On taping poems to walls...
Eduardo is taping poems to his walls, and it made me think of the time I did that... at the end of my 2nd year of the MFA program.
It was the first time I'd ever tried to think of my poems as a "body" and I couldn't decide how to organize them into a manuscript. So there they were, at eye level, all over the house, like a gallery show. And I'd switch them with each other, take them down, scribble changes.
One night, my friend Dustin brought his hot roommate (whom I'd never met) to my house unexpectedly, to see if I wanted to go shoot pool. And I was confused, embarassed to have this attractive stranger see my ego, and also my many neuroses, splashed accross my walls.
I escaped to the bathroom to brush my hair, and ran out the door with them, to go to the Deadwood for beers and billiards. Came home tipsy and fell asleep.
When I woke up the next day I noticed that my poems had been attacked with a highligter in a strange hand.
One poem shouted in neon yellow, "I like this one."
Another screamed, "Huh. Don't get it."
Etc.
How would you feel if a stranger looked past your ego, read your work, and cared enough to comment?
How would you feel if someone vandalized your "first book?"
Considering both of those questions, how would you react? What would you do?
Two weeks later I was sitting on a park bench with the vandal, talking about Another Republic, and Creeley.
And five years later, I married him in Vegas!
Cause, Hey! It's not easy to find a good reader...
(And Eduardo, I wish you the same from your poem-taping... especially since I remember that you think my vandal is a hottie. Me-OW!)
It was the first time I'd ever tried to think of my poems as a "body" and I couldn't decide how to organize them into a manuscript. So there they were, at eye level, all over the house, like a gallery show. And I'd switch them with each other, take them down, scribble changes.
One night, my friend Dustin brought his hot roommate (whom I'd never met) to my house unexpectedly, to see if I wanted to go shoot pool. And I was confused, embarassed to have this attractive stranger see my ego, and also my many neuroses, splashed accross my walls.
I escaped to the bathroom to brush my hair, and ran out the door with them, to go to the Deadwood for beers and billiards. Came home tipsy and fell asleep.
When I woke up the next day I noticed that my poems had been attacked with a highligter in a strange hand.
One poem shouted in neon yellow, "I like this one."
Another screamed, "Huh. Don't get it."
Etc.
How would you feel if a stranger looked past your ego, read your work, and cared enough to comment?
How would you feel if someone vandalized your "first book?"
Considering both of those questions, how would you react? What would you do?
Two weeks later I was sitting on a park bench with the vandal, talking about Another Republic, and Creeley.
And five years later, I married him in Vegas!
Cause, Hey! It's not easy to find a good reader...
(And Eduardo, I wish you the same from your poem-taping... especially since I remember that you think my vandal is a hottie. Me-OW!)
3 Comments:
Ah, what a sweet story to tell your children & grandchildren. Well, minus that part of you coming home all drunk, & peda.
And yes, I do think your vandal is a hottie. I'm glad you found love in Iowa City. Alas, I didn't even have a date my two years there (cue the violins) though I did get asked out by this married man. No thanks, I told him. I may be a lot of things, but a homewrecker? Never.
I didn't know Chris was Dustin's roomate. I'm assuming you're referring to our Dustin, from the Workshop. I didn't know hotties traveled in packs in IC. Damn! I should've hung out with Dustin some more. Maybe a few crumbs would've fallen onto my lap...
WONDERFUL story!
Wonderful starry!
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