Very interesting experience yesterday afternoon while listening to Heather Fuller’s reading

Was dozing a little at the bar having not quite slept enough the night before and then having gone with Ruthie to see the vaudeville exhibit at the NYPL and eaten half a pastrami sandwich at the Carnegie deli

And with an underslept head full of pastrami and vaudeville, I somehow got sucked just under consciousness — dream state

And oddly, my dream started to merge with Heather’s poems…

in the sense of… “Oh yes, I recognize this, I know exactly where this poem is going, because I’ve been there before, it’s a significant set of meanings for me, these are meanings of great import to my life”

It was entirely uncanny. I remember nothing of the poem, but my memory of that feeling of certitude, relevance, and deja vu is so clearly outlined as to be almost re-experienceable now as I’m writing about it

I do remember thinking, before I fell off into lalaland, that her poems were “pictures of a region”

Brenda’s intro: fawning, Manichean, and long

Carla’s reading started off, I felt, very strong, with a segment of her brilliant “Baby” piece (Baby singing a ferocious song like organ music in… a courtyard? annoying the souvenir sellers?) and some intriguing “noise” poems… but then for me broke off into bits I couldn’t latch onto, even formally, with the exception of some lines and moments. One line was so hilarious but i didn’t have a pen — I didn’t have a pen. For shame! But Douglas, fresh from Thailand for Brendan and Tracey’s wedding and sitting next to me at the bar, did jot it down…

Who cares about posterity anyway when even the guy from Nasa, the global warming expert guy, says the government tried to silence him… it’s getting hot in here… I feel WARM… overly warm… gather ye roses while ye… aaaaggggh…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s