an image diary

"And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? ... You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream! If that there King was to wake you'd go out -- bang! -- just like a candle!"

"Hush! You'll be waking him, I'm afraid, if you make so much noise."

"Well it's no use your talking about waking him when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real."

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

. . .


Made travel arrangements for AWP in Atlanta and paid the exorbitant registration fee--my ticket was only fifty bucks more--and now the question arises: will I see you there?


Because we're celebrating the release of The Wind Shifts: New Latino Poetry, edited by our beloved Francisco Aragon and forthcoming with the University of Arizona Press in Spring, 2007, at the annual AWP Con Tinta event. Won't you come?


Here is Francisco's note:

"Dear Anthology Contributors,

Brenda Cárdenas and I will be organizing a group reading to celebrate the publication (or imminent publication) of THE WIND SHIFTS: New Latino Poetry (University of Arizona Press, 2007). Said reading will form PART of the program of the annual CON TINTA event at an off-site location during the AWP conference in Atlanta. In addition to celebrating the publication of the anthology, the CON TINTA event will serve as an occasion to honor Judith Ortiz Coffer, who teaches at the University of Georgia in Athens. Brenda is part of the CON TINTA Advisory Circle. For those of you who may not be familiar with CON TINTA, have a peek at the Wikipedia entry: The CON TINTA event will be held at a yet undisclosed location in Atlanta on Wednesday, March 1 OR March 2 from 6:30 -- 8:30 PM."


So many gorgeous poets in this anthology. Take a look.


AND it turns out I could use a roomie for the conference hotel. My roomie just backed out. Any takers?


In the second dream she rides a bicycle down a dirt road strewn with round stones and puddles that reflect the overcast sky. When I find her, she has already fallen, is gathering her mud covered skirts and her books (well why shouldn't she look like a Pre-Raphaelite painting?--the last one did), her cap tangled in the hair fallen loose from beneath it. "Don't," she says to me, "I came to ask you, please don't. I am not through."


"and what is the use of a book...without pictures or conversations?"

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