Inside my purse there is a crumpled business card from a novelist who wore heavy makeup hidden behind glasses, a thrice folded cardboard jacket from Saturday afternoon's coffee (hastily sipped as I wandered in bouts of rain between poetry venues), a pack of gum (I don't like gum, but I was sick of the coffee, breakfast, whiskey taste and didn't have time to run home and brush my teeth), one fingerless glove (black), an inking pen (oh wait, TWO inking pens), current bank balance, wallet, a tired piece of yellow paper with the words "one brain for one body should be enough for somebody but anyone can make my two feet run" written on it in red ink (absolutely no idea where this came from), a collection of common writing pens (five blue ink, three black ink, and two red ink), a letter, two poems scrawled out in my sloppiest handwriting (one by Dano Quinn and one by me, something really pretentious that contains: "our tattoos make our fears approachable and our bodies un-broach-able/while in our ears dangle the earrings of lives we have forgotten, or grown out of". I think we know why I'm not a poet), a white crocheted hat, head phones, a red bandanna, four pennies, a dime, a pink guitar pick, chapstick, five bobby pins, a black button, my phone, and the security card that unlocks the office doors.
This was my weekend: one long stumble from coffee to beer to coffee to boardwalk to building, from poem to poem to song, and back to bed for some quick hours or minutes then perhaps a county meeting.
As you can see from the picture, the amazing Sara Johnston came to visit: two whole days! We had fun even though I had to work and dragged her around with me all through Astoria listening to some truly awful and truly excellent fisher poetry. When people come to visit, I realize how boring I am. I don't go anywhere, I don't do anything. I work and sleep and sing to myself while playing guitar and I play the same five songs, my entire repertoire these days. I only eat out at the Columbian. I don't have a favorite bar...although the VooDoo Room is high on the list. Side note: I had a chai martini last night (thank you, Bartender Josh...I think that was his name: Josh?) and it was like nothing else I've ever had. Martinis...ewww, at least for me, but not this one. This one was...I don't even have words to describe it. Oh so good.
I covered the Fisher Poets Gathering and in 10 minutes I really need to make some final phone calls and write the whole thing up. First, I'm going to eat muffins (they're baking right now). The story is for Monday's cover and I'm not sure where to start. I have an entire notebook crammed with scribblings. There are so many ways I could start and once I start one way, I allow certain stories while I forbid others.
Ooops, there goes the oven timer.
Hmm... perhaps you are the girl whose night was "ruined" by a slightly inebriated young man in the Voodoo room? If so: I knew you were a journalist of sorts. If not: my apologies, you resemble a fetching and interesting young woman I met in Astoria whilst listening to salty sea dogs recite poetry.
ReplyDeleteNope, not me.
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