I met Lyn Hejinian for the first time in 2004 (I was also part of the contingent of Australian poets, hosted by Lyn at Berkeley in 2016). I had been in San Francisco, and had met Travis Ortiz, and Kevin Killian, and Dodie Bellamy, and Del Ray Cross, and Stephen Ratcliffe, and had had my first and last root beer (and a pastrami sandwich made by Michael Palmer), but Lyn was elsewhere. I met her in St. Louis, at my host Devin Johnston’s dad’s house. It was February: exactly a year after my relinquishing of permanent work, and of casting myself on the seas, or rocks, of casual income. One of these opportunities, of being a poet-in-residence at Elwood Secondary College (where I read “Pull My Daisy” to a Year 10 class) gave me the money for my first US trip. But the point of this text relates to another of these casual jobs, that is, to my first attempt at teaching — and my only ongoing chance at co-teaching — during which I gave the adult students of CAE, who were enrolled in a year-long poetry course, some pages of Hejinian’s My Life (the original edition, based on her turning forty). I did not check the photocopier tray before copying the book: and who ever does, unless to see if there is enough paper? Someone before me had, however, been copying something onto stickers (addresses probably), and so my copying of My Life produced stickers of regular fragments of the text (and its spaces). Not wanting to waste them, but not sure what to do with them, I covered a blue exercise book that I was writing poems in (which was my normal writing practice back then) with them, and in my memory, it was with me in St. Louis, but I would have filled it well before then, so it must have been another one, and I know I didn’t have it to show Lyn, but I did have an anecdote to offer.