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Monday, July 23, 2007
Fun is good. Dr. Seuss
I've been forcing myself into my discomfort zone; forcing myself to do things by myself. I went to a reading the other night, alone. I didn't want to read, though I was scheduled to be the "feature"--think centerfold. I was it. The main act. And I told the guy running it: "no, I can't do it." He kept saying: "yes, you can."
He the insisted I give him some introduction, I said: "my name." He noted the level of self-deprecation. I laughed, I know how I came across, but I really do not think that lowly of myself, I just have acute desire not to try others patience. Really.It's a trait acquired as of late, but one I am honing. Not because I am so interested in minding others boundaries, I think friends on occasion cross them, but because. I want to start on a level playing field. I didn't want to read AT poor unlucky saps just hoping to drink coffee and surf the Internet. I want to read to people who want to listen.
A couple of poets went first, then I was corralled up. I promised to do it, so I did- I generally keep my word. And it wasn't so awful as those who wanted to leave, left and the rest of the folks circled around...and I was surprised when I was asked to use the microphone- someone wanted to hear what I said. I think ruefully, because they haven't yet.
Afterwords, I spoke with an old-man-poet; he shared his opinion of my writing and presentation. He showed me simple notations he makes in his writing to remember to pause, to control pace. Afterwords, he invited me to a party- a regular function at an art studio nearby- I knew of it, had been before, so I went. It was so much fun.
There were characters-young and old- and a giant bottle of homemade wine...made in the basement. The tiny flies about testament to the the wine barrels below.I was dragged in and out of conversation about religion, sex/sin and art. And all around there were artworks: paints and sculptures- an antique double bed in the corner, kitchenette and ply board bathroom.
Unsurprisingly- if you really think about it- I met another parishioner of my church I had never met before. And I felt very engaged, oddly alive. I know a bit was the little nugget of encouragement I received from the old man who revealed he used to edit a well-known poetry mag- the rest was the fact I did read, I participated.I wasn't like all those folks who regularly file in and out of life, we talked about THEM- the old man and I.
I've been forcing myself into my discomfort zone; forcing myself to do things by myself. I went to a reading the other night, alone. I didn't want to read, though I was scheduled to be the "feature"--think centerfold. I was it. The main act. And I told the guy running it: "no, I can't do it." He kept saying: "yes, you can."
He the insisted I give him some introduction, I said: "my name." He noted the level of self-deprecation. I laughed, I know how I came across, but I really do not think that lowly of myself, I just have acute desire not to try others patience. Really.It's a trait acquired as of late, but one I am honing. Not because I am so interested in minding others boundaries, I think friends on occasion cross them, but because. I want to start on a level playing field. I didn't want to read AT poor unlucky saps just hoping to drink coffee and surf the Internet. I want to read to people who want to listen.
A couple of poets went first, then I was corralled up. I promised to do it, so I did- I generally keep my word. And it wasn't so awful as those who wanted to leave, left and the rest of the folks circled around...and I was surprised when I was asked to use the microphone- someone wanted to hear what I said. I think ruefully, because they haven't yet.
Afterwords, I spoke with an old-man-poet; he shared his opinion of my writing and presentation. He showed me simple notations he makes in his writing to remember to pause, to control pace. Afterwords, he invited me to a party- a regular function at an art studio nearby- I knew of it, had been before, so I went. It was so much fun.
There were characters-young and old- and a giant bottle of homemade wine...made in the basement. The tiny flies about testament to the the wine barrels below.I was dragged in and out of conversation about religion, sex/sin and art. And all around there were artworks: paints and sculptures- an antique double bed in the corner, kitchenette and ply board bathroom.
Unsurprisingly- if you really think about it- I met another parishioner of my church I had never met before. And I felt very engaged, oddly alive. I know a bit was the little nugget of encouragement I received from the old man who revealed he used to edit a well-known poetry mag- the rest was the fact I did read, I participated.I wasn't like all those folks who regularly file in and out of life, we talked about THEM- the old man and I.
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