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A Writer's Notebook...
"The irrepressible aliveness and weird wisdom of the father and son series should win it a lasting place in the literature of our day." -Robyn Sarah, Globe & Mail, Toronto.
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Having filled old diVoga Journal, March 15, 2008 - February 15, 2009, unable to replace it... I return to Office Max and buy a Ruled, Margin & Perforated 'Black n' Red' notebook, 11-1/4" x 8-1/4". Computer or not, I continue to write long hand... go up and back between MacBook and scribbling in hardcopy notebooks. So, retiring old diVoga, which Office Max tells me they no longer stock, I copy out odds and ends...

I have an unpublished section on sex toys for dogs. "No deep throat for dogs..." I don't know where that stuff comes from. "A lick and a sniff and a BOW WOW WOW." And drafts of poems in my father's voice. "Listen, I've said before, you are only visiting your life." That got published, part of some poem or other in God Is In The Cracks. My podiatrist father. Autodidact. Visionary. 

And a section on dogs in advertising. CHESTY, the bulldog mascot for the Marine Corps. GREYHOUND for Greyhound bus line. STRONGHEART, first German Shepherd with name-above-the-title billing in a movie. STRONGHEART made his name as well in dog food.  Lots and lots of entries about dogs... may eventually do a book, ALL DOGS... need now is for an illustrator...

And a poem for my daughter in which I speak not so much as a father as, instead, "one woman to another." That probably needs some explanation. 

Then gems like something I read about pregnant horses and how "fetal horses gallop in the womb." Hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And that's followed by my first wife complaining of "information overload. I have no idea what's important anymore," she said. But of course she does. Soon after that remark she shows she knows very well what's important. "Children and money, children and money," she says, "and in that order." We're together with our granddaughter, Maxine, at the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. Maxine is wearing white shoes and she has on a dress with white sea lions against a blue background. She's two years old. And following that I have a recent poem about holding my daughter, Maxine's mother in my lap in Iowa City, 1957, my sleeping first-born daughter, scribbling and saying the lines aloud, "Uncle Dog: The Poet at 9." First published poem. It appeared in The Chicago Review. Then in my first book, published in England. Enough. Enough.