Don't Let Your Baby Grow Up to be a Poet.

[Note: melatonin supplement was taken before embarking on this journey.]

Must...publish...blog post!

Hello weirdos, it’s been one hell of a whirlwind week. Forgive the early alliteration; it may have been too much. This week has certainly kept me on my toes. I got hit with a strange manic upswing and spent Sunday afternoon Being Productive, which meant laundry, deep-cleaning/rearranging my room and writing things I actually get paid for. What’s that? Making money for writing? That’s just ridiculous! But seriously, one time I had this really great boss and she liked when I was capable of feeding myself, so she hired me to do some freelance writing. I’ve paid my bills more than once with that extra income, and I am eternally grateful.

Meeting that deadline unfortunately meant depriving you creeps of my life’s intimate details two extra days. But here we are, I think this technically counts as a Tuesday post. This means I need to have a grand adventure between now and Thursday’s post. Man you guys, this whole blog thing is a lot of pressure.

Luckily, the highlight of my weekend can be summed up in four words: Portland Poetry Slam Championship. I rolled up to the Backspace Café just before 7 p.m. Sunday night and the line was already forming. I’ve never seen so many skinny jeans and large-framed glasses in one place. My friend and recent Portland-transplant Moose met me there. [Note: Moose is thus named because of her proficiency at the drinking game, not for any resemblance to the majestic and devastatingly violent woodland creature] Once the doors opened we filed in and found seats.

Because Moose possesses greater social skills than I (AKA has social skills at all), she made friends with our seatmate while I jockeyed to the front of the line for a cranberry soda.

Our seatmate turned out to be a woman nicknamed Zigzag, because sometimes she’s zigging and sometimes she’s zagging. No shit. Zigzag is a life coach, professional blogger and everything I want to be when I grow up. Minus bankrupt and a divorcee. Did I mention she was a bit of a talker? She apparently also won a handful

This particular slam followed a different format than the typical Portland slams. Five objective judges were selected from the audience (I wasn’t selected because I have a crush on Brenna Twohy’s poetry, so I was deemed biased). The slam was four rounds, with seven poets in the first half and four poets in the second half. The seven competitors were the highest ranking cumulative point holders from the slam season. There’s a whole long explanation I could get into about how points are scored, but I’m sleepy and guessing you guys don’t really care. All you need to know is that these poets are basically masters of the literary universe. Basically.

You guys. This stuff was amazing. I cried twice just in the first round. I’m in awe of poetry’s ability to make my heart settle somewhere near the base of my esophagus. Words and their power continue to amaze me every day. After the slam I wanted to rush home and write all of the things and never stop writing. Unfortunately, I fell asleep after just one thing that almost resembles a poem. It’s like a larval-stage poem. You guys can meet it when it gets born.

Back to the slam! This fellow, Doc Luben, won the competition which means he will be travelling to Arkansas in October to represent Portland, Oregon at the Individual World Poetry Slam.  Big shout out to Doc, I wish him all the luck.

Really that’s all I’ve got for you tonight. Like I said, I’m in a manic upswing which means I feel great. Unfortunately, I have less to say because I’m busy doing things. Like applying for internships and creating poetry and cleaning things and being a grown-ass woman. 

Do you ever notice how hard it is to tell people when you’re happy? Why are complaints and misery the foundation of so many human interactions? For example, if I wake up and immediately burst into tears (circa last week) I know I can call my mom or text a friend. I know if I tell them how I feel they will reassure me. Sometimes when I am really down they will spoon-feed me pie. On the other hand, if I wake up and feel fucking fantastic (circa Sunday/Monday)… who do you tell about the happy? When someone asks how you are, you can say “good” or “great!” or “I feel like I have a rainbow exploding inside of my chest!!” But then what? I don’t know man. I’ll let you know when I do.

For now, I bid you fond adieu and encourage you to stalk some incredible artists (Brenna Twohy, Joe Brundidge, Doc Lubin, Eirean Bradley) for supplementary reading. School is starting soon, do all the recreational reading you can in the next two weeks.

All my love.

-b