Ahhh… the weekend is over. My liver is recovering slowly. I slept on the floor at John’s on Saturday night, the couch at Julia’s on Friday. This was all good when I was 25 but these days, after a bout of graduate-level shennanigans, I have to go home and sleep more just to reach the category of “crappy”. Not that my own bed is so good. I think it was made by sewing a bunch of tarps into an old hockey bag. Nonetheless, many thanks to the Lawrence Rd. Posse and the PBR Street Gang! Your charms are lucky, your brains are huge and entertaining.
A week at the FINA is really to blame. An exhausting regimen of coffee and cigarettes, a lotta chatter, and some art stuff. My guitar callouses now go all the way to my elbows. My poemetry now seems thin and watery, sorta washed through with the complaint of a spoiled brat.
But it was the glowing space-worm of intersubjectivity that impressed me most, a big, kissey creature that sang and scripted and mounted ladders, wore drag, high-tenned, and burst like a boil of love, painting the marquee in a pus of peace. The convergent energies had no choice but to become collaborative ones: Amy capturing us all on camera from every angle, ready or not; Shannon and everybody playing tape wands; Juila making a film in which we all were brightly-lit performing seals; John and I turned into a sentient (post) pulp mill; Steph’s apology getting all made-over by the scissors, the erasers, the marginal of the class, the wanderers-in, the world; Kristen taking in our stray tales for a cookie or two; Kianno and I making the game a musical game; Lori showing the Woodhaven movie to the masses on the couch.
I am glad it is over, dears, but I am glad I was there.