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Here in Chicago, at the big Modern Language Conference, something like 10,000 academics — those of us in English, and those of us in Foreign Language — all crammed into ten hotels. It’s a little version of hell, a three day hell of strange conference presentations with titles like “Neither/Noir: Neo versus Necro (How to Learn to Live By Learning to Die after the Death of Genre)” and “The Guillotine’s Dilemma: The Life of the Severed Head” and “Cookbooks: Mirroring, Interrogating, and Transforming Society.”

Okay, that last one? That I might like to hear. What I’d really like to hear is a paper on the transformative power of shoes. Something like: “Textuality and (re)presentation in Stilletos: Manolo Blahnik as Agent of the Counterculture.” That counter, of course, being where the cash register is. Or: “Paradise Gained: Aesthetic Responses to The Thong (nee Flip Flop).” With the obligatory mention of the heretical toe cleavage. Even better, I want a title with THREE colons. Something like this: “Boots, Pumps, Slippers: A Critical Survey of Indoor/Outdoor Wear (Where): Rethinking the Pedestrian Imagination: Praxis and Aesthetic(s).” Yeah. I’d go to that one. Followed by a Cash Bar And Annual Business Meeting Arranged by the Women’s Caucus for The Cowboy Boot.

Meanwhile, there are a slew of (promised) bloggers wandering MLA taking and making note. You can read their thoughts here:
BLOGS

Our local paper has printed a story which, oh I don’t know, may be of some interest. Have a look: LINK

And, for the record, that description of Rose City? Well, it’s a bit reductive. Read what my nice publisher says about the book instead: LINK Or, better yet, read the book. I’m sure there are a lot of copies on half.com for sale for cheap. (I especially like the ones that indicate “Absolutely New! Never been read!”)

Just think: stocking stuffers! You can roll my book up so that it’s the circumference of a Tootsie Roll and jam it in your beloved’s stocking. There you go.

At last, winter is coming. Have a look:

On the street, early Sunday afternoon as it is beginning to rain: A woman in a sweatshirt and blue jeans, walking on the sidewalk below the looming hulk of the Purina factory. She holds a worn Bible to her chest, her hair is stringy and uncombed. She stares straight ahead.

On the streets, today, as the windchill hovered around 15 or 16 degrees: men in Carhaart coveralls and black knit caps hunched over the handlebars of little motorscooters, the kind you don’t have to license, the kind you can drive anywhere no matter how many DUIs you have. The men — and I saw three separate men all in Carhaarts, all with black knit caps — favor smoking, usually barehanded, as they navigate the streets of Richmond.

The class demarcation line of Christmas decorations: white lights adorning trees and bushes and pretty swags and wreaths above doors and windows do not show up in the same neighborhoods as the giant blow up illuminated Christmas lawn decorations with blowing snow inside transparent globes, sound tracks of Christmas carols, and animated gizmos and animals gyrating in time to the music.

Dark windows in restaurants after ten p.m. That’s what I see in my town. Well-lit bars after ten p.m. I see that too. A furtive crowd at CVS after ten. A tired one at Wal-Mart. Even when it’s cold, I see solitary men and women on the sidewalks in the downtown. Where are they going?

There are a lot of things I could write about, should write about, might write about. Here’s a list:

1. How Owen barked at the moon the other day, early in the morning, before it was light. There the moon was, a bright half circle of yellow light in the blue black sky. Owen stared at it, tilted his little doggy head and gave an experimental WOOF. The moon did not budge. WOOF WOOF! Nothing doing, dog. The moon’s not going anywhere. This did not sit well with Owen, who proceeded to bark insistently, waking up all the other dogs in the neighborhood until there was a chorus of dogs barking at the moon. I could write about that.

2. How I drove through Glen Miller Park last night looking for the festival of lights, or whatever it was called. Half the entrances to the park were blocked off so you couldn’t get in, even though each entrance was lit with dozens of “luminaria” (candles stuck in sand filled plastic jugs, thank you very much). Then, when I did get in, and followed a line of cars into the park, we were met at an intersection by a grouchy guy with a flashlight standing in front of a barricade who made us turn around and go out of the park. I tried one more time, finding yet another entrance to the park. I drove until I got to the main building, which was, almost predictably: dark. Or, I think it was dark. There were cars parked next to it and I saw someone walking out. But it looked pretty dark to me. And it must have to the other cars ahead and behind me who did the same thing I did: turn around and leave. Festival of lights? Right. I should write about that too.

3. How I’m thinking about writing Chapter three of the book, but stalling, procrastinating, thinking of a lot of other things to do besides writing this particular chapter. I don wanna write it. That’s the little voice inside my head. I don wanna. And the whiny friend of that voice: It’s too hard! Well. I might write about not writing, but I think I won’t.

4. Christmas. I could write about how it’s here again, that weird time of year when everyone spends like a maniac trying to buy happiness, joy, peace on earth, myrrh, frankincense, whatever. I won’t say bah humbug, not to Christmas itself. To the mania of spending, however, I will. There is only so much stuff one person really needs. And that’s the key word, of course: need. We need shelter, food, clothing. We need art. Yes, need it. We need beauty, kindness, peace, human warmth in all its forms. That’s about it. I don’t think we need the latest biggest flat screen TV, or the newest shoe from Jimmy Choo, or $50 tights from DKNY, or even that great little black dress from Jones New York that was featured in some magazine, I forget which one. Those are all wants. Cravings. Desires. Most fueled, as we all know, by marketing, advertising, and perhaps a desire to demonstrate our net worth by the stuff we collect around us. As if net worth was evidence of the worth of a human soul. To that I say bah humbug. And for Christmas, I think shopping at used book stores, and vintage clothing stores, and yard sales (if there are any this time of year) and Goodwill — that makes sense to me. It’s a kind of recycling. And, if you can, buy handmade things, stuff you can get at church bazaars, and from your friends who make interesting art. Or make it yourself. So. Right. I could write about that too. (If you are in or near Richmond, Indiana, try this gift alternative at Clear Creek Cooperative: LINK

There’s probably more on the list, random possibilities to write about or not write about. It’s the chapter that needs my attention. Wants it too. I think I’ll go have a look.