I got to know Megin Jimenez, this week’s Best American Poetry guest blogger, when we worked together as freelancers at a food magazine. In the tiny world of NYC publishing, it wasn’t too much of a surprise to discover that we have mutual friends and a grad school in common. She finished The New School’s Creative Writing MFA program (in poetry) a couple of years before I did (in nonfiction). We’re also linked by a love for browsing in bookstores. My favorite is Cobble Hill’s Community Bookstore, with its stench of cigarette smoke, leaning towers of titles, and surly-sweet owner.

Megin’s posts this week are making me pause and wonder about so many things. Even in prose, she’s fulfilling that function of a poet. In her post The Bookstore and the Psyche, I was especially struck by her brief character sketch of Arthur Calloway, a previous holder of her treasured copy of Nabokov’s Lolita:

“I’m not a rare book collector, but from my years of picking through stacks, I have collected, among other artifacts, a cheap 1959 paperback edition of Lolita (originally 50 cents, purchased for $5), which has only the book title, author, and the words ‘MOST TALKED ABOUT NOVEL OF OUR DAY’ printed on the cover. The inside cover has the name ARTHUR CALLOWAY printed in blue pen…The value of the object stands outside of commodification. I want to see and touch things that have survived through time and that reflect something of the time they were made in.”

Calloway felt enough ownership to inscribe the book, and now it’s in Megin’s hands. Where will it go next? What book inscriptions do you treasure? Does marking a book make it yours?  Are (unmarked) library books any less yours?

I think about this a lot, as I’ve taken almost compulsive advantage of The New York Public Library in the nine years I’ve lived in this city. As a result, the books on my shelf reflect just a fraction of what I’ve read, and therefore, who I am. All of those books I haven’t held onto—with their occasional bathtub water stains and greasy fingerprints and marginalia but lovely overall condition—are still a part of me, as much as Lolita is a part of Arthur. His handwriting just makes it seem somehow more real. 

— by Cara Cannella

With thanks (and credit for images) to Megin Jimenez, who was born in Mérida, Venezuela and grew up in Denver. Most recently, her poems have appeared in Barrelhouse, NOÖ Journal, Denver Quarterly, La Petite Zine, and Sentence. She is a graduate of The New School Writing Program and co-hosts Monday Night Poetry at KGB Bar. She works as a translator and lives in Brooklyn. 

I love this portrait of Bob Marley, created using his handwritten lyrics. The reggae legend and activist would have been 67 years old today.

In his son’s words: “Feb 6 1945 St. Ann, Jamaica, Daddy was born. I remember us celebrating one of his birthdays in Jamaica at 56 Hope Road with him, no big superstar party, just us kids, Mommy, some cake, few laughs and that was it. Even if he wasn’t known to the world on Feb 6th I would still think of him and in my heart say Happy Birthday Daddy. Love.” - Ziggy Marley

I’m looking forward to the release of Marley, a documentary biopic directed by Oscar winner Kevin Macdonald (The Last King of Scotland, One Day In September). The film, executive produced by Ziggy Marley and Island Records founder Chris Blackwell, includes rare footage, archival photos, performance footage and interviews with the late musician’s family, friends, and bandmates. 

Its North American premiere will be next month at the South By Southwest film festival, and it opens in theaters on Friday, April 20, of course. What better way to celebrate 4/20? 

- Cara Cannella 

Image credit: Jonathan Muddell

My roommate Clint snapped these photos yesterday at Bergdorf Goodman, where Christian Louboutin signed his signature red-lacquered soles for throngs of stiletto-loving superfans. Everything about this dapper man is magnetic, and I especially love the playfulness and passion of his script. 

The event, celebrating his 20th anniversary as a shoe designer and premiere of his Capsule Collection representing the past two decades of his work, also highlighted his partnership with Parsons The New School for Design on a design competition featuring the school’s alumni, who created works inspired by the collection. You can check out their designs on the store’s main floor February 2 through 8.

— Cara Cannella 

Photos by Clint Spaulding for Patrick McMullan

This guest post was submitted by Sara Michael, a Baltimore-based writer and editor.

I was 12 when my mom died of pancreatic cancer. That was more than 20 years ago. Besides being the sharpest, warmest and most amazing woman to ever walk the planet, she was also a poet. I like to think her talent for the written word has influenced me in my career as a journalist. And I look exactly like her.

Her poems were published in a few anthologies, but it was after her death that my father posthumously published her poems in her own book, Something from Nothing. My father also uncovered a wealth of her typed and handwritten notes and drafts, which he compiled for my brother and me a couple years ago.

Seeing her handwriting always has made me feel a bit closer to her. It’s an intensely personal glimpse into her creative thoughts. I particularly love seeing her edits and notes in the margins. I can see her scribbling across the page, maybe saying a line or two out loud. Here she is a writer, artist, friend, creative spirit–-more than just the mother I knew for such a short time.

Because I was so young when she died, I’ve relied on stories, pictures, her poetry and her handwriting to build on my memories of her. I once found a cassette recording of her singing and playing the piano. I piece these items together to recreate my mother, learning even more about who she was as I get to know myself. And 20 years later, her handwritten notes are almost more proof that she lived and that she created.

My aunt recently mailed me several index cards with my mother’s handwritten recipes for holiday drinks, and a note telling me that my mother was gifted at entertaining. Perhaps also a gifted drinker-–a reputation other stories will support—as the recipes are for rum punch, champagne punch, whiskey sour punch. And many of the recipes include notes in pencil suggesting my aunt add more booze.

I’ve heard. I imagine. I recreate. And seeing the smooth curves of her cursive and fervor of her edits helps me build and remember.

Images and text courtesy of Sara Michael. 

Check out this annotated set list (image 1, via my heady homegirl Sara Francini) from last night’s Furthur show at Madison Square Garden. The band, formed in 2009 by Grateful Dead members Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, inspires a devotion I don’t really understand since I’m no Deadhead. But set lists in general inspire me (this one—image 2—by Bob Dylan is written in felt tip; not sure what show or year it’s from), and I do love me some Jerry Garcia/David Grisman collaborations—especially their Not For Kids Only album, which I get for most newborns I know. That, and a dime bag of weed. Just kidding. But I did get my neice/goddaughter Anna a nip of Jack Daniels and a pack of Marlboro Reds as part of her christening gift last year. What better way to guide her sweet soul into this world?

Image 1 courtesy of Furthur: Teresa Williams vocals on Tennessee Jed, Keep Your Lamps, and Attics; Larry Campbell on fiddle for Uncle John’s Band, So Many Roads, and Box of Rain; Larry Campbell on guitar for Tennessee Jed, Shakedown, Other One Keep Your Lamps, Fire, Daydream, and Attics.

Image 2 courtesy of The Ephemera Network: Songs on the list include Ain’t Me Babe, Desolation Row, Rolling Stone, and 13 others.

— Cara Cannella