Wednesday, June 23, 2010


Ok, so it's not actually early. It's early to be writing a blog post. Or late, if you consider that I should be well on my way to being ready for class, and I'm kinda procrastinating that process by writing to my poor neglected reader(s).

Regina Spektor has lulled me awake the past week. Not with her standard stuff, but with the things you'll find under "live" or "demos" on Enjoy. You're welcome.

PS, I skipped class yesterday to love on my family. Legit excuse since they drove 9 hours to be loved on. I miss my sister already. So I bought a red tea kettle. Speaking of, I need to go get ready and make my morning tea. With my new red tea kettle. I may or may not have made English Breakfast Tea at midnight last night. Hey, it was naturally decaffeinated. Don't hate on me and my obsession with honey-laden warmth and happiness.

Speaking of, slam poetry makes me feel good. Very good. It makes me feel like the world caught jazz like an illness, and this handful of people poked their heartbeats with the sharp edge of a brassy horn blast and BAM out flowed this tumble of words and pain and love and vulnerability. Right there pulsing on the cool brick ground for the crowd to marvel at, saying, "That was INSIDE your HEART? What ELSE is in there??" And the poet takes that response very seriously. It makes or breaks a night, it mends or breaks that poor poked heart. It's a self-sacrificing act, to slam and be judged by more than snaps and "Mmmm"s. Those are generous and encouraging, but judges and numbers are not. That makes the outpouring of heartbeats a win or lose game with a lot on the line. The loss of the $4 entry fee aside, the loss of a poem hurts like a breakup with yourself, so you are gruesomely exposed to both sides of the pain.

I could go on, but Theatre History II calls. :)

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