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Location: California

I love paper. Books printed on acid-free paper and bound in cloth turn me on. I'm crazy about bookmarks, and I buy too many stickers. I could spend hours in the build-your-own-greeting card section of my neighborhood craft store. My favorite thing to eat is bread, and my second favorite is fruit. (Mm, pineapple.) I read too much and too fast, and I watch too many food shows (two ways of looking at gluttony). Gloomy, rainy weather calms me and so I can't wait to move out of California, which will happen, sadly, too many years from now to count. I'm vegan, though I haven't managed to eliminate honey from my diet yet. I practice yoga; it's the only way I can keep fit. I have a better life than I ever imagined I would (or deserve to) have, but I do my best to enjoy it rather than feel guilty about it. That's my daily struggle -- and also to be thoughtful and observant and honest with myself.

Monday, December 12, 2005


Here's a translation I made of a poem by George Bacovia (1881-1957), one of my favorite Romanian poets. He writes about death and decay, about rainy autumn afternoons and tubercular children, about depression and nothingness. I love the music of his poems.


The leaden coffins lay in heavy sleep,
With rigid palls and leaden flowers draped --
I stood alone entombed... and quick winds crept
Within the leaden wreaths and made them creak.

On leaden flowers slept my leaden love
With face upturned; I shouted out its name --
The crypt was cold... and I stood still, alone,
Next to the dead whose lead wings hung above.


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