Kate B. came to read at my school and then I read with her and an experimental physicist/conceptual artist in sf and I almost had coffee with one of the editors at my last press along the way but we missed each other and all that means is I had two solid days of talking about art and writing with a writer I feel aligned with.  There were like nine people at the bookstore and of course one was my friend and two were hers and two were the bookstore people and one was the tech man, but it was nice, really nice and a good event in large part because the girl running things was so unabashedly excited about the anthology and no one seemed to care that everyone who might or might not have been watching us on a wednesday night was watching the giants.  And Kate, my conversations with her, title after title she loved, I’m scribbling all these potential jewels in my notebook, and all these literary friendships she’s cultivated over so many years, I’m thinking I met that woman, could I have done that, been her friend for life?  What is my deal? I have been around a lot of people who are or perhaps should be medicated for mood disorders, people with big intense beliefs and feelings, feeling like maybe my feelings just aren’t big enough, that I don’t feel as much as other people do, or that I should, that I’m shut down, whatever I’ll take that up in private but it extends to my reading and to my ability to be an audience.  The lights go down and in the lonely dark crammed with people, the theater of consciousness, I am thrilled with anticipation, I am wide open before the show begins.  But when it starts I can get so let down, and it hurts and can make me angry every time, that someone was going to make art and then they made this lame thing before me.  I used to think this meant I had a strong critical sensibility, and add to that always feeling rushed to try the next thing that might be fantastic, no time to waste on bad art, but now I think it means I shy too quickly, a scallop or whatever always sure I’m about to get poked in my bazillion raw eyes, argopecten iradians in my probably not latin.  (But really, how often do I return to something and really think I was wrong?  Maybe the real problem is that as a mollusk, I don’t move around much on my own, I am buffeted about in the tide pools or cemented to a rock waving my filter feeders around).

And here’s a link to other contributers presenting from the fairy tale collection.  In the name of a community I can believe in.  Plus it’s a link to kelly link, so that can’t be bad.

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