I guess I was a little bottled up … randoms

Tuesday, I went to see Andrea Gibson at a small gallery in downtown Phoenix. The building was brick painted over white and old i.e. NO AIR CONDITIONING and for the love it’s still over 100 degrees here. Fall FAll FALL fall fall fallllll falllll falfllfalfallfalafallllll if I say the mantra enough will it come? I’m used to it, I suppose. This morning I walked to get coffee and I’m wearing thicker linen pants rolled up a bit, my brown poet boots and a jean button up … rolled up a bit too and would you believe it, after 5 blocks, I wasn’t even pitting my shirt out. Hey! That’s progress! So. Yes. Andrea Gibson. The gallery was hot, swarmy, hot hot with 1960s ac units blowing in 2 directions that were not at me. But damn, she was worth it. Any poet who can make a living touring their poems is pretty damn amazing. I’ve posted some of her videos here before, but here’s a new one

“Ashes” by Andrea Gibson featuring Chris Pureka from Look Sessions on Vimeo.

She explained that she wrote this poem after hearing a story about a soldier who was set on fire and burned alive because he was gay and after hearing one story, she kept hearing more stories, this wasn’t just an isolated incident. What would those people say now if they could speak? And that’s where this poem came from.

If she’s in a city close to you, check her out. Long Beach tonight, Vegas and then LA again and then east and south and all over.
I’m glad I’m in a place where Poets come (not sure why I capitalized that … because they are important. Because they matter). I want my new poems to be something more, something beautiful. If I can keep going and keep pushing through the day job and syphon creativity to both because they both need so much, I’ll be OK. The good thing is my heart is rarely empty – open my eyes, there’s always something to pluck from the world. Always. It’s why I don’t believe in writer’s block. I think writer’s block is blindness, not engaging, being stuck in a room with white walls, no sounds and a closed chest.

Last night, Pat wanted comfort food, so we went South. Fried chicken and waffles OMG, yes. And bottles of beer stuck in paper bags so we wouldn’t offend the innocents. We started talking about work and a few months ago I got promoted to Designer III (I don’t know if I ever said that here?) But it’s the highest designer before management. I got one of the best reviews in the whole studio and I’m damn proud of it, but I told Pat I think my boss likes my work because it’s unexpected. My boss once said I see things no one else can see: colors, shapes and it’s always a surprise. You make my life a surprise, Pat said. In a good way. You’re unexpected. The apartment, that’s all you, you’ve colored our lives.

I realized I haven’t been on a river trip this year. Did I say that already here? I’m all over lately, which makes me think those river trips, the one week of disconnect is so important for me. My mom and step-dad have just set off on a 21 day trip down the Grand Canyon. AGAIN. and I wish to God, I could be on that boat, on that water, but I’m going to Texas this weekend to see my best friend in the whole world and I get to come home to love. It doesn’t get much better.

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