My reading with Peripatetic Poets was Sunday, and though I was noticibly nervous, I did ok. Here is the list of what I read….
Tracks to cover
I can pull out my own seams better than anyone
What I learned from Zombie Porn
Morning After Pill
Sex with someone new
an ode to lube
the fuck buddy
An open letter to Alison, studying art in Italy
An open lover to an ex-lover stationed in Iraq
A light Dusting
The reasons she gave when slitting her wrists from wrist to elbow didn’t work
Her own Jesus
A very young woman with enormous wings
I’m lost to you
When we tried bondage
A few notes:
1.) I was reading along with a woman commanly referred to as the grande dame of Columbus poetry. Before the reading, she told me she was nervous about reading a poem about McCain. I told her not to worry, as I was reading lots of poems with graphically sexual titles. She loved it.
2) Afterward, one of the older women there came up to me and said that she got really excited before the reading because someone told her that I read pornographic poems, and that her husband had died five years ago, and she really needed some porn. She said that I did not disappoint and she loved it. I loved her for it.
3) A good friend sent me a really sweet email afterward that made me happy. It meant a lot to me.
4) I need to do more longer readings, I need to get better at it. I need to write more.
OK, in non reading related news… I worked 12 hours today. Yay overtime. I need a part time job. And I am thinking that the vintage picture on my vintage copy of Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus (my perinnial fave erotica) would make a kick ass tattoo.
This is all that is in my head and heart right now. I’ve said it all.
Last night, I arrived late to the party at Larry’s Poetry Forum, as per usual. there was no featured reader going thru his or her words, standing underneath the spotlight, in front of the very nice mic, though. I was confused. I ordered my wine (1.50) tipped the poetry-reading bar tender. I sat down, and over heard the new crop of college kids. The featured reader had cancelled. It would all be open mic. three to four poems each. I signed up. I read three.
There are always good readers for the short open mic portion of this reading. Last night was very nice. A lot of people read a lot of passionate poetry. There was also a lot of political poetry. I tend to be more subversive than the other readers with political poetry. While they might read something that is directly about “fuck Bush”, I might read my letter to an ex-lover who is stationed in Iraq, or letter to my friend Alison in Italy, which opens at a protest. I don’t do this because I find the direct poetry artless. I do it because I am not skilled enough to write that poetry myself and make it as artful as many of my contemporaries can. They have ways with rythm and meter that I just don’t have.
I got an interesting compliment, though. I was told after wards that I, “have a wicked sense of humor, but it’s dark at the same time.” So, yeagh, I think that’s what I usually go for.
I read “what I learned from zombie porn,” which people were unsure of at first and then warmed up to. (the cringes at the line about severed limbs were phenominal) Also, “The Cardiologist” and “Anxiety”. I love reading, but I shake the whole time. Grrr.
It’s what I’m trying to read. I want to like it, but I seem to have trouble getting “into” it. I think I get bored too easily.
For about a year now, I’ve been pondering over whether or not I should read Julie and Julia by Julie Powell. The other day, while perusing cookbooks at the ghetto library, I saw it and couldn’t resist. Now I know that I should go back and kick my former self for not picking it up sooner. This book is great.
For those of you not in the know, the author took on cooking her way thru Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one year. She wrote about her victories and mishaps on a blog that I could look up were I not so lazy. Then, she turned it into a book.
Julie Powell, you should know, was not a known author before she started this project. She is witty, funny, and has a great way of describing an aspic, or a method of cooking omelettes, or her friends love lives. She’ll have you in stitches, not only when you are actually reading her recollections of the weekend she tried to make Bavarois a l’Orange for a little dinner party, but also when you are cooking scrambled eggs in your own kitchen and you remember how oddly kinky she describes various cooking tools and methods.
One reason I really like this memoir is that it has a base to it that we can all understand: wanting to be a better (or at least different) person. Anyone can pick up a cookbook and start to cook their way thru it. Hoever, she also brings her personal and professional life to the forefront. Her hysteric breakdowns over boiling a lobster, for instance, make me (a mother professed drama queen) feel a little better about that time I tried to make pumpkin soup. And her descriptions of failed dishes make it a little easier for me to laugh at myself, too.