregory Peck as a doting father in something other than To Kill a Mockingbird. As for The Simpsons, that whole episode kills, so enjoy the highlights.

Quote of the week?

“People, especially elders, repeat stories over and over again with purpose. In the arrogance of youth, we often think they do I because they are absent-minded. Now I know they repeat themselves because they’ve whittled like down into observations that should not be forgotten. They are authoring scriptures of their own.” ― Imani Perry, from Black in Blues

‘Til Tuesday, friends. (Or whenever!)

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Oh, what a beautiful morning! Did not get much sleep last night after hearing the ominous sounds of the San Marcos flood warning siren at 1 in the morning. Still, I’m up and at it, finally getting into the groove of writing and other things this fine summer. Here are some things I learned in the last few weeks.

If you didn’t read my post from yesterday about learning what it feels like to lose, check it out! If you did read it already, have a reread as I added some extra sweetness to my sour grapes. What I didn’t write about was how much fun I had watching the Spurs play with my husband, honking on the square with my son and his girlfriend, and generally joining in on the pride of being a Texas transplant. I am currently trying to exorcise myself from reading post-series commentary, and today, it seems to be working. GSG! (Photo cred, Leah Shreeve.)

In that post, I also mentioned an Indigo class I attended. Having grown up in South Carolina, mired in post-colonial culture, I’ve always known about the importance of the crop historically in the area. On Texas Country Reporter, a while back, they did a segment on Nam Joti Kaur Khalsa, whose artistry is deeply rooted in the tradition of Appalachian broom-making. When I saw she was doing an Indigo class, I jumped on it. Indigo was South Carolina’s 18th-century “blue gold” cash crop, driven entirely by enslaved labor. It is also one of the few natural dye plants that produce the color blue, which makes it so special, and it has long had deep spiritual meaning throughout Asia, South Asia, the Caribbean, and Africa. Artisans and local farmers have kept it alive in the Carolinas, and I’ve always wanted to learn more about the ancient practice. Hand dying with Indigo (called Elukami) is used to celebrate Juneteenth in America within the Black community, as staining the hands and fingers honors the legacy of enslaved ancestors in the Gullah Geechee and across the diaspora who were forced to process indigo, a long and arduous process. Nam is a fabulous teacher, and it truly was a wonderful and enlightening way to spend a morning. (She’s pictured here with Gina from Loom Creative, who hosted the event.)

My son and I did go see both Obsession and Backrooms, and my post-viewing opinions on both of these have oscillated wildly. My letterboxed score for both started at a star (BRs) and a half-star (Obs). They have risen to 2.5 and 2, and I feel like, on a second viewing, they might go up even more. I believe they started out so low, as my expectations were through the roof. As I get further and further away from viewing them, and I put them up against other movies, the brownie points mount. I will give no solid opinion on these as I feel that is still evolving, but given the box-office records and the shift toward Gen Z tastes in Hollywood, I do recommend watching. The cultural optics are fascinating to track.

Current obsession is A Dictionary of Color Combinations— a truncated version of the Haishaoku Soukan, a six-volume work published in Japan between 1933 and 1934. This smaller version is a collection of 348 color combinations originated by artist Sanzo Wada, who tapped into the avant-garde nature of the times to focus on the use and importance of color in art and design. It’s the perfect handbook if you are looking for color combinations that work well in textile work like quilting. Once you start flipping the pages, you’ll get hooked.

Two of my girlfriends and I go away every year for a beach trip / Trivial Pursuit tournament. This year, we opted to go to the Hill Country and quilt rather than fuss with the sand and heat. A great time was had by all, though I felt like I did more cutting than sewing. The only other downside was the scorpions in the hot tub (yikes!). Somehow, I brought home the trophy (wait, did I say I hate winning?), though I am pretty sure my friend Miranda is already planning her strategy to win it away next year. (She’s way better at trivia than I am.) We took an embroidery class together, and it really unlocked that skill for me. I’ve been chaos sewing random designs for weeks!

When I am doing needlework, I like to put on some puffery to pass the time, and this past week it was Your Friends and Neighbors, which is an OK show, though I’m not sure why people keep making TV shows about the dysfunctional lives of rich people or why we keep watching them. However, the soundtrack is pure Gen-X with lots of great current music I love. I’ve had fun this week dipping back into the Thompson Twins. Hold Me Now came out when I was 11 years old, and it was really the music that came to mind when I think about starting to notice music. So much nostalgia. Enjoy.

Quote of the day?

"Color does not exist alone. It always exists in relation to light, to material, to the color next to it." — Sanzo Wada

‘Til Tuesday, friends. (Or whenever!)

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

My family has never been part of competitive things. Barring some elementary and junior high cheerleading, my sisters and I never participated in sports. Neither did my parents. Growing up, we watched Wimbledon, the Olympics, the Kentucky Derby, and the Masters, but I think that’s just cause that’s what my mother and grandmother knew. What they’d always done. It wasn’t about picking a side. It was just about cheering whoever was winning. Celebrating what the human/animal body can do when it sets its mind to it.

My husband watches a mild amount of sports. Formula One, football, golf, basketball, in that order of importance. I usually don’t pay attention much. However, during the Western Conference Championship, I started following along, and by the time the Spurs faced OKC, I was all in, cheering their every win and mocking the fanatical flopping with the best of them. So watching the NBA Finals this year was my first-ever dose of sports disappointment, and I could see a glimpse of how losing can make you react in a not-so-positive way. In the Knicks case, losing meant running around, beating people up, trashing their own parks, lighting Spurs jerseys on fire, and putting a kid in a coma. But from the Knicks’ wins, I see also that, for them, winning entails trashing cars, flipping over taxis, throwing eggs at the losing team, and causing all sorts of mayhem. Boys will be boys, I guess.

So, it ends up, I don’t really like what losing feels like. Or winning for that matter. I remember when my son was in first grade, he won a Pinewood Derby, and I remember my ego grew ten sizes that day. Winning left me with a bloated, icky feeling in my chest. Even though pinewood derby races are built on luck, chance, and happenstance. It was my one and only taste of how overreactive parents feel watching their children glow on a ball field. Winning is a lift, a boost to your parental ego. The payoff for all the time and money you invested in your child. For some families, that sort of work-towards-a-winning-goal seems, from afar, to build character and camaraderie. Does it? For mine, this series started out as a fun way to bring my family together and ended with us temporarily swapping hurtful memes with my sister in New York, and a back-and-forth lording that felt more like one-upmanship than friendly competition.

As much as sports can be a grand thing (see video of NYC last night), it can also bring out the worst in people (see video of NYC last night). As much as sports can bring a large or small selective group together (by city, zip code, country, or social status), it pushes other communities away from each other. US vs. THEM.

For every winner, there’s a loser.

I know this makes me sound like a tree-hugging, every-kid-should-get-a-trophy, pathetic loser weenie to some people, but that’s probably because I am all those things. Now, is this rant just sour grapes from a sports rookie who’s finally tasted what the Wild World of Sports refers to as the “agony of defeat”? Maybe, but that’s my point. I don’t know that the brief thrill of feeling exalted over the success of a group of hardworking rich men I’m vaguely associated with by area code is worth the pit in my stomach when they lose. Not to mention the obsessive hours spent scrolling news articles, highlight clips, and gossip. (Do I need another hobby?)

Yesterday, before the game, I spent the morning in the countryside outside of Austin at a class where I learned about the art of Indigo and the language of resistance. There was peace, hope, history, flowers, and beauty. There was joy in trying new things and meeting new people. I dyed my Spurs shirt in hopes that it would bring draw the positive force of the Indigo plant and the day into the game. (FYI, it didn’t.) And after the agony of last night, I’ve decided I’d rather turn my hands blue as I dye clothes in the grass singing Middle Eastern folks songs with a bunch of women, than cheer for talented strangers driven by a competitive passion that makes me uneasy and a game that I’ll never fully understand. Give me art, books, music, movies, and Mother Nature any day over watching men I don’t know play games over gobs of cash I’ll never see myself. But, to each his own.

That said, am I glad Spike Lee got to see the Knicks win a championship after sitting shiva for almost half a century? Of course! Every diehard fan of anything deserves that. Am I thrilled for New York City, the land where I spent ten fabulous years and met the love of my life? Absolutely! (Make sure you check out Gia Kourlas’ great joy-filled feature on spontaneous, celebratory dancing.) Do I wish Jalen, his dad, and the rest of the Knicks all the best? For sure! And will I be watching when the Spurs become the NBA Champs next year? Hell yes, I will.

Only next time, I’ll try not to take it personally. (GSG!)

The summer has begun and good stuff is all around. The Spurs are in the NBA finals, and—excepting last night’s stumbling—I’m still feeling pretty good about their chances. Things are still green even if the temperatures are already rising. One of the deer who use our backyard as a potty birthed a fawn whose presence has brought an air of magic to the mornings. My son is home for the summer, along with his delightful girlfriend. And everyone seems happy, except…

I have time to write all I want. I have a support system in place (my husband) who is willing to do all the heavy lifting. I have the space, time, and ideas to finishing the third draft of my novel and forge ahead on my thesis novel. And still…

There is something about when birds return to the empty nest that is unsettling. Perhaps it is because once children leave home, you begin to rebuild who you are separate from them. When they come back, all the old parenting habits/dysfunctions come rushing back, whether they are wanted/appreciated/necessary or not.

Even now, I’m made this time for myself to work and here I am writing about this instead of the other. Oh, well. Once a mother, always a mother.

I’ve had far too many sleepless night in the last two weeks. Up at all hours worrying about all the choices I’ve made as a parent. When my son’s out of the house, I don’t think about it much, but when he’s here, it consumes.

See, my son has a constant complaint that whenever he has a worry or problem or sadness or issue, I always make it about me.

And he’s right. I do.

I have a hard time listening when something is awry, as my self-loathing always finds a way to make whatever the thing is my fault, even if they are not even vaguely connected. This tends to center the conversation around how I feel about how my son feels, rather than his emotions. I’m working on having an empathetic ear, but it’s hard.

The worst part about being this sort of parent is my mother was exactly the same way, and I hated it. I mean HATED it. I am not exactly like my mother. For the most part, I always recognized when I was making a parenting faux pas and tried to reverse it, or, at the very least, apologize. What I am realizing now, is that those apologies always came with an automatic assumption that I would be absolutely forgiven. That sort of apology—with the strings of forgiveness attached—makes it null on arrival.

The difference between me and my son as children is that he is great at boundaries. I never put clear boundaries in place with my mother, and it wasn’t until I was married with a child that I started to get boundaries in place. And then, I only did it because I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to support a household and raise a child and take care of her needs.

In contrast, my son has put boundaries up with me. It’s healthy. We were so close for so long—probably too long—that watching him become an adult and put up fences between himself and his overbearing mother is exactly what he should do. I couldn’t do it with my own mom, and I’m proud that he has the autonomy to grow up. To nurture his emotional needs and protect himself from my inability to caretake my own. My every interaction with him now forces me to reassess how I approach our new “adult” relationship, which is great.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

My son is a deeply empathetic and sensitive creature. It’s one of my favorite things about him. It’s also a trait that we are share, intimately. I had the same connection with my mother. She called it the “invisible umbilical cord.” She shared it with my son, as well. With him she called it “heart, mind, soul.”

That connection is a precious thing to share with a child, no matter what age. It should be honored and cared for and cherished and defended. Sometimes, I feel like he’s cut me off, but then I get a twinkling—a head on the shoulder, the excitement of seeing the fawn in the yard, a tear over something we both thought was beautiful—and remember.

It’s still there.

Last night my husband complained about me using him as a human calculator all the time (Bill, what’s five times seven?), and without even thinking, I spat back, I don’t have time for math… My brain’s too busy doing awesome shit. That said, Things I Learned This Week might be on a summer semi-hiatus while I focus on writing. Which starts in earnest with a schedule and some discipline next week 🤞, though I will chime in throughout the summer if there’s enough learning going on. I do plan on posting about other things, and once I get past the Dirt Dauber Festival this weekend, I can settle into my desk more and build a routine. Something I’m terrible at!

And what is Dirt Dauber you might ask? Well, I’m a studio member at this amazing place here in San Marcos called Eye of the Dog Art Center. It’s full of talented folks who make art out of mud. Once a year, 70 or so artists come together to hawk their wares in one of the most beautiful spots in San Marcos. It’s Saturday (10 - 6) and Sunday (12 - 5), and there’s live bands both days, all day long, and hotdogs and contests and demonstrations. I’ll be there along with a ton of other potters selling my stuff and doing awesome shit. My booth is in the back in Fire Alley, so come find me. It’s a guaranteed good time for all.

Now, I'll leave you with a short list of stuff I learned this week.

• All the President’s Men is still a great movie. A snapshot of a time when America still had ethics and dignity. Plus, Redford’s beige corduroy suit is fire.

• Wil Wheaton stars in a new audiobook version of Stephen King’s novella, The Body, the basis for the film Stand by Me, in which Wheaton played Gordy. So good.

• Highlight from my son’s last radio show of the semester? Dream Sequence by Jane Revolver. Could die in this song and be happy.

• Alma Thomas (1891-1978) was the first Black woman to be included in the White House's permanent art collection in 2015. Geez. Way too late but gorgeous color!

Quote of the week?

“Find out who you are. And do it on purpose.” — Dolly Parton

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Toiling over my last essay and waiting for the papers I need to grade to start flooding in—all of which were impacted by the fact that the major software universities use to track schoolwork were hacked. :( That said, I learned a shit ton this week, and said goodbye for the summer to some good friends, professors, and beloved buildings. My plan is to get a writing schedule down for the summer and stick to it. (Fingers crossed under the table here.) Anyway, here’s the deets!

My third read of The Secret History did not disappoint, and I might have a fourth go of it over the summer because it’s that rad. A nostalgia trip for sure. Our professor gave us an elementary school-era poster board on which to track narrative tensions throughout the book. I had to give a presentation with two other girls, and at some point during the semester, students started casting the film adaptations just for fun. The book has a notoriously cursed history in Hollywood, with more starts and stops than a game of Red Light/Green Light. In celebration of that notoriety, we decided to cast the film as if it had actually been made in the 1990s, with Tartt making a cameo. Heartbreaking to think that when (if) it ever happens, it won’t go down this way. Sigh.

I saw Nam Joti Kaur Khalsa on the Texas Country Reporter a few months back, and now I can’t stop thinking about her work. She has been weaving since 2016, following the tradition of Appalachian broom making, utilizing age-old techniques combined with a style uniquely her own to create what she calls “functional folk art.” Her corn husk dolls, in particular, are a celebration of her Native American and African American heritage, and every time I look at them, I think about how much my mom would have loved them. I’m going to take an indigo workshop with her this summer, and would buy every one of her brooms if I could. She is doing lovely and important work, keeping ancestral spirits alive and passing on tradition.

One of my favorite writers for children has his first adult book out, and it’s a stunner. Mac Barnett’s book Make Believe: On Telling Stories to Children (with a lovely cover by Carson Ellis) is a celebration of art and imagination. A delight to read, it reminds us of the importance of storytelling, not just at the junior level, but for all. Love love love love love love love…

My son has been talking about Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie since last year, and my husband and I finally got around to watching. In a world of depressing news clips and big budget schlock, this sort of DIY, feel-good bromance is exactly the fantasy we all need right now. I didn’t know anything about these Canadian comics or their web series from 20 years ago. If you don’t either, don’t do the research in advance. It makes it way more fun. As a matter of fact, don’t even Google, just go watch now. Ten thumbs up.

Too, my son just informed me that one of the guys from the aforementioned film—Matt Johnson—is directing the new Anthony Bourdain biopic, and the other—Jay McCarrol—is composing the music. The trailer looks good. Hope they do Tony justice. It’s being supported by the family because of its untraditional take, and stars the kid from The Holdovers, so here’s hoping.

Not to go on and on about my son, though I’m prone to do that… he’s back on the music of Dijon of late. If you have 1 minute and 38 seconds, listen to his song “Scratching”—a little beautiful infusion of joy/melancholy/life—and thank us later. Then, watch his set from Coachella. 🔥

Quote of the week?

“There is room enough for everybody in the movement for justice rooted in love”.

— Justin J. Pearson, Tennessee State Representative

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Ramping up into the final week of school, I wanted to chime in on cars and punctuation. The novel I am working on now is based very loosely on the toxic masculinity and sometimes violent misogyny my husband grew up around in 1970s suburban, white-boy Texas. That said, a minor main character in the book is cars. Even though the internet is awash with old car lore, I’m leaning heavily on my husband while learning how to write about and talk about cars of a certain era.

So, as a fun punctuation exercise, I’m going to turn to a typo (I think) some ladies in my cohort and I stumbled across in The Secret History by Donna Tartt (my current classroom read). The book mentions a ‘98 Regency Brougham, a car made by Oldsmobile between 1940 and the 1990s.

At first, my cohort friends thought it was a typo because, of course, why would a book written in 1992 be referencing a car still six years away from being made? That, and the point of telling is even older than that. Google quickly helped us clear up that 98 was actually a model number and not a model year—and further clarifies that “in 1941 both engines were offered on each series, so to differentiate between the two, the second digit was used to denote the number of cylinders; so the Custom Cruiser 90 was replaced with the Custom Cruiser 96 and 98… and in 1942 Oldsmobile dropped the six-cylinder Series 90 model, leaving only the Custom Cruiser 98.”

So, as for punctuation: the apostrophe—the way it’s used in the text—is an apostrophe for omission, which means that it’s used because part of a year has been omitted, which, in this paragraph, is not the case. At Trinity, our managing editor kept a file of all typos so that if a second or third printing of a book came around, the typo could be fixed in subsequent editions. The edition of The Secret History I am reading is from 2004, and the Kindle edition has the same typo, as well. So it would seem that in 33 years, the offending typo has not been corrected.

My question to all you grammar and car nerds out there is: is this a typo? Is there any case when it is OK to refer to a 98 Regency Brougham as a ‘98 Regency Brougham, other than a car that was made in 1998? I assume then it would be a ‘98 98 Regency Brougham, no? When it comes time to publish (fingers crossed) my own book, I wanna make sure I have all my cars in a row. :)

The Secret History, still providing mystery all these years later.

Hello from the green swaths of Texas—at least for the next month or so. I can’t believe I only have a few more weeks of class and the first year of graduate school is over. I have a lot of writing to do this summer, but I am psyched to be without schoolwork for the next few months. Not planning any major vacation or other such money-sucking distractions, just planning to hunker down and get things done. That said, he’s what I learned this week.

Ten thumbs up on A Brief History of Seven Killings. Highly recommend it. Now my Long Novel class is moving on to the only book I will have now read three times in my life, The Secret History by Donna Tartt. (I am no longer a collector of books— read and donate is my mantra—nor am I someone who reads a single book over and over again. Too many books, so little time.) I know there are some Tartt haters around these parts, but I am not among them. I am deep into my third read now, and I still love this story. Ms. Tartt exemplifies a certain type of Gen X girl, one that I think (wish) myself among. She is the dark academia goddess to the manic Pixie dream girl, and even 33 years since my first read, this book holds up. Haters be damned. My only hope for an afterlife is being reincarnated into an alternate universe where a movie version actually got made with Ethan Hawke and Winona Ryder and other such 90s A-listers walking the halls of Hampden College. 💔

Watched Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff. I saw it a long, long time ago, before marriage or kids or adulthood, but man, oh, man does it stand the test of time. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor are major couple goals for sure. Not George and Martha, but just the idea of being with someone who you are so artistically in sync with. Taylor eats the scenery, but hot damn, she is awesome. I watched in tandem with reading the Edward Albee play, and it really made me feel a nostalgia of the time when my parents were married. My mother so often made reference to the idea of “getting the guest” that I’ve referred to the phrase again and again in my life. I’ve been there, and nothing sucks more than a host out to make an ass of you at a dinner party. Twelve thumbs up.

As for rereads, I am on the second read of these two books, Beloved and Remains of the Day—both for Form & Theory. The two Nobel-prize-winning geniuses are very different. While I admire Ishiguro’s craft and tenacity—and Remains of the Day is no doubt a great book—it’s got nothing on Morrison’s deep philosophical and psychological work that pulls at the very heartstrings of what it means to be human, and especially what it means to be Black in America. Beloved has had me thinking about motherhood and being a woman this week. As much as the book is born out of race, it’s a testament to what it means to give birth in every sense of the word. Just astounding.

Though it was a couple of weeks now, I survived Pecha Kucha. Those of you who didn’t get to see it live can now watch it on YouTube. If you have ten or so minutes to blow, you can find out how I got from there to here. There are some minor hiccups like me saying “poetry” instead of “pots” and stating I am working on a book based on my son’s youth, when really it’s my husband’s teen-hood. I can’t bring myself to watch it, so let me know if you catch any other slipups. ;)

Lastly, Reepigee finally gave up the ghost this week, something we’ve been contemplating since before Christmas. He made it through the holidays and one last spring break with my son, but he was declining fast and it was time to let him go. I looked deep into his eyes as he slipped way, and I don’t know that I have ever cried as much for an animal. My husband planted an Esperanza bush in the backyard where he rests, and now I can see outside from my office window. Good dog. So, I’ll leave you with the much maligned Martha My Dear from The White Album, written by Paul McCartney about his Old English Sheepdog. It’s a peppy tune despite the universal hate, and leaves us thinking about dogs on a high note. That said, RIP Reepigee. We loved you despite your flaws. Might we all be so lucky.

Quote of the day?

And there were nights when I’d feel him
Climb upon our bed
And lie between us,
And I’d pat his head.

And there were nights when I’d feel this stare
And I’d wake up and he’d be sitting there
And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.
And sometimes I’d feel him sigh
and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night
And he would have this fear
Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,
And he’d be glad to have me near.

And now he’s dead.
And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he’s not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn’t so,
I’ll always love a dog named Beau.

— from the poem “Beau” by Jimmy Stewart

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Last week, Rufi Thorpe visited the MFA program at Texas State for a Q&A session with students, followed by a reception and reading. Rufi was being awarded the Clark Fiction Prize—an award presented by Texas State to the tune of $25K—for her book Margo’s Got Money Troubles, soon to be an Apple TV series. The book is self-described as “a hilarious and poignant literary novel about a young single mother who reluctantly turns to OnlyFans—and advice from her estranged pro-wrestler father—in order to make ends meet.” Take note especially of the term “literary novel”. In other words, don’t let the cover fool you. Rufi herself called the book a Trojan horse. You lure the reader in with the pink cover, then immediately hit them with a cake shaped like a dick spewing vanilla pudding, an inappropriate relationship between a college professor and a 19-year-old, and thoughts of abortion all baked into the mind of a hilarious yet sharp narrator.

Seems like lots of books by women have to get wrapped in shades of cherry blossom, salmon pink, and blush in order to get noticed in the world. Young-woman me would have balked at books like this. Brain-washed in youth by the patriarchal narrative that female writers are trivial and secondary, I turned my nose up at anything written by women. My mother raised me to love strong, feminist men, but was still of a generation that didn’t spend much time trying to become feminists themselves.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the various worlds of the female writer, from the highest of brows to the lowest. I am currently reading Emma Straub’s (she was my intern back in my Workman Publishing days) latest—American Fantasy—about a middle-aged woman on a pleasure cruise and her rekindled love of a certain boy band. I was never into boy bands myself (unless Duran Duran counts as one—does it?), but I can appreciate the sentiment. Actually, I can appreciate almost anything women want to cook up nowadays. Because, fuck it. Whatever makes you happy, spreads joy, or gets you through the night is OK by me.

I myself am having an angst-ridden April. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a horrible and near-continuous case of FOMO. This past week, it was raging. I didn’t get invited to moderate at the San Antonio Book Festival, my absolute favorite day of the year. It was the first time since it started in 2013 that I haven’t been involved, either working, moderating, or hosting a table at the luncheon. I was planning on going to support and see friends, but at the 11th hour had to bail because I still had 20 hours of reading to do and 30 pages of novel to edit before two weeks’ worth of workshops, so the graduate school anxiety was at an all-time high.

Then I said some cringy old white lady shit during class and started catastrophic thinking that everyone in the program hated me. This was compounded by the fact that I didn’t get into workshop for next semester, leaving me further feeling like an also-ran. Ridiculous, I know. First world bullshit if there ever was.

There is something about not being bona fide within my community anymore that is making me fret and feel like a struggling writer and graduate student. Isn’t that funny? I’m having FOMO about the very thing I ran away from.

Girl, get your head straight!

Now, back to the pink books. Rufi and Emma both give off very cool-girl (at least in the literary world sense) vibes. They both seem so confident and together and able to navigate their success with humor and goodwill toward all. I’m sure when the lights go out they both harbor a sense of self-loathing that seems to go with the territory around these parts. But still. I wish I even had a pinkie’s worth of that kind of self-confidence. Especially in my writing ability.

After hearing Rufi speak, I got it in my head that everyone in the program needs to write a pink book. And I’m not talking about fluffy, pointless girl shit. Rufi described it as not writing the John Cheever/Toni Morrison/Faulkner stuff you think you are supposed to write, and leaning into who you are and what you know to find inspiration. In Rufi’s case, when she started writing about mothers and women in Southern California, she hit her stride. Emma hit the bestseller’s list this week by writing an ode to middle age and boys we loved in our youth. (Girl was also a Guggenheim Fellow in 2024!) I have written two and a half books, and all three have a male protagonist. WTF Burgin!?! So as Rufi spoke, I started writing an outline for my own pink book and haven’t been able to stop since. New York-Texas-Dating-Bookselling-Love-Kids… Can I write more than one book at once? Is that a thing?

As I try and find my way out of FOMO (which started with getting to the gym at 7 this morning to swim hallelujah), take my prompt and ponder about what your pink book might be. I bet it’s not as girlie as you think. 🩷

I was MIA a bit this week with so much going on, between Pecha Kucha and my sister being here. I was drowning in anxiety all week, but Pecha Kucha was better than I could have hoped. I will post a video as soon as it becomes available. Kate Rogers (who was ousted from the Alamo for being too friendly to the Black and indigenous narrative of the historical site) was also one of the speakers, and that woman is a complete and total bass ass. All the speakers were awesome, but I’m so glad I didn’t have to follow her as she got a (much-deserved) standing ovation! Now, I am relatively anxiety-free and sitting in my office, watching the wee bit of rain we are getting, and feeling hopeful. It was a great week.

Reading The History of Seven Killings by Marlon James for class and wow! I’m only on part two, but what a powerhouse book about the 1976 attempted assassination of Bob Marley and the One Love Peace Concert that followed. It helps that my husband just went to Jamaica, so he is reading in unison with me. (We were both surprised when Marlon James was an answer on Jeopardy Thursday. LOL. ) It’s kind of a difficult read as the POV jumps all over the place with a lot of Jamaican patois spoken. If you remember, we did see the milk toast biopic last year that covers the attack and the concert, but my husband is deep into the lore and politics and has schooled me so much already. It’s much easier when you know the political situation of the time. I decided to listen to this one on audio in conjunction, and the audio uses nine different voice actors, which makes a big difference. The patois might not be fully understandable, but I found it relatively easy to get the gist. Loving it so far.

To celebrate my other sister’s birthday and the birthday of my late mother, the three of us went to the San Antonio Highland Games and Celtic Music Festival. Now, I’ve never even been to a Renaissance Faire before, so I had no idea what to expect. My sister goes every year as she is more into my family’s Scottish lore than I am, and she has a West Highland White Terrier who participates in the Scottish dogs portion of the event. There were bagpipes and highland cattle and Shepard’s pie. People competing in log and hatchet throws. Scottish Deerhounds and Skye Terriers. The only thing that could have ruined it was the heat, and thankfully, it stayed delightfully chilly. We followed that up with the No Kings March, which left me feeling a little deflated. I don’t know that marching actually helps anything, and while I know this sounds ridiculous, but the amount of profanity and crude language and jokes about his looks on the signs made me feel like we’ve sunken a bit to their level. Maybe I’m old. Maybe I just hate the way our country is going in general. There were so many people with messages of uplift that I felt the cruel joking sometimes makes us just as bad as him. How much longer Papa Smurf!?!

My visiting sister throws pottery as well, so we were focused on getting her as much wheel time as possible, so I’m glad to be back at it myself. (My sis is deathly afraid of spiders, so I’m glad she was gone before this delightful little Southwestern Trapdoor Spider wandering onto my studio porch to escape the rain.) There is another wood fire in two weeks, so I need to get ready. Throwing more of the hanging pendants, and I think the key with those is going to be practice, practice, practice. Working on enough to have for the two front entrances at my place, plus some to sell at the Eye of the Dog’s Annual Dirt Dauber Festival on May 16 and 17 here in San Marcos. Hope to see you there. :) Also, if you wanna get involved, my friend Alex Trippe is teaching a hand building class at Eye of the Dog starting in this month. Those are her rad woodfired feet up there. She’s sooo good!

For my TA class, I had to read A Streetcar Named Desire, Death of a Salesman, and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe, all peak scripts in the history of theater. I’m loath to admit that I’d never seen the Streetcar film all the way through in one sitting, so last night we jumped in. Double wow. I forgot how gorgeous Brando was. There was some talk about the Chalmette/Brando comparison, and honestly, there is none in my book. We followed it up with another Elie Kazan film, East of Eden, based on the Steinbeck novel and starring someone who I think is a more comparative figure, James Dean. Those two have much of the same vibe. But honestly, the star of that film was the CinemaScope for sure. That color was gorgeous!

Speaking of which. It doing my regular during-movie Googling, I learned a bit of Smith trivia I’d never known. James Dean’s (Cal) brother in the film, Eron, is played by the actor Richard Davalos. A shot of him from the film is on the cover of The Smiths’ 1987 album Strangeways Here We Come, which came out when I was in high school. (Yes, I will probably go to my Gen-X grave clinging to a handful of Smiths and Cure CDs, sue me.) Of course, Morrissey was a James Dean fan and thus wanted Richard on the cover as a nod. According to Wiki, he really wanted to use a still of Harvey Keitel in Martin Scorsese’s 1967 film Who’s That Knocking at My Door, but Keitel told him to fuck off. I imagine he couldn’t get rights to a James Dean pic either. Anyways, I’ll leave you here with I Started Something I Can’t Finish from Strangeways.

Quote of the week?

“I’ve always made a point of not wasting my life, and every time I come back here I know that all I’ve done is to waste my life.”

—Biff Lowman in Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Over spring break, my son was here. ❤️ We did and saw a lot of stuff, and I’m still reeling from allergies, time off, and getting back in the swing of things. I can’t believe we only have a month + left of school. Nuts! That said, here’s a few things that stuck, a few things that might be too late for you to do yourself, and a few things still to come.

First things first. If you aren’t busy, Tuesday night I’ll be speaking at Pecha Kucha at Trinity University, along with a slew of other talented folks. Tickets only $12.51. ;) If you are not busy, come out and support! (The talented Josh Huskin took the shot. I hate getting my picture done but he’s a pro and made it near-painless.)

We did make it up to Austin to see the Live from New York: The Lorne Michaels Collection exhibit at the Harry Ransom Center, which has sadly now closed, so too bad for you. However, the Lorne Michaels archives are available to ogle anytime for free and by appointment, along with zillions of other cool literary and media things like The Niépce Heliograph, the earliest surviving photograph produced in the camera obscura. And the The Gutenberg Bible, the 500-year-old text is one of only 20 of the first printed books that still survive. Free for the viewing!

The San Antonio Museum of Art is showing (until July), New African Masquerades, which presents the work of four artists working today in four different regions of West Africa: Chief Ekpenyong Bassey Nsa (Nigeria), Sheku “Goldenfinger” Fofanah (Sierra Leone), David Sanou (Burkina Faso), and Hervé Youmbi (Cameroon). The show explores how masquerades honor family, support the livelihoods of their makers, offer new imagery, and circulate through twenty-first century technology. Along with thirteen masquerade ensembles made from materials including wood, cloth, fabric, sequins, raffia, beads, feathers, and shells, the exhibition includes an immersive video experience, with 360-degree views showing masquerade ensembles as they are made and performed. It was totally rad. Not to be missed.

Finally got around to watching No Other Choice, a South Korean black comedy/murder mystery from last year co-written, produced, and directed by Park Chan-wook, based on The Ax by Donald Westlake. Now I’ll take Train to Busan and Parasite over pretty much any Korean film, but this one was pretty dark and funny and had peak sets and mood. Plus, far beyond the horrors of the actual murders is the message of the looming AI takeover of the workplace, something I wrote about yesterday and have been plagued with contemplating endlessly over the last year. Fun, weird, and makes you think. And it’s a love letter to paper. 😍

As much as I flipped over my first earnest run-in with Virginia Wolfe last year, I think I am too old and cynical for a book like Mrs. Dalloway. Or maybe after this school year I’m just burnt out on British novels of manners. Or maybe I’m reading it at the same time as my new all-time favorite book ever, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and the competition for my attention has been too great. With the last few chapters of a day in the life of Clarissa Dalloway left to go, I have not gotten to the climatic/ suicidal end yet, so I can’t be the full judge until then. Wish me luck, though, as next week I have to present on it and need to make it as snooze-free as possible.

This week, I’ve been trying to throw a large pendant to mimic the midcentury Beaumont Mood lamps designed by the legendary San Antonio ceramic firm. I did one trial run which was chaotic and just OK. (The green anole at my pottery studio was suspect of the whole endeavor.) I threw another today that is too small, but at least I’ll be able to practice carving on it. It’s to replace our front porch pendant that got wrecked in a wind storm. My husband had to get stitches, too, when the rather tall ladder he was using to work on the wiring decided to fall down and attack him. To celebrate the fact that he survived the fall, enjoy the Vicki Lawrence on The Carol Burnett show singing The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia, written by Vicki’s husband Robby Russell and released on 1973. And, which all ties back to the best comedic monologue ever written for broadcast television. RIP Julia Sugarbaker.

Quote of the week?

He’s the chorus of that haunting (yet silly in retrospect) ditty.

That's the night that the lights went out in Georgia
That's the night that they hung an innocent man
Well, don't trust your soul to no backwoods Southern lawyer
'Cause the judge in the town's got bloodstains on his hands

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Been swimming in the dark lately, metaphorically. Though, I did just buy a dive flashlight to hit the San Marcos River after 9:30 pm because word on the street is you can see beavers and otters down there. So yes, there is night swimming in the cards, but that’s not the loop my brain has been on. I haven’t wanted to write as the optimism meter has been running low. Seems like everywhere I look, I see students having mini nervous breakdowns. I’m not too privy to everyone’s personal lives, but when the rollercoasters around you are that rampant, it doesn't seem like an isolated event. I’m speculating, but barring massive personal life drama, I’m guessing it is one of the following. (To combat these overwhelming feelings of woe, I am following each of these negative thoughts up with some food for thought on the hope that still lingers.)

The political climate: The downside. The war (s). The elevated cost of living. Social justice or the lack thereof. The long slog to autocracy. The upside: There’s a march on Saturday. Get walking friends. Who knows if these help, but it’s better than doom scrolling. Speaking of…

Cell phone/Social media: The downside. Riding the bus and watching a few dozen students, not interacting. Their heads down, sitting on their devices, no active attempts to interact with the actual human beings around them. I’m actively trying to cut all social media for the most part, as I’m addicted just as much as anyone. Trying only to engage on my iPad, rather than my phone. The algorithm is so tight, I almost can’t go on Instagram without buying something that is exactly what I want/need. The upside: I know these lawsuits against Meta and the like are small potatoes, but I hope they are the beginning of something larger. It’s nuts that conservatives are wasting time protecting kids from LGBTQ+ books and drag brunches and hardly existent Trans athletes, when everyone is one search away from XXX content, a betting addiction, and a bevy of child predators. Where is Tipper Gore when you need her!?!

AI: The downside. Having to actively fight students to write from their own minds. Watching these young people who know that the jobs that wait out there for them with be few and far between, the rest snapped up by machines and programs. A friend was telling me that he thought for sure universal wages were on the horizon. I guess we’ll be attached to VR machine’s like in Ready Player One, on the dole, just surviving to survive. The upside. More than ever the only way these young people will be able to make it in the world beyond of being a cog in the wheel, will be to create something for themselves outside of the corporate landscape.

Critical thinking and the use of mind: The downside. The idea that we are never bored scares the shit out of me, especially in terms of trying to be creative. There is no creativity without boredom. Period. The upside. Human brains are all-healing. It doesn’t take much disengagement from the online hordes to get your brain right again. We are resilient. You can always make something, read, walk, hug, love, talk, get out in nature, and learn, learn, learn. It’s always there, just out of the fog.

Depressed yet? I hope not, but I have to imagine these are the types of things that are leading students down the path of anxiety and spiraling imaginations. But these are also the ways out again. Don’t just consume. Create in every single way you can. Art. Conversation. Helping. Make something happen. You always can.

So, if you see me floating down the river at midnight this weekend, chasing down a river mammal, say hi. I’ll be out there, searching for hope in the water and in the dark or anywhere else I can get it.

Honestly, I’ve learned tons over the past few days, but I’m more than ready for this time off. All that really matters right now is that my son is about four hours away from home, and I get to be a mother again for a little while. Weak sauce, I know—but if you can’t live for your kids, what can you live for? I am unabashedly his #1 fan, so I’m perfectly fine with a week of birdwatching and making spaghetti and meatballs. Before I sign off for Spring Break, I wanted to leave you with a few thoughts…

If you didn’t read my post about the wood fire at Eye of the Dog Art Center, get to it. It was the best part of the week really. Look at those colors!

No shade to Flaubert—Madame Bovary is the pinnacle of realist writing and does brilliantly expose the dangers of unrestrained consumerism—but Emma Bovary is exhausting. Shallow, narcissistic... Her story ( as told through the lens of an old French dude) is about 300 pages too long for me. Emma’s character depiction is everything you hope women aren’t—past, present or future. Man, oh, man (pun intended)—as Ms. Virginia Slim once said, we’ve come a long way, baby. Thank gawd!

Moving on to better things, I’ve had probably a dozen copies of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon pass through my hands over the years, but I never managed to crack one open. I'm so glad it’s on the syllabus this semester. Chabon is my favorite writer of short nonfiction, so I’m ashamed to admit I’d never read one of his novels…until now. The good news? I’ll never have to say that again. Freaking fantastic! It definitely makes me miss New York.

Back in the day, I was never a huge Sonic Youth fan. But I’ve been listening to Kim Gordon’s new album—Play Me—if for no other reason than I love seeing women of a certain age (Gen X) putting themselves out there and doing their thing. Technically, Kim is a Boomer, but that makes it even more rad as she is keeping it pretty tight in all directions while aging naturally. We are still valid, ladies. Keep creating!

I will be watching the Oscars this weekend, even though I have had it with Hollywood (except for Jesse Buckley in Hamnet—I hope she wins—even though everyone says The Bride! is a shitshow: anyone seen it? Thoughts in comments, please). We just saw the final best picture film—The Secret Agent written and directed by Kleber Mendonça Filho about a professor caught in the political turmoil of the Brazilian military dictatorship—and while Wagner Moura is fabulous (and beyond attractive), I am still hoping Sinners will sweep. :) It’s Michael B. Jordan’s day. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!

Quote (or poem)of the week? “I, Too” by Langston Hughes.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

Over the past few weeks, I took part in the wood fire at my studio—Eye of the Dog—here in San Marcos. It was my first time, and even though I felt like a total newb, the experience did not disappoint. Between obligations at school and home, I’m not as mired in the studio culture as I’d like to be, but getting to be even a small part of it was still incredible. I only had a few pieces in the kiln, so I wasn’t as heavily invested as the artists who drove from all over Texas to participate, but it was a blast to be part of a community coming together to do something so ancient and massive. The energy was positive and life-affirming, and the end result was so unexpected.

Unlike the electric kilns I usually use—which are self-contained and take about 24 hours start-to-finish with no labor involved other than loading and unloading—wood firing is intense. It’s a labor-heavy process where wood is the sole fuel, pushing the kiln to temperatures over 2300°F. The idea that “it takes a village” is literal here. There are months of prep work and dozens of volunteers involved. To finish off the 800 or so pieces in the kiln, it’s a multi-day, around-the-clock marathon with teams stoking the fire in shifts. Many people use high-fire glazes, but some don’t use glaze at all and leave the work to the elements. The fire carries ash through the kiln, which lands on the pots and melts into a natural, unpredictable, “flame-kissed” glaze. (One of my pots at unload is all the way to the right.)

I jumped in for a workday where we cleaned up and prepped literal pounds of clay wadding—tiny balls of clay that sit under every single piece in the kiln. Then, I helped with the final day of loading, which ended with us sealing the brick kiln with a heavy iron lid. Finally, I caught the last night of the firing. There’s a specific kind of exhaustion and exhilaration that comes with it; it’s the kind of experience that makes you want to be a part of something so pure and honest forever—everyone gleefully tipsy from black smoke, no sleep, and camaraderie, the end in sight.

Seeing all the pieces unloaded is a real “Christmas morning” moment, with everyone mooning over each other’s work. The joy is palpable. Collective hard work and passion manifested into a physical thing you can touch and hold in your hand. It was an honor to watch this group—young and old alike—pull together to bring this thing to life. I hope to get in on the next one—to fully buy in, create more pots, and invest more deeply in the process. Gawd! If only I had another lifetime to fully engage in all the things!

Honestly, it’s incredible what humans can create when they put their minds and talents to it. One of the leads, artist Frank Zhu, says it on his Insta way more eloquently than I ever could. Check it out!

Another Friday. How many more Fridays will I get? Nobody knows. Regardless, we persevere! Had a much better week, probably due to a number of things, but that’s learning for ya. Whenever I get down and feel like I have to drag my ass to class, as soon as I get there, I remember why school is awesome and feel thankful all over again. Here are some things this week that made me feel great. Hope it’s contagious.

The number one reason this week was fantastic was the fact that I was up at 5:30 most mornings to do laps at the gym. The first 20 seconds sucks with the splash and the cold and the shock, but the following 45 minutes are heaven. This morning, I didn’t get my usual lane, which is the farthest away from the clock, so that with my glasses off, it doesn’t distract me. However, this morning I was in the lane closest, so the minutes ticked away one by one in slow-mo until I was able to distract myself with thoughts of my TA class next semester. That’s right, your girl will be teaching two sections of College Writing I all by herself in the fall. I know it seems silly, but I am really proud of myself for being here in this moment of my life. I was so jacked this morning that while I swam, I wrote my entire syllabus in my head. Wish me luck!

In Form and Theory, we read The Key, a 1956 erotic novel by Japanese author Jun’ichirō Tanizaki. The story is told through the alternating diary entries of a middle-aged professor and his wife as they navigate their suffering sex life by arousing each other through manipulation, voyeurism, and scandalous secrets, all while pretending to be unaware of the other’s antics. In tantum, we read a few essays on the epistolary style of writing—that which tells a story through documents like letters, diaries, emails, etc. This book has it all. Lewd polaroids. Women getting drugged and sexually assaulted (sort of). Trigger warnings abound, but it was a fabulous read regardless.

My son’s been cajoling me to watch It Was Just an Accident, the 2025 farcical thriller written and directed by Jafar Panahi, who is one of Iran’s best-known directors. The guy is in and out of prison all the time for criticizing the policies of the Iranian regime in his art, and this one is no exception. It’s a heartbreaking riot of a film about a body shop owner who comes upon a one-legged man he believes to be his former torturer. It won the Palme d’Or at Cannes last year and is up for a few Oscars.

Two thumbs up.

Speaking of my son, he’s recently discovered Townes Van Zandt. A broken genius of a songwriter, he’s one of my husband’s favorites. I highly recommend the 2004 documentary Be Here to Love Me: A Film About Townes Van Zandt, as well as Heartworn Highways, a documentary by James Szalapski who captured footage of some of the founders of the Outlaw Country movement in Texas and Tennessee in the last weeks of 1975 and the first weeks of 1976. This one scene right here tells you all you need to know about Townes. The best four minutes you’ll spend this week.

Lastly, I did a review for Texas State’s lit mag the Porter House Review, on Diamond Forde’s new collection, The Book of Alice. This book is a knockout elegy. Poet and NC State professor Diamond retells the story of her grandmother’s life through poems, the words of her grandmother, and The King James Bible. If you are looking to get into some lyrical love this weekend, check it out. Bring the tissues.

Quote of the week?

Someday, when I am not afraid
to think of myself as a god large enough
that every heart-shaped leaf dicing light
to dust could beat in my own chest,
& I’ve never made a life, but I’ve reached
into the refuse they make of us,
found hearts hardy as crocus bulbs,
& in this poem I will plant a world for women
where kudzu climbs & is wanted.

— Diamond Forde from The Book of Alice

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)

The other night, my husband and I went to a concert in Austin on a whim. Michael Shannon’s R.E.M. cover band. It was geared directly to an older Gen X crowd, with a few hip Boomers sprinkled in. Michael Shannon is two years younger than me, but still firmly in my generation, one that came of age to the soundtrack of Michael Stipe, Natalie Merchant, Robert Smith, and Morrissey. It was nice being in a room full of people my own age, but as soon as Bobcat Goldthwaite (the opener) came out and opened with an AARP joke, my mood dampened. How had this Boomer infiltrated my good time with his old man jokes? They continued on, one erectile dysfunction jab after another, and although he was funny(ish), nobody wanted to hear that shit. We were all there to relive our youth, not be reminded of being bald, fat, old, and not being able to get it up. Those are Boomer problems, not ours. Right?

See, I’ve been struggling to access hope, which seems like an entitled thing to say considering the current state of the world. Which it is. I am not living in Iran, North Korea, Gaza, Somalia, or any of the other places in this world that have far bigger problems than a Cheeto-faced narcissist. And as for first-world problems, I am not working a shitty job that I hate, struggling to make ends meet, sick, in debt, etc. But I do have eyes and ears and a heart. I don’t have to look too far from my own front door to see the sadness. The world is struggling and changing so fast that our puny little human minds are struggling to keep up. Technology is expanding in ways that is making humanity obsolete and, in the process, more stupid. I can’t help but wonder what the future will bring for my son, and the closer I get to the end, the more I want to rally and nest and find community in the smallest sense. Home. School. Cooking. Books. Art. Take eggs to the neighbors. Repeat. I can feel this in everyone I meet. Either you are fighting, raging, marching, or nesting hard.

The band was playing the entire 1986 album Lifes Rich Pageant, which is not banger-heavy. It contains lesser-known songs like Cuyahoga—a meditation on river pollution and the mistreatment of Native Americans—and, my personal favorite, Swan Swan H—about the American Civil War. So when Michael Shannon broke out in the hit Superman, all of us were ready to feel that.

The song was an anthem of sorts for many of us. A cover of a 1969 song by the Texas psychedelic band the Clique. The lyrics about romantic invincibility are universal.

I am, I am Superman

And I know what’s happening.

I am, I am Superman

And I can do anything.

In your fifties, this kind of optimism is hard to maintain, so when the first cords hit, hands (and phones) went up. There was a vain attempt in the audience to capture the magic of youth, but the enthusiasm felt dejected and short-lived. Michael Shannon was feeling it, but few others were. Least of all me.

When I saw The Psychedelic Furs in 2017, I was still in my 40s. There was no COVID. No President Trump. We had freaking Obama! My mother wasn’t dead yet. My child was old enough to be self-sufficient. The room was small and full, and the air was electric with nostalgia, and everyone felt it. The band felt it. When Love My Way came on, and Richard Butler leaned into the mic, everyone in that audience went insane. It was time travel. We were all collectively 16 again.

As Superman was wrapping up, I felt disappointed. Whatever spark I was hoping for never ignited. There would be no reliving anything. I was growing more and more annoyed with a group of drunk women behind us who were sloppy dancing and bumping into everyone. I was glancing back, making a joke to my husband, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a short-haired, platinum-blond woman with large blue glasses, laughing and leaning into another woman. I turned back to watch the band, then did a double-take and turned to look at her straight on. It only took me a second or two before I walked straight up to her and said, “Are you Ashley?”

She answered yes, and for a second looked confused, and then a flash of recognition. “BURGIN!”

Then a hug. A hug so good, so strong, so real. One that reached back a lifetime and filled my heart with something it hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Pure joy. I kept hugging her, reaching my hands into a well and drinking again and again as if I was dying of thirst and hadn’t known it.

This girl… I call her that because we were girls together. I’d known her since the first grade. We spent eight school years together in a small-town classroom with only 7 or 8 girls, fluctuating only when a random new kid slid in or out. So these girls, we more than grew up together. We were as close as you can get without being sisters. I had not seen her since I was 16, the last time being at the funeral of a mutual friend. Her mother was friends with my mom and good friends with my aunt before they both passed. We both had divorced parents and similar situations with our fathers. We were both different in a town where different wasn’t always the best thing. We’d never been best friends back then, but back then, it didn’t matter. It was the kids you knew, however close, who made you.

“Why are you here?” we cried in unison. We grew up together in South Carolina. She lives in Atlanta. I’m in San Antonio. She was on a girls’ weekend with friends from college. She’d never been to Texas. She never liked R.E.M. Totally random.

I’ve kept up with her on Facebook over the years. Watched her marry her beautiful wife in photos. Adopt dogs. Become a super successful real estate agent. She’s one of those women who has a full life—a glowing energy, a bright spirit. Not even the 2-dimensional nature of an app could stop that shining through. I got her cell phone number a good ten years back when one of the original seven died by suicide, and the rest of us connected to remember. However, she wasn’t someone I realized I missed until I held her.

I must have hugged her ten times, not wanting to let go. And I wasn’t 53. Or 40. Or 16. I was eight years old. I was the little girl standing under the jungle gym, watching her do pull-ups in awe. I was the little girl who always looked up to her because she was athletic and self-confident and a born leader, all the things I didn’t think I was.

In that hug was the recognition of a lifetime past. Of shared memories and pain. Of who we once were, and who we’d become.

The concert didn’t matter anymore. That hug was better than Night Swimming, Losing My Religion, and Driver 8, all rolled into one.

We didn’t talk long. It was loud. She was with her friends. I was with my husband. It wasn’t the moment to catch up. We took a selfie, and I made a pact with myself to reach out the next time I was on the East Coast.

The rest of the show all I could think was how great I felt—like a warm cat had crawled into my chest, curled up, and started purring.

Later, on the way home, Ashley texted me. “Amazing. I wish we could tell our moms.”

I started tearing up, and she texted again.

“That’s all I could think when you left. Like, goddamn it would be amazing to tell them this.”

And there it was.

The thing we shared between us more than anything was the thing we’d both lost. The thing that no amount of music or memories could bring back—no matter how many nostalgia acts you get drunk and dance to.

OK. I’ve been absent. It’s a trope. I’ve stepped back from pottery and blogging so I can focus on my manuscript, plus an overwhelming sense of doom about the world that makes it difficult to sift the joy out of anything. Maybe I should be watching the Olympics, but tuning in for the Bad Bunny Bowl was the most I could do sports-related this semester. It makes me nervous that as I sit at this desk spitting out words that might never mean anything to anyone other than me , my butt grows bigger and bigger, and my soul darkens. But hey, I’m oscillating between optimism and pessimism, and here is some stuff I’ve learned this week to that effect.

College students are using AI. A lot. I mean, a WHOLE lot. In a way that makes it excruciating to grade papers, and even worse, makes me see the coming age of WALL-E in the rearview mirror, quickly gaining speed. I had a dream nightmare last night that my husband and I were in a vast field of the most lovely amber waves of grain, and AI had become so advanced that you could just call out what you wanted and it would appear. I was asking for yellow balloons and hot-dog-shaped balloons that just appeared and floated over the landscape in the most gorgeous way. It was cool at first, but then I realized what would stop someone from asking for a million balloons? Or a zillion balloons. Or a nuclear bomb, and it stopped being cool.

I’ve been reading more than there’s room to tell you about. How have I never seen or read Candide before? Voltaire was freaking nuts. Thick with racism and misogyny, it’s a 1700s satire on optimism with a scathing critique of European colonialism, slavery, and imperialism, that is so on point for our current moment. Rape. Murder. Infidelity. Cannibalism. People having sex with animals. People getting their butt cheeks cut off. People dying and then coming back to life. Hilarious and raunchy, even for today. It has it all and more. The book really looks at how we observe evil in the world in “modern” society. Much like what Talarico said on Colbert… It’s not left to right, it’s up to down. This is a major simplification, because what can you say in one short paragraph? It’s insane in the best possible way. If you are feeling pessimistic, it’s a great read to double down and wallow in.

If you want to wallow further, check out Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon. It’s a really good movie with an excellent script, and Ethan Hawke, as American lyricist Lorenz Hart, gives one of the best and most uplifting/gut-wrenching performances you’ll see all year. Scratch that, if you really wanna feel terrible, watch the spectacular documentary, The Perfect Neighbor, Geeta Gandbhir’s Oscar-nominated meditation on stand your ground laws and racial justice. It’s about AJ” Owens, a mother of four in a tight-knit neighborhood in Florida, who was shot by her neighbor for no good reason. It’s made entirely of body cam footage, and it is heartbreak in real time.

The upshot is that a fellow cohort member in her twenties recently commented that she was more cynical than I am. That she’d lost that bushy tail feeling that I still managed to maintain. At 53, I will take that. If I have anything, it’s my childlike sense of wonder, even if it is encrusted with a lifetime of cynicism and petty judgment. Books and learning still get me going after all these years. On that note, let’s focus on the positive this week, and keep the ball rolling and VOTE! Early voting is happening now, and primary election day is Tuesday, March 3, 2026. Be there.

My husband is going to Jamacia in the next few weeks, so I’ll leave you today with Bob Marley’s Redemption Song. It never gets old.

Quote of the day?

The best way to hold a people down is to make sure they aren't educated. — Jasmine Crockett

‘Til Tuesday, friends.

Burgin

(An MFA grad student at 50+… follow along and read my story here.)