for one crowded hour, you were the only one in the room

Happy Sunday, my darlings. I hope you’re all alive and well, and managing to avoid the flu epidemic. Fact: the flu vaccine is only 62% effective according to this moderately depressing article released by the CDC. I’m currently lying in my bed trying to keep my lungs in my chest. But! Had I been a responsible adult human being and taken recommended preventative measures, there’s a 3-in-5 chance I would still have the flu right now. Full disclosure, my illness is probably sleep deprivation and not an aggressive virus. We’ll never know for sure.

Sometimes I write poetry. And sometimes I participate in events where said poetry is read aloud to real life people. And maybe they like it or maybe they don’t but they’re always gracious enough to pretend. January 9^th, which was already 11 days ago because the world is a surreal time-warped place, I read in a 3+3 poetry feature hosted by Stone Soup. The host selected three featured poets, and each poet invited an additional reader for a total of six poets.

You guys. All the feelings! I have a confession. I think I’m addicted to poetry. Standing in a room full of friends, strangers and everything in between with adrenaline singing in my fingertips and the microphone popping with words that came from my head… I don’t even know. There’s something transformative in the sharing. Like my body functions as conduit, but the word are what’s Real and Alive. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes and just let them become. Thank you, Stone Soup, for initiating me into the poetry family. Sharing a stage with so much talent was rewarding and much-needed.

How does one celebrate a successful night of poetry? Chopsticks, obviously. Nothing says “I’m an artist, goddammit” quite like karaoke, Wednesday night and Chinese takeout.

Chopsticks occupies a very specific segment of my heartscape. After the very first Stone Soup reading I attended, C invited me to Chopsticks for drinks. The walls are papered with polaroid snapshots, strangers’ faces like you’ve suddenly been dropped into real-life facebook. My human eyes take so much longer to process that much happiness than my restless fingertips do. We spilled stories back and forth across the pool table; sinking the past two years into corner and side pockets like memories could be corralled with the right geometry. That night I met Josh the Magnificent and tried not to stare while he feigned smoking a colored pencil. Chopsticks heralded the beginning of a Portland I didn’t know I would need so desperately. Also: karaoke seven nights a week. Obviously that’s a thing, because why not?

Things you don’t expect to happen on a Wednesday night:

·         A gaggle of gays head-banging to your rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

·         A middle-aged man taking off his shirt and aggressively flexing his muscles in your general direction before dropping down and doing many, many push-ups on the dance floor. Don’t worry, he was escorted off the premises shortly thereafter.  

·         Hand-feeding your friend tater tots because she won’t eat them off the plate and you’re mildly concerned she might die if she doesn’t immediately ingest some form of grease and carbohydrate.

·         Drinking PBR in bed at 2am, nestled between your friends, all warm and sleepy until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore.

Altogether, Wednesday was a successful culmination of the many hours spent worrying, writing, swearing, re-writing and talking out loud to myself in inappropriate settings. Thank you to everybody making it possible to pursue my dream of being a poet. Or a rap artist. Whichever comes first.

All my love, creeps.

-b