from my email, via Amanda Goldblatt: RIP Alice Notley

Because I don't have any scrolling places I go to these days, I did not know about Notley's death until Amanda Goldblatt sent me this:

TRIBUTE: What have you learned from Alice Notley?

In the summer of 2010, Phil and I spent a month in a tiny apartment in Paris, and on our very last night on that continent, we saw Alice Notley read at a little English-language bookstore. She was incredible, like an alien; she rushed through her lines so elegantly and steadily: a strange transmission. She had her long hair and many silver finger rings. I was too nervous approach her, but I wanted to. We decided that we'd walk around the block and grab something from a convenient store and muster enough grace for me to get into the receiving line, which was also snaking around this deeply boring novelist she'd read with. We walked down the block. Hot Paris weather. I was looking forward to going back home to Chicago. My blue shoes were sweaty-feeling. I was tired of my three outfits. I was tired of awe and delight. We came back around to the store, and the owner was locking up. We'd missed Alice Notley.

Often, when my students write about Notley texts, they accidentally type/handwrite Notely. (!!!!)