06.29.04

I spent an hour last evening on the air on KBOO, knitting and yapping about poetry, bar culture, Native Americans and assorted other stuff.

Right off the bat the moderator identified me as a groupie of the Subterranean Beat poetry thing. He got corrected immediately, by Trevino and me.

Harrumph.

It was fun though. Now I've got to get off my ass and try to get my latest chapbook into Powell's bookstore.

Mater listened to the broadcast. She thought I should have done some other (read: non-sexual) poems. *sigh* Then this morning, she tells me that she and Gran'mater are worried that I don't have something practical to fall back on.

It's that sort of talk that stopped me from concentrating on writing 20 years ago. I understand that it's motivated by love and concern, but it's also manipulative and deadening. What's life without mistakes, triumphs, scary times and real, ovaries to the wall, risks? It's a sit-com. *bleargh!*

Here's a concept; I've done the practical thing. I've been married, owned real estate, worked a nice, stable, safe job for a decade...everything I'm SUPPOSED to do. All I got was depressed, divorced and disillusioned. Maybe it's time to do what I'm not supposed to do.

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