November's/December's theme:"We diverge and I collapse into my bed/And you are shoved awkwardly into my head" A Separate Lid Behind Closed Eyes

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Jason recommends the album, American Weekend by Waxahatchee

Extra doses and double shots - December 13, 2021
Half a life ago - December 12, 2021
Buggy - November 27, 2021
When We Two Parted - November 25, 2021
Catfish - November 22, 2021

April 25, 2003 // 3:22 p.m. // Poetry. Music. Fiction. Food. The gala in brief

Well, first of all, our literary magazines are spiral bound. Spiral. As in, turn the pages a half dozen times and all of the bottom corners will be bent and folded. If this is the "special edition" they proclaimed, then I'm picking up the regular (and hopefully bound like a normal book) copy on Monday.

I ended up arriving right at seven, but fortunately for me, it didn't officially begin until 7:30. That gave me plenty of time to run the two blocks each way out to my car for the things I kept forgetting in my moment of absentmindedness.

We met the staff, met the writers, listened to an original musical score composed by a student and had a raffle every three readers with prizes ranging from gift certificates to drive-in passes and free loaves of bread. I won the prize that appealed to me the most on the last number drawn: a gift certificate to a local bookstore.

I guess if I had to have one small complaint, it'd be that the only beverage was coffee. No juice and no soda but I guess those drinks don't scream "poetry/fiction reading." I guess that's a downside about being with hardcore creative writers. They're all about maintaining the image. I also must add that the cookies were good. So good that after I left, I snuck back in to grab another.

Half of the scheduled readers didn't show. I was one of the last to read my piece and was lucky enough to read in the spot before (rather than after) the person who had the piece that was my favorite and that may have been the best one read. They ended up accidentily cutting about two of her lines from her story, but she had them memorized and rolled with it. I talked to her after the gala about it and copied the two lines into my copy as she looked eagerly over my shoulder.

As I was leaving, I spoke to a member of the staff (who called me by name) and she told me that I, "present such a great imagery though some people may bnot get it." Including myself. I'll be the first to admit that my poem makes no sense. Why? Because it's 22 lines from other poems. Still, it was nice that she made a trip across the room to speak to me about my work.

The gala is always memorable and it usually inspires me to do something. The unfortunate thing is that this year all it inspired me to do was to buy super soft oatmeal cookies and to never drink or try coffee again.

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