A poet called me gracious and held out an arm as though to place a hand on my shoulder as I slipped out the cafe and into the back of the bookshop. I spent the evening perched alone at the back of the back courtyard peering through palm leaves to catch glimpses of the poets as they read. I was there with my work hat on, I walked across the bottom of Redfern and Chippendale both trailing and pushing weariness, not worried to arrive on time. A colleague came and went before things got started leaving me stranded next to a man with Berlin hair fascinated by a Danish woman on the other side of him. Too tired to feel any discomfort at being so glaringly alone amongst the tight knit groups of old faithfuls I stretched out my legs and let people clamber over them as the need arose. I was prepared for boredom and the increasing awareness of the hard seat of my chair, I was not prepared for the opening address to be the answer to all my problems.
On Sunday, after my adventure to the Olympia milkbar on Parramatta Rd I walked through the front door and decided, in an instant, to give up writing, forever. This is a decision I have been very happy with every second, every half second, every waking blink, since I threw down my pen and declared the war over. But that was before I heard what Judith Beveridge had to say about the courage of the writer and I thought yes. What courage we need and I knew as soon as I thought 'we' that it was nothing but a dream to give up writing. It is a necessary torture.
There were dire moments at the open mic and two moments of bliss. The first was a man, tallish and ordinary with matching beanie and jumper making a hesitant start. He softly asked me to follow his words into violent understanding. The second a beautifully graceful elderly woman in a turquoise overcoat and round brimmed hat. Her deliberate words had grace and depth and when she finished I realised I wasn't breathing and I was almost overcome by the sublime ache of grief and love. Fucking poets.
On Sunday, after my adventure to the Olympia milkbar on Parramatta Rd I walked through the front door and decided, in an instant, to give up writing, forever. This is a decision I have been very happy with every second, every half second, every waking blink, since I threw down my pen and declared the war over. But that was before I heard what Judith Beveridge had to say about the courage of the writer and I thought yes. What courage we need and I knew as soon as I thought 'we' that it was nothing but a dream to give up writing. It is a necessary torture.
There were dire moments at the open mic and two moments of bliss. The first was a man, tallish and ordinary with matching beanie and jumper making a hesitant start. He softly asked me to follow his words into violent understanding. The second a beautifully graceful elderly woman in a turquoise overcoat and round brimmed hat. Her deliberate words had grace and depth and when she finished I realised I wasn't breathing and I was almost overcome by the sublime ache of grief and love. Fucking poets.
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Rups :)
;) Rups