Wow — The Instant Muse Poetry Generator. Sounds like a vaguely untrustworthy invention from the people who brought you Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, doesn’t it? Either that, or a non-edible side-project from Charlie, after one too many years spent running the Chocolate Factory.

I have to admit, I like the idea — there have been plenty of times when I’ve been stuck in a creative dry spell a day, a week, or a month too long (in all honesty, the year 2005 has been a bit of a disco-remixed dry spell for me).

And the premise is simple — scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click the Create button. Voila, you have an automatically generated line of poetry.

My first attempt rendered the title of this entry: in the cradle of perfection the voices hunker.

I was once a snub-nosed blonde. My name was Betty. I had a perky personality and was a cheerleader for the college football team. My favourite colour was pink. Then I became a poet. My hair darkened overnight, my nose lengthened, I gave up football for the cello, my real name disappeared and was replaced by one that had a chance of being taken seriously by the literati, and my clothes changed colour in the closet, all by themselves, from pink to black. I stopped humming the songs from Oklahoma and began quoting Kirkegaard. And not only that – all of my high heeled shoes lost their heels, and were magically transformed into sandals. Needless to say, my many boyfriends took one look at this and ran screaming from the scene as if their toenails were on fire. New ones replaced them; they all had beards. ~ Margaret Atwood, "On Writing Poetry"

I was just browsing through Ray Caesar’s online art gallery when I stumbled across his biography, which is amusing, enlightening and thought provoking (in a highly surreal fashion).

It started me thinking about that funny little  thing, the bio — a funny little thing I’ve struggled with, as a writer, just frequently enough to have developed an exasperated reverence for it (normally, thoughts of "brief biography" bring about flashbacks of the rhythmic smack of my forehead against the palm of my hands, synchronized with the mumbled mantra "Jennifer Walker is… Jennifer Walker is… Jennifer Walker is…" repeated endlessly)

After all, what does the bio say? Theoretically, it gives the reader just enough information about the author to frame a proffered bit of writing through the silhouetted sketch of a personal history. The author has a given age, has lived in various places, usually prefers these kinds of books, has or has not been published here or here, does or does not approach third person descriptions of him/herself with an irritibly droll touch of irony, etc…

Yet, which bits are the important ones? Does it inform my poetry more to say that I live on the East Coast or that I frequently dream of myself as a thirteenth century poeverty-stricken Infanta? Should I tell you that I attended five different high schools (more than half religious) or that I find myself referring to Voltaire with frequency and cannot garden? Should I give you glimpses of my right brain’s memories, my left’s, both at once or neither?

I think the difficulty in crafting a bio lies in the honest appraisal that not only is this brief third-person thing a blatent affair of brokering an intellectual sale, but that salesmanship must also navigate across the difficult terrain of ego — what do we dare allow others to see of ourselves?

A surreal, highly metaphoric biography has the advantage of being immediate and elusive, personal and impersonal, simultaneously. A mythic language may better describe the brief history through which a given work has slowly evolved.

Or, truth be told, the metaphoric bio may have a simpler basis: when lacking in wit, the artist reverts to oblique obscurity.

Found something lovely last night just before I went to bed…

Born Magazine

… it’s a website focused on the collaboration of art and poetry. My favorite in the Just Born category is a wonderful experiment titled Origami. I found myself so intrigued, I only wish the site offered more to explore.

Is it time to stare at something pretty and shiny? Click here….

Jen, appearantly, is very busy

a) working 12 hour shifts, 7 days a week, until the end of time or doomsday, whichever comes first
b) reading Andy’s blog
c) researching the potential purchase of a pet monkey for a coworker
d) writing long-winded commentary at Lit. org
e) mindlessly clicking the Stumble Upon button, giggling at feline pratfall antics (for explenation, see a)

While she is out, and for the sheer purpose of provoking your amusement, please click any of the above links.

A chill in the air, a landscape bejeweled by twinkling beads of light and everywhere the crisp rustling of wrapping paper. December is my favorite month.

Of course, it doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm one bit that December just happens to be the month my birthday falls in.

Years past, my boyfriend Charles has made a lovely ritual (nearly fetish) out of my birthday by purchasing lots of small presents, wrapping them and placing them under the Christmas tree. Throughout the day and evening, there’s another little gift to open (a box of dark chocolates, a pack of Nat Sherman’s luxury cigarettes in Mint, a bottle of champagne or two). We usually have an early dinner (by ritual, always something exotic-ish, Greek, Thai, Indian…), take in a movie of my choice and then, at the very end of the night, he builds a fire and we have a little champagne with conversation.

This year the growing pains my plant has been going through have been giving my work schedule growing pains, too. I worked 12 hour days straight through my birthday (I know, I can hear you grumbling as I type this, Andy) so we had a very small celebration.

Charles surprised me with a chocolate truffle cake from our favorite local bakery, Ganache, a box of Lindt’s Truffes Fondant Intense in Dark Chocolate and pink princess tiaras (because we’d joked they were the only thing missing from my birthday last year). I love that he remembers these little details
.

Still, I’ve found myself thinking that what I treasure most from my birthdays past is not so much the gifts or the attention but the decadence in taking an entire day just for myself and my better half. There is an indisputable measure of wealth in deliberately acquiring a leisurely pace, especially when that slowed pace coincides with a treasured someone else’s.

We’ve talked a little about our plans for Christmas, this year. He’d like to spend a day with relatives in Alabama and I’ve promised to show up to see the family on the coast of NC. The season of gifts, of course, bring legions of obligations. Still, I think I’m going to insist that this year we take at least a few hours for just the two of us, in our own home, apart and aside from our other plans. I’ll be pleased if all we share is a small fire, a few cups of eggnog, a sprig of mistletoe, and the most significant gift of all, a leisurely conversation.