and the week before, it occurred to me I’d better start practicing reading my poems.
The night before, it occurred to me I’d really better start practicing reading my poems.
At that particular moment of panic, the neighbor and my husband were having a Wine Night in the kitchen. HI, I said, I’M GOING TO READ YOU EMERGENCY PRACTICE POEMS RIGHT NOW.
“Is that OK?” I said, after the first one.
“Yeah!” said the neighbor, whose ideal universe is one in which, apparently, people lie naked in bed and read poems to each other [no one was naked/we were in the kitchen; also yes, we have interesting neighbors.]
“No,” said my husband, “that’s too much. Let the words speak for themselves.”
And so the Great Inflection War began.
I sent out an email to a handful of friends and family who have various stakes in all things aesthetic. It went as follows: