incredibly dorky: almost unutterably so.
Everything since I’ve been here last has been incredibly dorky: almost unutterably so. I haven't stopped being dorky since I last posted here...
On Thursday evening Jason and I went to dinner at the Holy Frijoles. We ordered food at the bar, anticipating a “Blogger Happy Hour” that was about to happen around us. We thought that we could just sort of observe this bizarre event for a while, while we ate.
Thinking: “What is it like to meet strangers on the Internet who keep journals who are interested in meeting other people with Internet journals? There is this desperately geeky part of myself that keeps me writing, these people must be desperately geeky. They must be unbearable people.”
Two minutes later I found out that that isn’t true. Jason and I were recognized for the first time because of our blogs. A finger pointed at me and announced, “Live in love” as a statement or title crowning my face. There was a lot of nodding all around, more margaritas, and more nodding. People stopping you before you’ve finished your sentence: “Oh yeah, I’ve read that, I think. Oh yeah.” And apparently I have at least one fan, I don’t think I’ve ever had a fan before.
It is strange to meet people on this premise. But, somehow pleasing: it’s nice to know that other people seem to manage being geeky the way that I am but don’t seem to be an unbearable people at all. I guess there is some hope for me after all.
I have to remember to link all of them down the side of my page. Remind me, okay?
Virginia, her new beau (Can I say that to the Internet? Is it official? I guess it is now. Oops.)Well those two and Jason and I rushed back to my apartment after the happy hour to see the debates. I was really proud of a few political stabs I made at Bush mystery science theater style. (I told you, it just keeps getting worse and worse.)
Friday, I took off from work, checked all of the Baltimore blogs to see who wrote about me, went grocery shopping for the camping trip. I was proud that I paid 2 dollars more for a jug of wine that seemed fancier than what I would usually get. This was a special occasion.
It took me four hours to arrive in Somerville, NJ at Duke Farms. I arrived in time to get a quick salad for dinner and meet up with two friends of mine from college in the main tent at the Dodge Poetry Festival. It rained the day before and the ground was wet and muddy and covered with hay. I saw my two writer friends saunter up with muddy boots from too far away to wave to. I watched their bodies and faces change from completely blurry to more and more clear until we walked inside arm in arm. We saw a few poetry readings before it was time to go back to the campsite.
Through out the weekend we participated in lectures and readings for three full days. At the end of each night, we’d return to the campsite, and my brain would be so tired of trying to pretend that it is actually capable of processing all of this haughty vocabulary. Maybe we all felt that way. The girls and I threw handfuls of my rough drafts of charts from the recycling box I usually keep under my desk at work. We watched in awed silence as PowerPoint presentations and Excel documents curled and bloomed in the flames. It felt really good to burn my paper work. It felt really good to be there with these two writers I loved to hear from these 50 writers I loved.
I found a new woman I like a lot: Sherry Fairchok. Afterwards I was so casual when I approached her, like I verbally punched her lightly in the arm, like I almost said “old buddy.” She had soft fingers like mine that shook around her newly published book and her voice shook so terribly when she read, I was worried she would faint. She had to read during the same session as some terrible poet who used cowbells and tambourines. I felt like I was sending her telepathic messages from the back row: “no, you don’t sound like he did, please don’t be afraid, I’m rooting for you.” Do I think she heard me? no, I don't really believe in that crap, but I really was rooting for her and think I will continue to do so.
Apparently 25,000 people attended the event, in total, and it was a huge success. When I got home I was pleased to find a place for all of the half eaten bags of potato chips and to make a hot bath. I fell asleep on the couch with one of my new books in my hand and a little bit more drive and enthusiasm for writing in my belly.
Everything since I’ve been here last has been incredibly dorky: almost unutterably so. I haven't stopped being dorky since I last posted here...
On Thursday evening Jason and I went to dinner at the Holy Frijoles. We ordered food at the bar, anticipating a “Blogger Happy Hour” that was about to happen around us. We thought that we could just sort of observe this bizarre event for a while, while we ate.
Thinking: “What is it like to meet strangers on the Internet who keep journals who are interested in meeting other people with Internet journals? There is this desperately geeky part of myself that keeps me writing, these people must be desperately geeky. They must be unbearable people.”
Two minutes later I found out that that isn’t true. Jason and I were recognized for the first time because of our blogs. A finger pointed at me and announced, “Live in love” as a statement or title crowning my face. There was a lot of nodding all around, more margaritas, and more nodding. People stopping you before you’ve finished your sentence: “Oh yeah, I’ve read that, I think. Oh yeah.” And apparently I have at least one fan, I don’t think I’ve ever had a fan before.
It is strange to meet people on this premise. But, somehow pleasing: it’s nice to know that other people seem to manage being geeky the way that I am but don’t seem to be an unbearable people at all. I guess there is some hope for me after all.
I have to remember to link all of them down the side of my page. Remind me, okay?
Virginia, her new beau (Can I say that to the Internet? Is it official? I guess it is now. Oops.)Well those two and Jason and I rushed back to my apartment after the happy hour to see the debates. I was really proud of a few political stabs I made at Bush mystery science theater style. (I told you, it just keeps getting worse and worse.)
Friday, I took off from work, checked all of the Baltimore blogs to see who wrote about me, went grocery shopping for the camping trip. I was proud that I paid 2 dollars more for a jug of wine that seemed fancier than what I would usually get. This was a special occasion.
It took me four hours to arrive in Somerville, NJ at Duke Farms. I arrived in time to get a quick salad for dinner and meet up with two friends of mine from college in the main tent at the Dodge Poetry Festival. It rained the day before and the ground was wet and muddy and covered with hay. I saw my two writer friends saunter up with muddy boots from too far away to wave to. I watched their bodies and faces change from completely blurry to more and more clear until we walked inside arm in arm. We saw a few poetry readings before it was time to go back to the campsite.
Through out the weekend we participated in lectures and readings for three full days. At the end of each night, we’d return to the campsite, and my brain would be so tired of trying to pretend that it is actually capable of processing all of this haughty vocabulary. Maybe we all felt that way. The girls and I threw handfuls of my rough drafts of charts from the recycling box I usually keep under my desk at work. We watched in awed silence as PowerPoint presentations and Excel documents curled and bloomed in the flames. It felt really good to burn my paper work. It felt really good to be there with these two writers I loved to hear from these 50 writers I loved.
I found a new woman I like a lot: Sherry Fairchok. Afterwards I was so casual when I approached her, like I verbally punched her lightly in the arm, like I almost said “old buddy.” She had soft fingers like mine that shook around her newly published book and her voice shook so terribly when she read, I was worried she would faint. She had to read during the same session as some terrible poet who used cowbells and tambourines. I felt like I was sending her telepathic messages from the back row: “no, you don’t sound like he did, please don’t be afraid, I’m rooting for you.” Do I think she heard me? no, I don't really believe in that crap, but I really was rooting for her and think I will continue to do so.
Apparently 25,000 people attended the event, in total, and it was a huge success. When I got home I was pleased to find a place for all of the half eaten bags of potato chips and to make a hot bath. I fell asleep on the couch with one of my new books in my hand and a little bit more drive and enthusiasm for writing in my belly.
posted by j-e-s-s-i-c-a at 11:55 AM
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