A hummingbird told me last night

that I am not a blogger. Well, she was sort of right. (So did not mean for that to rhyme.) It's kind of like being a lapsed Catholic: one has to have a blog on life support somewhere, creeping along pseudo-monthly; one has to file through the communion line at weddings and funerals, eke out the requisite Amen (and so it shall be). But my public deserves better treatment, so this snippet is brought to you from she who should be working in the mines of administrative mind-rot. We must all rebel on occasion, or at least make an occasion to rebel.

Speaking of occasions, I went to a lovely community reading last night, worth far more than my paltry $20 tab. Seriously, I thought to myself numerous times that this is what readings should be for. Passing around the good word, commiserating with fellow poets who likely feel as isolated and choked up by the drudgery of money-making as you do. It was a religious boost, almost. I'd forgotten how priestly it can feel to be a poet, even to call oneself such. One skirts the danger of clericalism just barely, but cannot bar oneself from the euphoria of pastoral authority.

This is the obvious allusion for the wife of a future pastor. D. is just starting his internship year, starting to encounter his responsibility more fully. Feed my sheep, so the man said. He recalled going into House of Hansen wearing the collar and being treated with such reverence, to the point of being called Father. (I'm convinced, by the way, that Protestants who wear the collar must take some evil glee in being confused with Catholic priests.) What a difference from the time we went in together, he in street clothes, to browse the pricey vestments and spin the prayer card racks; he was looking for an icon of Gregory the Great (his patron), I trying to make the Catholics nervous, making fun of tracts. Not a hello, how may I help you to be had. I'm always amazed (and slightly repulsed) at what a change of clothes can do for one's reception.

I hope to read in public soon. Perhaps I'll wear the collar. If you are lurking here, lovelies, and have a connection, drop my name like it's hot. I hope also to develop a poetics of something other than stagnation. No - strike that. I have wonderful friends who've given me all the various ass-kickings I need to keep my eyes fixed on my real work. Though, I must say, sometimes one needs to sit still on occasion, gather some moss.


Popular Posts