My Poor Cleveland Indians

Here are some photos from the Indians game---which they lost---maybe we had cursed the game by cutting through the cemetary to get to the stadium from where we parked!? We tried to cuddle up to slider during a boring inning, but that didn't help the Indians rally :(. Ah, well, tomorrow's Burlesque promises to be a guaranteed home run!

Wow! Five Hello Kittys!!!

I don't think I've had much luck getting formal reviews but when you get ones like this---it makes me remember why we write---not for the careerist in us (we poets can be quite the get it done frantic types---minus the investment banker salary) so thanks to Amanda who always reminds me where my heart should be.

Wednesday was our Fringe performance and it went over better than I could have imagined it---especially seeing JohnMark sign "Long Time Traveller" by the Wailin' Jennys. Which incidentally has become my new favorite song!

I'm Older and Wiser According to This!

Ok, maybe not wiser....

Intersections

Fred Joiner runs one of the most meaningful reading series in the city. It reminded me of readings in college---either the Wick readings or the ones at the Brady. This is when poetry was really about connecting with people and the world around you. It didn't matter where you came from, we all have that same well inside us. Last night was a reminder of why I write. I remember when Katherine wrote in a poem of hers back in college: "Maj has taught us to address things by name" and so let me say here, Sarah and Jehanne, to read with you was honoring and inspiring---I was so awed by both of your readings and so nervous to go up after you. Fred, the space and the environment that you are creating is already blooming. Last night reminded me that poetry was about life and embracing everything---the children, the struggles, the deaths, the music, the loves, and the language, each other.

I woke up with a poem this morning!

After the Reading

Anacostia sounds like
a Russian shtetl,
same beginning, same vowel
opening, ana, delicate
lace of streets, handiwork
of dreams as we writers
gather on good hope
road, mid-summer
DC cries Ana, the woman
I could be or the one
I won't be, or the one
I want to be.

Anacostia is my mother's
hand on my forehead
or the slips in her drawer
and trying them on
when she's not there.
Anacostia is lifting
what belongs to you
to your face and closing
your eyes.

What is the bridge between
hearing and understanding,
the difference between sympathy
and empathy? Ana, ana, a, a,
pastel blue, pink and
bone in my hand.

Stayin' Strong

That's what Cornell West said to me as I served him his Courvosier! Gotta love working at a place where the occassional famous person will make a cameo. Jonathan was a sweetie and ran home to get my copy of Race Matters so I could have him sign it! 10 Boyfriend points for him!

Just as I thought I was in the middle of a writing dry spell, something came back tonight at 2 Amy's. For dinner I had a rapini salad, shared the fried zuchinni, and had my own margareta pizza. The poem arrived with the blackberry cake.

Sandra has inspired me with her daily poems so I'm going to try my own version of it.

This is what I wrote on the take out box:

Rekindling

The blackberry cake
has eyes. We called it

ordinary. The blades
of the fan remind me

of wings, or rather, a bird
stuck in a house.

The crusts like bones
on my plate.

This is what remains:
tomorrow,

a day of leftovers,
last night's dinner

spun into a different
monotony reheated,

micro rays of it---
I don't know what

is harmful
anymore.

A hair brushed
to the other side,

the jeans arise
from the back of the closet,

the fit that surprises.

Hot Summer

Last weekend, I went to two bars---and found Hangar One Chipotle vodka! Great in Bloody Mary's and with chocolate for a Mexican chocolate martini---though I only had the former, not the latter.

We don't have it (yet) at Rouge but it seems like it would be a shoe in. I'm actually going to be a bit sad when I turn in my shaker for a Talmud---though perhaps I'll be able to find a good bar job in Brooklyn. Or maybe then I'll start work on my bartender poems...

Stray

Tonight a stray appeared outside the window. Or maybe he or she belongs to someone. Or maybe he or she is feral. Frank was meowing up a storm. I decided to feed the stray, who I've named New Kitty even though I know I can't keep him or her or even take her in. My guess is New Kitty has claws and poor Frank would have to sit on her to protect himself.

I'm trying to figure out if there's some meaning to this as I often feel like I dig or make paper chains, linking one event to another, an image, a sign, a conversation, an action, a feeling. I often wonder if this is a trait of a writer, to constantly be looking for links and meaning and how that affects our lives. Sometimes I think that what's good for writing is not always what is best for you as a person. I'm often in my head and it's good to get out of it. Today I swam with Janeil and watched a snippet of John Tucker Must Die and ate Chips Ahoy and Goldfish before heading out to a cute little French cafe with Sandra and Jonathan to play the part of the hip city crowd who talks about poetry and politics and drinks foreign beers and champage cocktails on lazy Sunday evenings. Honestly, I wouldn't trade either one. After all, the Sophia was in a can. That's my kind of classy.

So far, I haven't found a meaning for the stray, though I did get to meet a neighbor---Stephanie and her cute dog who were out walking and walked into my dilemma of what does one do when they find an animal. I called the shelter and they said that I'd have to bring the New Cat to them, there's no Prince of Cats to come and rescue them. Though, Stephanie seemed to think that having a cat around ouside to catch the mice from the dirty restaurants at the top of the street is a good thing. Tres Chic for us on Hopkins!