Thanks to Alan Summers for these photos.
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
Monday, 28 May 2007
Friday, 18 May 2007
Come one, come all! Gala student reading Saturday 26 May
Carrie Etter presents
a Gala Student Reading
at The George
in Bradford on Avon
Creative writing students
from Bath Spa University and The Poetry School
strut their stuff. These students include:
Sue Boyle
Sally Carr
Sue Chadd
Sharon Eldritch-Boersen
Ellie Evans
Donald Gibson
Zoë Howarth
Richard Lambert
Helen Pizzey
Rebecca Preston
Emily Reb
Lynette Rees
Sebastian Rigler
Linda Saunders
Mark Sayers
Bronagh Slevin
Cerianne Teague
Andrew Turner
Tom Weir
Ros Weston
John Wheway
Saturday, 26 May 2007
7:30 p.m. till ??
The George, 67 Woolley Street, Bradford on Avon, BA15 1AQ
(An e-flyer for this event will be distributed
once I confirm the time with the landlord tomorrow.)
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Hospital No. 3
Since I arrived back in England two and a half weeks ago, I've taken to calling home every 2-3 days, as Dad's condition was more or less constant and stable. Tonight I called him at Provena, and the phone rang and rang, so I hung up and called my mother's mobile. "Guess where we are," she said upon answering. Dad has been moved back to town to treat his resistant blood infection, but now they are St. Joseph's instead of BroMenn. When I asked about his condition, it sounded as though he hasn't worsened, so I really don't understand what this infection is about or why it's so troubling he'd be moved. That's one problem with the distance--you can't go to anyone else for clarification or answers.
Mom also said this meant that the "clock" would start over again, should he need to return to Provena afterwards. How long can this last? He's been in hospital 3 months and 11 days; I hardly know what to say to distract or cheer him. I want him well. I want to wake up.
Mom also said this meant that the "clock" would start over again, should he need to return to Provena afterwards. How long can this last? He's been in hospital 3 months and 11 days; I hardly know what to say to distract or cheer him. I want him well. I want to wake up.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Current Issues
Lately it seems like every few days I'm receiving proofs or contributor's copies. There are poems in the new issues of Aufgabe (Lytton was so kind as to read for me at the New York launch--imagine me 6-foot tall, with thick blond hair and beard, and an English accent!), New Welsh Review, and Orange Coast Review (the only way I'm getting back to southern California these days). Poems are forthcoming, presumably within the year, in The Liberal, PN Review, Poetry Review, Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, Shearsman, and The Warwick Review. I'm looking forward to seeing The Warwick Review--we need more good British literary magazines (and simply good magazines that include poetry).
Between Destinations
I've been putting off posting an update about my father, and it just struck me that it's because he's between destinations--"out of the woods," but far from well. Positively, I was able to see progress in his cognition, speech, and arm movement while I was visiting; but he has a new blood infection and the wound at the base of his back will take, I was told, 1-2 years to heal. I am glad now that I did not see it; I doubt I would be able to get it out of my mind.
Two images/memories are most prominent. When I first came to visit on my own (after a previous visit with family), I looked into the room and saw that he was mostly naked, his gown fallen away, only covering his genitals and little more. It was strange to see him like that, especially with his skin slack from the lack of exercise. Because of his wound, he always has to be positioned (and moved every couple hours) off his back, to one side, and he was facing away from me. I stood there, not wanting to embarrass him by walking in, but not knowing what else to do. After a minute, to my surprise, he called to me--he'd seen me after all, and as I came into the room, he apologised and tried to cover himself. The tension of the moment dissipated quickly once we began talking, but I can still see myself poised in the doorway, looking, waiting.
The other memory I return to is of cutting his nails. His finger- and toenails had grown unchecked for months; his fingernails were about a centimetre or so past the fingertip, and his toenails were so long they were curling over, back into the skin. He kept scratching his forehead, and I thought with his difficulty moving and the length of those nails he could scratch himself quite badly. So I cut and cleaned his nails, over two days. I skimmed away the dead skin and trimmed the nails down, having to cut them back two or three times before I reached the right length. I suppose it seems a little "gross," but there was something about the physicality of it, and the fact that I could actually do something palpable for my father, that was very satisfying. In retrospect it seems so feeble, when I think of the pain he's in (if I call at a time when the pain meds are wearing off, I'll hear him groan in wincing pain), but at the time, I took pride in doing something for him that others would not want to do, that would take from him just one sign of what he's been through.
He sounded a bit depressed when I called earlier and admitted his spirits were low. I remind him how much progress he's made, but while he's confined to that hospital bed and in so much pain, it must seem insufficient and slow to him. I hope he perceives some improvement soon.
Two images/memories are most prominent. When I first came to visit on my own (after a previous visit with family), I looked into the room and saw that he was mostly naked, his gown fallen away, only covering his genitals and little more. It was strange to see him like that, especially with his skin slack from the lack of exercise. Because of his wound, he always has to be positioned (and moved every couple hours) off his back, to one side, and he was facing away from me. I stood there, not wanting to embarrass him by walking in, but not knowing what else to do. After a minute, to my surprise, he called to me--he'd seen me after all, and as I came into the room, he apologised and tried to cover himself. The tension of the moment dissipated quickly once we began talking, but I can still see myself poised in the doorway, looking, waiting.
The other memory I return to is of cutting his nails. His finger- and toenails had grown unchecked for months; his fingernails were about a centimetre or so past the fingertip, and his toenails were so long they were curling over, back into the skin. He kept scratching his forehead, and I thought with his difficulty moving and the length of those nails he could scratch himself quite badly. So I cut and cleaned his nails, over two days. I skimmed away the dead skin and trimmed the nails down, having to cut them back two or three times before I reached the right length. I suppose it seems a little "gross," but there was something about the physicality of it, and the fact that I could actually do something palpable for my father, that was very satisfying. In retrospect it seems so feeble, when I think of the pain he's in (if I call at a time when the pain meds are wearing off, I'll hear him groan in wincing pain), but at the time, I took pride in doing something for him that others would not want to do, that would take from him just one sign of what he's been through.
He sounded a bit depressed when I called earlier and admitted his spirits were low. I remind him how much progress he's made, but while he's confined to that hospital bed and in so much pain, it must seem insufficient and slow to him. I hope he perceives some improvement soon.
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