writers' row, off the row
If you’re on my “L.A. lit list” Gmail contacts list, you know that I was supposed to do a reading last night and it got cancelled. (If you’re not and want to be, let me know.) As a consolation prize, Jessica, the hostess of Writers’ Row threw a little party/open reading at a friend’s loft at the Brewery. It was also a birthday party for her other reading series, SoapBox Poets. In fact, I was a little confused about the role each series played and how the two intersected, and I felt like one of those guest speakers who gets in front of the mic and is basically like, “Where am I? How did I get here?” I usually think those people are snobs who didn’t do their homework.
(Once, a guy considered to be very funny by many people emceed my organization’s benefit dinner. His whole schtick was that this was the most coveted gig in town, because ha ha, of course it wasn’t. It was pretty funny the first time, but grew progressively less so throughout the evening. When he hosted again the next year, he had the exact same schtick. I felt like, Okay, at this point it’s more about your own laziness and inability to get a better gig than our hilarious unfamousness.)
I’m getting off track because really, last night was just a fun little party at the loft of a photographer who puts wax over her photos and makes them look all cool and painterly. I usually read prose, but because the whole thing felt kind of off the record, I read a poem. A new and angry one. I hoped no one noticed that I was shaking when I read it, but I think at least AK did. India Radfar, the poet I was supposed to feature with read prose. A woman read a beautiful poem called “Dear Iceberg.”
At one point, AK nudged me and pointed to the window. Two paws were against the glass. It was a highlight. Then the cat ran off. But we did get to meet the photographer’s two Rex cats, who were strange and wonderful. (Go to nicolefournier.com and click on “encaustic portraiture” in Nicole’s portfolio if you want to see an amazing Rex glamour shot.)
There were small cupcakes and a big chalkboard full of poetry. It was a nice night.
(Once, a guy considered to be very funny by many people emceed my organization’s benefit dinner. His whole schtick was that this was the most coveted gig in town, because ha ha, of course it wasn’t. It was pretty funny the first time, but grew progressively less so throughout the evening. When he hosted again the next year, he had the exact same schtick. I felt like, Okay, at this point it’s more about your own laziness and inability to get a better gig than our hilarious unfamousness.)
I’m getting off track because really, last night was just a fun little party at the loft of a photographer who puts wax over her photos and makes them look all cool and painterly. I usually read prose, but because the whole thing felt kind of off the record, I read a poem. A new and angry one. I hoped no one noticed that I was shaking when I read it, but I think at least AK did. India Radfar, the poet I was supposed to feature with read prose. A woman read a beautiful poem called “Dear Iceberg.”
At one point, AK nudged me and pointed to the window. Two paws were against the glass. It was a highlight. Then the cat ran off. But we did get to meet the photographer’s two Rex cats, who were strange and wonderful. (Go to nicolefournier.com and click on “encaustic portraiture” in Nicole’s portfolio if you want to see an amazing Rex glamour shot.)
There were small cupcakes and a big chalkboard full of poetry. It was a nice night.
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