Thursday, January 1, 2009

Shopping is out, but poetry is still good

Happy New Year.  
Today is the first day of my BUY NOTHING three months. For Christmas I gave The Mister this beautiful, handmade Ipod dock and the promise to buy nothing new (groceries and toiletries accepted) for three months.  The reasoning is threefold: 1. we lack the proper funds for shopping 2. we have enough shit, and 3. the cornerstone of environmentalism is using less.  Oh, and also, The Mister's nickname is "The Flinty Yankee" so this sort of austerity program is really up his alley. And actually, I am kind of looking forward to it.  I'm curious to see whether I am really the sort of Ivana Trumpesque spendthrift The Mister thinks I am.  If he's right, we should be just absolutely flush with cash come April. 
The shoe thing will be hard, but luckily I got these in bronze for Christmas so I should be OK until spring. 

A thing I like

This marvelous, lascivious and tender poem in the form of a letter to Gary Snyder by the great Richard Hugo.  I love poetry tinged with machismo.  It makes me want to weep.

Letter to Snyder from Montana

Dear Gary: As soon as you'd gone winter snapped shut again
on Missoula. Right now snow from the east and last night 
cold enough to arrest the melting of ice. My favorite 
bouncer, wind, stopped throwing clouds out of the joint for being 
too gloomy. In short, you're gone and we've gone back to being 
a small dreary city.  Some of your grace hangs on. I still 
have a date with that round pink girl. For her I have evil plans. 
I am rubbing my hands like a monster. I am planning trips 
to remote lakes in spring. I know it's not modern to think 
of seduction as evil, but damn it that makes it more fun 
and the more fun it is the more often I'll do it, I hope. 
Students still buzz about your reading. Those who had turned you 
into a god were happy to find you human. I should 
have warned them. Should have warned all western Montana, 
a warm force is coming. Snow will run off. The rivers 
will scream and crack their banks. Winter will take a breather. 
Speaking of love being fun, you never in your remarks 
mentioned those two-minute male orgasms perfected 
in India by, if I have it right, mystics. Why not? 
Nor did you bring up those ancient Chinese techniques 
for tortuous titillation.  Remember, forests and land 
(for me, especially) are not all that's worth saving. 
There's also loving.  Shit. Why tell you? You preserve that 
everyday without trying. But of course you're not here. 
Last night, 20 below. A mass of tall arctic air 
stands over us like a cruel father, though the weather now 
is really a mother and this mother may go on forever. 
What it needs, what we need, I, is another visit 
from Snyder. For that, the glaciers are waiting, and bears 
(for you especially, fish) and the green flaring pageant 
of sky mating with hills. This letter was found wadded up 
in a bum in the tundra who send his warmest regards. Dick.

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