A whole week gone by without writing here. Split this Rock was beautiful, interesting, heartening, moving.
Even now after eight years of George Bush have ended and now when advertising, trickery, deceit is so much in the fabric of things in this world– when things you buy are marketed as freedom, and a particular credit card is what is priceless– in that context it was so good, so old-fashioned, it felt, to be in the presence of people reaching for each other, for things beautiful and terrible, for something real. I loved the minds of the poets– the things people figured out, decided to try to say, to tell. It was scary in the way that this kind of gathering is scary from the mundane to the bigger questions– do I belong, can I do this kind of work? In what way can I face and write about these fierce, difficult times?
Four poets whose work I had never heard touched me so deeply; Patricia Smith, Frank X. Walker, Diana Garcia, Andrea Gibson. To go to something like this– as a full-time working mother, well, everything had to wait– making the bed, playing with my daughter, sleeping, paying the bills, folding the clothes. So now this writing waits a little longer, while I pay the bills and fold the clothes. The dishes are done. My daughter still deserves much more time.