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Dammit. I always forget to write these things down. Yesterday, I had lunch
with Ben and Justin and Mike. We went to that cab driver place (all the
cabbies seem to gravitate there), and I'm blanking on the name. Indian
food and good at that!
It's
a mix of mild and spicy, which is surprising because I'm not someone that
does well with spicy. My sister? No problem, she can throw down spicy
food till the cows come home. But me? A few bites and I'm sweating like
nobody's business.
*sigh*
And here, yet again, is my memory going to hell. Afterwards, they have
a guy who makes this thing. Pan? Zata... something. CRAP. I can't remember.
Anyhow,
it's meant to be something you chew and spit out. It's designed to clear
the palette (sp?) and, according to Ben and Justin, packs a mean buzz.
I've only ever had a few bites, and could never make it through a whole
one of these things. Each one is about 50 cents.
You're
just supposed to maw into the thing, leaf and all. There's a mix of crap
in there that I can't even keep track of - seeds, some other seed looking
stuff, some sort of paste, a few powdery things that are shaken in. I've
gone to this place with Justin and Ben late at night... and the guy who
prepares this stuff at those hours is nothing shy of a god. One of these
days, I need to try to ask them if I could record the process. Cool stuff.
I
took a bite on our walk back. The funny thing about this stuff is that,
when you spit it out, you spit blood red. To others walking by, I swear
it must look like we were all tripping on peyote and puking up in the
street while we were walking.
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I went with Chelsea to attend a reading by Li-Young
Lee. I know his older stuff a bit better, but looked forward to hearing
him read, old and new alike.
Chelsea
and I met up after work, around 5:15 PM. We walked a ways, and went into
some fancified bar/restaurant place for a beer and a quick pizza. We were
both pretty nervous on time, and slugged down the food and booze fairly
quickly.
The
actual location (the Ballroom of the School of the Art Institute) was
jaw-droppingly gorgeous. I was really taken aback and now I regret not
taking a picture of the space to show you. Curtains in the stairwell fancy.
To
be honest, I didn't find the reading all that compelling. I found his
asides and stories in between the poems to be much more interesting and
cool. Funny note: in the space of two minutes, he referred to his mother
as his "wife." Twice! He caught himself and exclaimed "Man,
what's happening?" It was pretty funny. :)
Later
on, I joined Chelsea in line and while she got her book signed by him,
I asked him for a photo:
I'm
the Asian guy. :|
I
was really taken by some of his comments, during the Question and Answer
period. He talked at length about order and randomness, and how there
is a constant struggle to stay between both. More than that, he spoke
about how, at the extremes of order and randomness, each one operates
as a sort of tyranny. "True randomness," he was saying, "is
its own form of tyranny."
And
based on this, superstitious freak that I am, I was convinced that I'd
get tapped for that
damn contest. Mainly because the poem I submitted ends on the world
"tyranny."
After
the reading, I talked with one of the volunteers, Laura. We talked a bit
about what I was interested in doing with their audio files (and they've
got recordings of a lot of readings they've sponsored. This organization
has been around since 1974 [another good sign, since that's when I was
born]). The idea of all those recordings made me shudder with happiness.
They're using RealAudio currently, and I'm convinced I could make something
sexier and better through Flash.
Before
I left, Laura wrote down her name and e-mail on a postcard and handed
it to me. After I took it, she said "Oh, wait" and took the
card back. She put her phone number on the card and handed it back to
me. I looked at it and asked her "Is this your work number?"
She replied with "No, that's my home phone."
Now,
I have a tendency to overanalyze things and presume too much. Laura struck
me as really interesting and, in the brief time that we talked, I wanted
to talk to her more. But I'm uncertain whether the phone number thing
was a professional/volunteer gesture, or something else.
I
want to be excited by this, but I also don't want to set myself up for
disappointment. Just because a beautiful girl decides to talk to you...
it doesn't mean she's interested in you.
I
guess this is, really, a moot point. I plan on calling Laura and talking
with her more about the organization, about poetry,and about writing in
general. And I think I'm going to ask her to do something - coffee maybe,
or a drink. Sometime Sunday, or maybe early next week after work. Based
on our quick chat, I'm finding myself curious about what she does with
The Poetry Center,
and just curious to talk to her more overall.
I
got a call today from Kent, and agreed to sign on to a freelance Flash
project. It's pretty interesting, and the delivery deadline is set for
Monday. The pay is good, but I agreed to do it partly to help Kent out,
and partly because I hope to generate more work from his employers in
the future.
That
said, my whole weekend seems booked. Which makes asking Laura to do something
Sunday slightly problematic. Hm.... maybe I'll just pull an all-nighter
on Satuday. :)
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On our way back from the reading, Chelsea and I stopped in at Subterranean
for a beer. As we rounded the corner, I noticed a guy on his bike. I asked
to take his picture, and he was really proud at the request. Chelsea asked
if he was a member of The
Rat Patrol, and apparently he was (she filled me in on some of the
specifics afterwards).
Turns
out, this guy put together this bike for the St. Patrick's day parade,
a while back. Cool bike!
Chelsea
and I had a good talk afterwards, over another beer. I actually talked
a bit of politics with her, which I never do with anyone. There was no
one else around in Subterranean, and it was a pretty relaxing sort of
thing to do.
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I still haven't gotten a phone call from them. They'd better hurry, if
I'm going to record for that March
30th reading.
Yeah,
yeah. I know. But leave me with my dreams...
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Dammit. I still haven't caught up. I've got some fun photos from today,
but I guess I'm officially a day behind. Hopefully, I can catch up a bit
tomorrow.
'night!
*waves*
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by Li-Young Lee
I've pulled the last of the year's young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can't recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way - left hand braced
on knee, creaky - to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It
was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White
rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
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