getting social

So today I finally started the Conversation with Coffeeshopcrush.  I mean, after the customary enter-and-talk-small, and after he remembered that I like 2% milk, even though I haven't been by in over a week.  I said, "So I've got a question for you.  Where is your favorite place to drink beer?"  Get right down to the point, I say.

In the middle of the conversation I turned around and there was this small boy glaring up at me like an angry cartoon child, so unfortunately we should hurry it up.  But before I left he got out of me that I went to school in Minnesota, and he said, "You don't have an accent..."  I love when this is the first thing people say when I tell them I went to school in Minnesota.  I laughed.  "That's because I've tried to cover it up."

"It's not bad, though," he said.  "It sounds so wholesome!"

Wholesome.

I talked to Lisa on my birthday and she accused me of talking like an East Coaster, though, which I'm tickled about.  I will acknowledge the fact, for accuracy's sake, that she has been holding her breath for me to get my East Coast Twang back, so she might be rushing it a bit.  But I've started calling people "hon," which is what people do around here, so I may blend in yet.

Anyway, I got a scoop on places to go outside the college 'hood, which is also positive.

I also hit up my second Wilmington open mic last night, and got another scoop from a Wilmo native: "Have you been to the Valley?"

Now, I will just say that calling something "The _____" is a great way to get me interested.  It's just so beautifully mundane.  Doesn't "The Valley" usually refer to someplace in California?  I'm not sure, but there are valleys EVERYWHERE.  On the other hand, when I went to Maryland that one time I said, "I'm just surrounded by highways," and everyone there said, "Yeah, and it's just so flat."

The Valley in the Flatlands.  So intrigued.

It's on my list.  Sounds like a good place for a picnic.

I think I might have actually driven through there, and it's a part of Delaware that is so lush, with old winding roads and crumbling stone bridges.  He said earlier in the fall, when the sun still comes through and the leaves haven't dropped, is the best time to go.  "Just drive around back there for awhile and you'll see what I mean," he said.

This is exactly why I wanted so badly to find an open mic.  Because I went there, got myself a drink, and slid into an empty booth.  And after about 2 minutes, a couple of guys burst in the door and suddenly my booth was full of guys and coats and books and even a guitar.

It wasn't totally random, because we'd keyed into each other last time.  We liked each other's words.  This is one of my favorite ways to connect with people.  That creative circuitry is just so exhilarating.  And it makes me feel more grounded and comfortable with loving language when other people are twirling the shit out of it too.

There's something about poetry that opens up your soul to the other people in the room.  It's like, these people know what it means to love.  And what it means to suffer.  I remember reading this Kafka essay senior year of high school--I mean, let's be honest.  I don't remember reading that essay, but I remember this one line, at the bottom of some random page in the middle of all that depressing existential babble, that basically claimed that poets feel the world's suffering in an intensity far beyond the experiences of an average human being.  I think he meant "poets" in a loose sense, but I don't think he was that far off.  A lot of the poets I know are really intense people.

I realized suddenly, as though my pages slapped me in the face, that I have mostly performed old pieces.  And the more time goes by, the older they get.  I haven't written a lot of new stuff in years, nothing worth performing, anyway.  What I have written can mostly be found on scrap message paper, kitchen slips, paper bags, and napkins, and they're all clipped together next to my bed and none of them are finished.

I feel like I'm on the verge of decoding a new Rosetta stone, except this one is a message sent from my future self that I have to crack.  Like all of these little snippets of poetry will somehow, not literally, but conceptually get taped together into the True Revelations Of My Life As It Is Now.  Which is definitely different than it was in 2008, when I wrote Confessions.  I'm not trying to be condescending to the earlier versions of myself, but there is at least one new layer to me now.  Probably a few new layers, considering everything that has happened since I was cranking out all kinds of cadenced masterpieces with widespread appeal.  I'll get there eventually, I guess.  Until then, I've got a new genre to work through.  So enjoy, my lucky readers ;)

So, in reverse, that was Thursday, Wednesday...  Tuesday I went to the Y with my mom and we just chilled in our own little elliptical worlds for awhile.  As Mutti said on our way out, "There was a lot of testosterone flying around in that room tonight."  True.  I was kind of loving it, to be honest.  But there was this one kind of small guy bouncing around looking really chipper, with those South American laugh lines I find so comforting.  All those guys in the free weights area always look so stiff and serious, but this guy was almost dancing.  He walked in front of me, caught my eye, and smiled.  Such an easy, open smile.  Unassuming.

He was lifting next to the paper towel dispenser when I finished, so I threw caution to the wind and said, "You have a really nice smile."  He flashed it again, looking delighted.  Then he casually lingered while I put my rainboots back on, cleared his throat, "You also have a... beautiful smile."  And then he pulled out my favorite line: "Do you come here often?"  Except it was a legitimate question.  The best.  Really.  His name is Daniel, and that's the story of my first non-staff introduction at the Y.