I just Googled the question "What's the plural of dominatrix?" because I believe that accuracy is important. I believe a latinate vocabulary will make you admire my elevated diction, and you'll think I'm really smart. I'm not as smart as Google though. Google knows everything.
Apparently, the plural of dominatrix is dominatrices. You'll see why this is important if you read on.
I woke up at 8 this morning and made Belgian waffles with strawberries and powdered sugar and had cafe au lait and just generally lazed about. I might have dreamt something in the wee hours but I can't remember. Too much joy juice last night, but no hangover today. This might be a bad sign. I might have an addictive personality. I shouldn't mix two-buck chuck with PBR, but I'm a gambler at heart. I'm also Irish.
The readings with Oyez Review and Artifice Magazine this weekend were funny and fierce and populated by delightful people.
I've decided I love Quimby's because they sell erotic paper dolls that look like dominatrices and all kinds of gothica and esoteric bits of poetic flotsam that I would totally buy if I were not hella broke. I could browse there forever if I didn't have to worry about the parking meter box. I met some of the coolest-ever MFA students from Roosevelt, whose enthusiasm for the literary arts made me happy. I signed my poems and felt kinda groovy. Here's a photo of some of the Oyez Review contributors, all of them wonderful. From left to right: Okla, Susan (ahem), Alex, Lydia.
Yeah. I stole the picture from facebook. I'm sure that's cool. Probably.
I also love Quimby's because they had a handful of An Introduction to the Archetypes. It's surreal to browse the shelves in a bookstore and find one's own work for sale. Still, those dominatrix paper dolls were glorious and I cannot stop thinking about them. There was one called Miss Masturbation and I had to fight the urge to chortle because I was imagining the women of Camazotz (aka The Town Where I Reside aka Proof that Sartre Was Right about Hell) popping into a bookstore with their terrifyingly clonelike blonde Village of the Damned offspring in tow and freaking out that such a thing should be visibly displayed. This shouldn't make me smile so, but oh! It does.
I have a tendency to be absurd. Ignore me.
Last night I read with a bunch of cool cats from Artifice Magazine at Loft 3a. The writers and editors and artists and partygoers were all lively and talented. People wore stylish clothes and I probably looked toadlike and felt such total admiration for everyone. I'm sure I was silly. I read poems about cyborgs. Cyborgs are cooler than scary alien children, but only by a slim margin. I took a bunch of pictures because the people were so freaking beautiful. I haven't posted them yet because my camera takes forever to transfer files and I'm feeling twitchy. Soon. I promise.
Tadd and Rebekah are brilliant. Artifice is dead nuts on. It's thrilling to be in the very first issue which is chock full of crazy fabulousity. You should order one. Or two. Like, here.
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