Right Now

I am taking a break from grading my students papers; an essay assignment where they were asked to document the progression or non-progression of a disenfranchised group in a particular medium, for example, African-Americans in cinema or Latinos in television. For the most part, my students have done the assignment correctly, only one will have to redo. Way off base unfortunately. I will give the writer a second chance. Yes, I refer to my students as writers, because they will write, and, for at least four hours each week, behave as writers do.

The Dramatics "In The Rain" is on the ipod shuffle, and though the clouds have yet to go berserk tonight, my front door is open and I can see my neighbor and his affiliates through the screen door walking back and forth to the car parked out front. They are preparing for a drag show, each in their own unique costumes; one looks amazingly like a woman; loading miscelaneous items. They are in the entertainment biz as I am into the po-biz. My neighbor tells me that he and his homies write skits, perform them, and broadcast their show through a podcast; one of the actor, he says, does an amazing Sarah Palin. I bet he does. I haven't yet asked him what the name of the podcast is, but I think it would be interesting to listen.

Earlier, I met with a few other poets; as we are interested in working as a collective. We met at Margaret Hudsons barn; moved around the space in our socks, on the wood floor, surrounded by piano, a drum kit, and a myriad of percussion instruments. Writing and trust exercises. It was a productive night. If you haven't been to Margaret's barn, it's part of a communal space of approximately three or four houses. You have to cut through her backyard, amidst shrubs, bushes, wild weeds, etc. Very earthy landscape. The problem, however, lies in the fact that at night it is completely dark and without a flashlight, it's almost impossible to get back to the front of the house. So, the lot of us, formed a train---right hand on each shoulder, (we're all men mind you) and we slowly made our way through the fig garden night. It was a productive evening, yet I wonder if we were as productive as my neighbor and his drag show friends. To be honest, we were bumbling through the dark like the Three Stooges; they got their shit together.


Peace,


Michael


On the ipod shuffle as I conclude tonight; "Where Was You At" by War.