PulpLit.net

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Errr...hello.

It has been quite some time since last I wrote a blog entry, but I saw a rather biting commentary from the beloved John and decided perhaps the time had come to reintroduce myself. So, hello again. My name is Mollie. I live in Bangkok. I am striving to save the world through public health. Somehow, despite ages of neglect and general dysfunction as a PulpLit contributor, I am still able to log in and pontificate on the way the world works. Which in fact is not usually what I get up to on this site, instead avoiding reflection, ponderousness and introspection by relying on the fact that I manage to spend my time jetsetting from Country A to Country B nearly every month of the year.

Indeed, I have just returned from a magical long weekend in London and South Gloucestershire, rounding out the extraordinary run of glorious weddings my partner and I have attended over the last 18 months. I believe the sum total is something like 12, which is absurd even for those of us stranded in their mid to late 20s, a period in which the wedding epidemic reaches proportions I suspect will never be seen again. This last wedding was a most delightful culmination, as we played croquet on a castle lawn, overconsumed kir royale, and ended the night in the pubbiest sort of way at the Wyndham Arms. I consider myself quite a connoisseur (and yes, I needed to google that word to ensure I spelled it right and did not embarass myself) of weddings these days, and I reckon this latter was about as intimate and joyful as they get (though it is indeed in the closest possible race with the previous, which I shall not belabor out of respect for the potential reddening of a certain individual).

This wedding spurred a revelation that I have recently developed a taste for poetry, after several years of all but ignoring it. In fact, the sum total of poems that have stirred my heart now sums to a rather simple two, (well three, if you count the tongue-pierced-lisped, orgasmic reading of Howl I lay and listened to the day Alan Ginsberg died) but I reckon I am well on my way to having my nose in a book of verses before much more time has passed. My partner made the bride (along with myself) weep with his reading of the lovely Love Poem by John Frederick Nims, perhaps the only time at a wedding I can imagine hearing a poem about a clumsy, klutzy girl and not think the toaster has had too much to drink. Hearing this, it occurred to me that only weeks before, voraciously sucking down the New Yorker, another poem struck a chord to such a degree that I ripped it out and pinned it to the refrigerator. Halley's Comet, by the late Stanley Kunitz, may not soon be surpassed as Mollie's Favorite Poem. It is with great hope that I am now embarking on an Educate Mollie about Poetry quest, and so I humbly request your recommendations for stirring poems that have changed your life.

I do not hereby pledge to be a more responsible poster, though I do hope that I will be one. Bangkok is in fact an extraordinary place. Between the peaceful political upheavel and recent unbridled emotional outpouring of adoration for the king, Thailand has recaptured my imagination and fancy. I have a rollercoaster relationship with this city, not least because I am here only three weeks out of four, spending the rest of my days in more relaxed, cooler, and generally easier environments. My friend Lucy summed up the streets quite well: "I never new that bad smells had such nuance". The rainy season is upon us in force, and the sludge and the drudge in the streets indeed reeks with a range and distinctiveness that I wouldn't think possible without experiencing it. But even the buffet of stenches is not enough to turn one off completely, and the grins, the noodles, and the occasional absurdity keep my affections running high, doing battle with my overheated exhaustion and desire for escape. Hopefully I will manage to catalogue this a bit more completely in the future.