My first piece of published writing that wasn't about killing someone was, predictably, in response to having my heart broken. No greater motivation, I suppose, to put words down on the page than not getting what you want. The poem was titled "Dreams of Russia and You" and did not make one whit of sense so I stuck with my explanation of "emotional truth trumping the literal." (You can get away with talking like that when you're nineteen.) I went on the old heartbreak diet, lost the requisite ten pounds to the forces of misery, moped a lot, told myself that this was all good for my writing, and moped some more. Weirdly, looking like a strung-out, half-dead, anxiety-ridden waif did not bring my ex back a running to me. But man, I had a poem published! Such are the compensations.
The only downside was that I was to read my poem at a party for the journal that had published it. Terrified of public speaking, I thought of all the back-out excuses I could use for not reading. But my pride got the better of me -- I'd go and read and show the ex that would be there that I had persevered over him and his evil leaving me for a smarter, more beautiful woman stunt hadn't broken me. The party, in the backyard of a professor's house, turned to the reading -- luckily drinks had been served already. November in Texas, still not cold, I shivered in my black skirt and white sweater that I had combined with a pair of plastic yin/yang earrings. I would dazzle the crowd, I thought, picking out the nicest clothes I had. When I got up with my one piece of paper, I tried to control the shaking while scanning the crowd for my ex. I didn't see him and wouldn't for four years. But I didn't know that then -- in front of my first audience, the night became endless. If I close my eyes, I'm still there, waiting to begin.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"If I set you on fire/ Will you keep me warm?" Sam Phillips
Cocktail Hour
Drinking short story suggestion: "The Whore of Mensa" Woody Allen
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!
13 comments:
Great balls of fire!
I'm not really very excited, Jerry.
Ooooh, that's good.
I saw Allen Ginsberg read his poem "Howl" at Macomb Community College, South Campus. A woman in the crowd shouted out for the police to arrest him. Not exactly what a shout out means nowadays.
America, go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
Officer, arrest that man!
That's a very nice dress in the photo, Michelle, if you know what I mean.
I don't read a lot of poetry, but I like singing at family gatherings, and I've been told I have a pretty good voice. I do mostly Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra songs. Of course, since I've been in prison, I don't sing much anymore. In fact, I could die in this detention facility I'm presently in. Then I wouldn't be on the Sopranos anymore. If I do die in here, I'd like to thank you, Michelle, for all your support of the Sopranos. It's been one hell of a run.
God knows I would have loved to have been there at that first reading of a teen angst filled poem. I'd most likely still be laughing today. But then I would have offered my three step lesson in TWM's cure for mic shyness.
I think I am 100% opposite of the Michelle you describe give me a mic and a paper with my words on them and an audience and that scene approaches nirvana but *sigh* i ain't 19 anymor either.
But it was a good read anyway
peace
I really love the last image of this, "waiting to begin." Great use of memory as a theme.
I got the feds so far up my ass I can taste Brylcreem.
yo, junior. you wait till hillary gets here. she'll have your ass.
hey rodney, show some respect.
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