Camerados, this is a selfie of me and Whitman taken last week in the National Portrait Gallery, where I had gone to see a special exhibit on Sylvia Plath (a 20th-century confessional poet, a movement that owed much to Uncle Walt’s frankness). I didn’t have to look like a weirdo in the corner, almost as grizzled as WW himself; I was with a friend who could have taken a better shot. But my relationship with the poets we are studying is personal and so this seemed more appropriate. Also, sometimes I feel I can only access Whitman and Dickinson partially as their genius astounds me, so my partial face can symbolize that. Though I have been a Dickinson devotee for many years, it took me into my middle age to love Whitman– I had admired him, but I had to find a less hypermasculine Whitman to really connect, and I did (oddly, given that war is a masculine enterprise, by immersing in his Civil War works). I can and will fangirl about these two poets. You’re forewarned.
Some things I could venture to say about me:
I am honestly not nearly as nice as people are making me sound on this blog.
I believe literature matters and spend much time thinking about how and why.
I too would rather be in fresh air and I am also a vegetarian.
I would like to like gardening but.
I have two children and three pets.
I overwatch British drama and mystery tv.
I am a Pittsburgher and miss mountains.
I have names for my two imaginary future goats.
I am personally affronted by very hot sunny days.
I have an unusually(?) large collection of literary-themed jewelry and clothing.
I specialize in fruit-based desserts.
I actually do love poetic scansion.
I fixate on the moon.