During my party years I'd talk with a girlfriend the day after; we do the autopsy. Man, it was fun.
We'd reinvent the previous evening with all its glitter and silliness, or disappointments. Our nervous energy dissolved as we dished.
I have residual nervous energy about my poetry reading last night at Bluestockings Bookstore. I may be more girl reporter here than medical examiner, but what the hey.
Vittoria Reppetto, who has run this series (see previous post) for years and contentedly bills herself as the hardest working guinea, butch dyke on the lower east side, was her usual warm and business-like self. Vittoria is a native of the Village--Cornelia Street--which makes her vintage and landmarked. An authentic New Yorker.
The audience was young, really sweet and so attentive. I forget about that, the generosity of the audience. I'm a total stranger to many of them and yet they sit in metal folding chairs and give me their full attention. It feels like a sacred but not solemn rite and homage to poetry and art.
Adrienne Baldasandro, my co-feature, read with the intensity of outrage; on gender, sexuality, preference; on kids and young adults at-risk because of same. She was intense and gripping.
And I was me, a strong reader with good poems, always a little unsure of myself and yet confident. I love being up there, but there's more to it, which may be the mystery of the sacred rite and the fact of laundry after enlightenment.
When an audience is so attentive and generous, parts of me are inevitably exposed whether or not I'm aware. So I read and exposed myself and did it in the name of poetry.