I was really glad that my publisher
allowed me to publish this book without page numbers.
It really upset a couple of my friends.
They read the book and liked the book later,
but they were really mad at first.
I gave Eileen Myles a copy.
It was like a great friend of mine since I was a teenager
and Eileen was like, there's no pages.
How the hell am I going to know where I am?
It became this whole conversation.
I was like, would you just please
read it and get back to me?
But it is kind of funny, because I'm
used to putting a piece of paper here
and I have the page numbers, so now I
have to put book markers on each page.
I don't know.
I'm not complaining.
So the thing is, this book begins in Seattle.
I am spending the lockdown in Seattle.
And I don't know if you're familiar with Seattle,
but it is run by crows.
There are so many-- it's one of the largest populations of crows
on the planet.
In fact, the Bothell campus on the edge of the city has
an international crow research center,
and there are 16,000 crows in that rookery alone.
And when they cross the campus, they darken the sky
and they shit and scream on everything just like crazy.
But I've watched them terrorize humans who deserved it.
There was a man on the balcony across from me.
I was on this top floor overlooking Elliott Bay,
and the crows would sit on his balcony to say hello
in the morning to one another.
And he would come out with a broom.
And they started bringing more and more and more crows.
And then they started dive bombing him
when he came out with that broom.
He'd be out here and they'd be like, on the back of his head.
And he stopped.
And then they would attack him going to his car.
And then he moved.
[LAUGHTER]
What an asshole.
He deserved it.
But the thing is--
and the cats.
Bad city to be a cat.
The cats run from tree trunk to tree trunk
with their backs hunched.
They'll kind of like hide.
And the crows follow them, just like, we see you,
we're yelling to let everybody know.
Scream, scream, scream, cat, cat, cat.
That cats don't-- it's great.
But the thing is, I started feeding the crows on the ledge.
And all day long, crows would come.
They came immediately, because they patrol the neighborhoods
because they know what's going on.
Had a little empty hummus container nailed down,
and I would fill it with crackers and nuts and cherries
and other fruit.
But they loved it.
And one crow started hanging out with me to have lunch,
and would-- and one day, the crow closed their eyes
and leaned in.
I don't know which was first.
Maybe they leaned in and then closed their eyes.
And I was like, is this an invitation?
And I was allowed to pet their beak.
And then ruffled this up here.
Eventually.
Those came later.
But this was immediate.
And then it looked at me like, all right, that was enough.
And then they flew off.
But they started bringing me gifts.
And the gifts are in the back of the book.
This is the hard cover, but there's--
they're beige over there, if you like beige.
Well, you can't see them from here anyway.
But all the pictures of the crows, the crows gifts
are there.
And the first gift that I was given was a twig.
And I wasn't really certain it was for me at that moment,
because I was up there a long time alone.
And I'm fine with that.
I'm a Capricorn.
I didn't care.
I was busy.
We wake up working.
It's a curse.
Right?
Yeah.
[LAUGHS] But we got a lot done.
And everybody hates you for it.
[LAUGHTER]
Yeah.
But the thing is, my Pisces friends were just
on the edge of a knife the whole time during COVID,
and I felt bad for them because they
don't have my Capricorn-- whatever the hell I have.
So I would be on the phone and be like,
let's write a poem together, let's
have these relationships with the refrigerators
where we keep our bodies before they become our bodies-- we're
doing all this stuff with them, but then I
wanted to be alone longer.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
So I went down the Mojave Desert.
Because nobody wanted to do an artist
residency when lockdown ended.
They were like, no.
I'm going to Bermuda or whatever they're doing.
I was like, I'll go.
And I got to live in the desert feeding coyotes and working
with the kangaroo rats.
And then, I talk my way into the MACRO in Rome, Italy,
to be in an exhibit.
And they were like, no.
And I was like, no, really.
I mean, you have to be a little assertive,
because we're the ugly cousins of the art world, mostly.
Not here in Tucson, we're not.
[CHEERING]
[CLAPS]
And finally, they said, all right, but just 11 days,
not a whole month.
I was like, great.
And then I would run down to the fountain.
There was this statue of Artemis that just blew my mind.
And she's this giant goddess, as she should be.
And then there was--
I was feeding the rats.
I don't know what's going on with those rats in Rome.
They're like, somebody's shampooing them or something.
They're so soft, and they're just not what you expect.
They really are not.
And there was a woman--
I'm almost 60, she was probably like a decade older than me,
and she was like, [SHUSHES] the police will arrest you
if you-- so we would do look out for one another, feeding rats.
And then they would just crawl right up,
and be like-- you can pet them and they were very sweet.
We need to stop killing these things,
these creatures, these people.
You know what?
Let me just start reading from the-- oh, so--
oh, never mind.
That's enough.
[LAUGHTER]