I have a few lists and piles: there’s a pile of scrap paper with topics and scribbles about poems that I want to write, subjects upon which I want to discourse, discuss, disgust, disguise. To the cover of my notebook, I binder-clipped a list of places I’d like to visit, activities I’d like to do, and objects I’d like to own. I also carry a list of food projects I’d like to attempt. By attempt, I mean throw caution to the wall, throttle it until it turns blue, and release it in disgust that I ever had any truck with it, and just do whatever I was about to do. Squirrel in my parents' backyard from 2011
