Yesterday I was, as previously mentioned, finishing up the church newsletter. It’s kids themed and features a matching game with pictures of many church members as children. The choir director–whom I’m trying to remember is probably a deeply insecure person but whom I mostly want to punch in the boob for acting like a middle school girl–came in my office while I was finishing up.

Ooh, she says, I’d recognize that messy hair anywhere.

You would? Who do you think that’s a picture of?

You. Obviously.


Yes it is. No one else has such wild hair. She said “wild hair” in the same tone other people would use to say “contagious herpes.”

Look at the clothes. I grew up in the eighties. We didn’t dress like that.

Then I told her who the picture was of: a very wealthy middle aged woman whose ass the choir director is always kissing. She blanched.

I’m wearing a homemade dress. My suitcase is packed. Summer!

I’m going to crank out this bulletin and get out of here. And I’ve tucked glue, scissors, tape and the sundry other equipment of zine-making into my purse. One more contribution drifted in yesterday. It was, like everything that’s come in, so so so good. As I said to Jeff, I’m thinking of scrapping the zine altogether and making a tent instead so I can live inside all these wonderful bits of literary brilliance.

Want to read a poem? It’s by Jo McDougall, whom I do not know personally but whom I love very much. If I’ve told you about her, I probably mentioned a line about a sound wrinkling milk. Oh, it just kills me. Wrinkling milk. (Shivers)

This also kills me:

Towards the last my aunt writes
all the hymns she knows
on little slips of paper
and tapes them to the lampshade
beside her bed.
She says she does this to test her mind.
It makes the light dim.

I’m going to spend at least part of my holiday sitting in the living room of the very last contributor, our arts critic, and glare at him until he finishes up. He’s like the great tortoise of literature.