Welcome To My Bed

Taking a breather.

At the Ref desk (my home away from home), halfway through a chunk of Faulkner that took me two sections to actually get into. I'm reading The Bear for class this week, a section of Go Down, Moses, and the only Faulkner I've read before this was a short story that turned up multiple times in high school: my freshman ear when my college freshman sister needed somebody to bounce ideas off of for a paper, my sophomore year when we read the story for class, and my junior year (?) after I had transfered. Which makes me an expert on that one particular story. But I forgot how epic his sentences were - I sometimes get the overwhelming sensation that I am drowning in words. But anyway, I kind of don't want to stop now that I've picked up momentum, which is bad, because I have mountains of other work to do. Hence the blogging - it helps to reset my brain, so bear with me.

Tonight marks the first truly productive meeting of the still-nameless Hampshire slam team, which isn't exactly saying much, because we still got very little done and I am nearing the point of intensive frustration. Last practice we timed poems. This practice we discussed possible names for far too long (getting inexplicably side-tracked by the wiki page for McCarthyism) and made photocopies of poems that need editing. Because I have sooo much free time to be editing. I'm going to give it my best shot though, in spite of the constant time crunch I have orchestrated for myself that has only been mushrooming since Jan Term. As of this practice, I have been informed that my entire Thursday post 5 pm has been sacrificed to the slam gods so that we can both practice and go to Kevin slam/dance party that night. I had propsed that we use the slam as an excuse to get our poems off page, but somehow that was translated into "I have nothing more pressing to do with my time than spend it getting sick of my own writing". I am endlessly amped for nationals, I can't wait to be in Philly bringing my A-game, but I can't help hearing the little voice in me that was much louder last year that keeps whispering that I am not a slam poet. And I know that it's right. I am decidedly page-y. Paper-dependent. And I'm okay with that; I never claimed to be a performer. I guess hearing everybody say that the poems that do well in national competition are typically more performance heavy than page-worthy made me slightly more nervous that I already was. And then there's the business of poems with names like "Titanium Pussy" (I kid you not) being honored with accolades. When I'm sure something like that sounds...as bad as it sounds.

But there are sunny sides. No pressure being one of the more tangible of those happy things. I don't expect to do fantastically, I expect to enjoy myself and hopefully learn. Probably get red wine drunk on the train with Charlie just like when we were neighbors. Other than that, there isn't too much happiness riding on such an experience. Maybe I'll sell a few chapbooks, which would be really cool. But mostly I'm trying to think small at this point, because baby steps eventually get you where you're going. Tonight after work, Georgie and I are going to write a group piece. Possible topics that I have brainstormed during breaks from William include a conversation between an alcoholic and his/her drink, or the ways we drunkenly talk ourselves into one-night stands. I am not loving either of those, but maybe they'd be fun free-writes.

As for right now, there is plenty more where that last bit of work came from. It's early yet and I already feel a headache of the over-tired variety coming on.