I’ve been living a Siberian hamster-like existence in the palaces of my mind AND the world above. Two readings in New York—the first at a party in Brooklyn feat. veg. dumplings of infinite variety, the second at KGB bar which is, as my friend Kara put it, “very KGB-ish.” Much fun had in the city but the predictable exhaustion/sense of “there are a lot of people doing this thing called poetry and I am a mere ant in the sprawling universe” etc.
Visiting poet Vivian Shipley was on campus of my Place of Employment, where she regaled us with stories of her days as a Kentucky sorority sister (mention of an exploding ‘fake breast’ incited much amusement from the adults in the audience; the kids were all “and so?”) She started out as a Victorian, suffered a brain tumor in her 30’s, and emerged as a poet.
Reading: “The Line of Beauty” by British novelist Alan Hollinghurst (absorbing, elegant, wicked, sad) and Wallace Stevens. Let me be frank: I’ve never “gotten” Stevens; in fact, my perfunctory glance-thrus of his work provoked anxiety. However, however. Perhaps it’s a sign of the oncoming golden years, but “Sunday Morning” is just, well, terrifyingly good. Sweet Baby Jesus, it’s good.
Finally: the presidential elections are being held at my Place of Employment this week. The platforms have gotten so sophisticated! I remember stuff like “french fries every day at lunch” and “better prom.” Or rather: I saw movies where said promises were the bread/butter of platforms. Now it’s all “the greening of campus” and “diversity initiatives.” Which brings me to my final point: I uploaded videos of myself reading and am comforted that my at-rest facial contortion is somewhat akin to R. Witherspoon’s in the infamous “freeze” scene of the film “Election.” See it now. Read “Sunday Morning.” Have a cuppa white at the KGB bar & listen to poems about cherry pie & sleep.
NB: I am fully aware that I am crowing about the greatness of things that time & the vox populi has already deemed great. Forgive me.
