The Slam
To: ms_allthat@hotmail.com, loveisarose11@hotmail.com, dee_offner@hotmail.com, mystree_1@hotmail.com, lorelis@hotmail.com, decafi@hotmail.com, someone_new1@hotmail.com, RTMW62@cs.com, jae7244@hotmail.com, patty757@aol.com, _denae65@excite.com, charma@leaco.net, ip253406@ip.pt, ladyelan@angelfire.com, themissright@yahoo.com, oklahomalady@excite.com, chantellspring@hotmail.com, jcbinks@msn.com, sierra34@angelfire.com, lighthouse75@hotmail.com, ksotulsa@yahoo.com, darcysmail@yahoo.com, tlfie@groupz.net, poetinmotion@hotmail.com, chart13@excite.com, clavonec@excite.com
Subject: The Slam
Date: Fri, 01 Oct 1999 16:49:49 CDT
The Slam came off nicely. Was just this side of being terrified, but managed to stagger up to the open mike, next-to-the-last reader, and read two of my things. One called, "It Is Not The Streets Which Wear Us Down," written in Tulsa; and "Passing Through," written in Fayetteville.
Most of the poetry was of the, um, neo-beat variety, with a heavy emphasis on humor. The reader before me included a vision of Bukowski in his poem, and I asked him later if he could get a copy to me for Msallthat, Bukowski disciple extraordinaire.
Some was simple stringing together of polysyllabics, thinking that might somehow be poetry. And some was so jejune as to be hopeless. Nonetheless, much was of a level of quality quite a bit higher than that usually found in the Cafe, which doesn't, I suppose, say all that much. Heh heh.
Msallthat would have been lionized. I think some of Brianna's humorous verse would have found a receptive audience. For the next Slam, all the way to early November, I hope to have "The Parade" in better shape, as well as a poem I'm thinking to call, "O, Lawrence!"
Was up late, slept in, got a very late start on the day. Rode over to see if the lady had left the $100 for me (she had), then ran into a guy I used to work with. He has tons of experience, so he rode back over to the house I'm to paint and took a look at it. It's a job, he said. Lots of scraping. But a good deal for both of you.
Well, yes. And the cold is coming, so it behooves me to get on this thing. I look forward to it, though. It's the kind of work I like to do, it's physical, and there is a right and a wrong way to do it. I prefer the right way. The other is just so depressing.
Only got two letters from the Circle today. (Sigh.)
Poetry is God, I sometimes think. Or a characteristic, quality, of that numinous mysterious Power. A lady sang a song last night, singing of various religions, with the refrain being, "I think I'll let the Mystery be." Ahhhh, yes. And that is the loveliness to it: the Mystery. The old gospel song says, "We'll understand it...all by and by." Perhaps. But perhaps understanding is less fulfilling that the sheer trembling of the Mystery. I like being in the presence of my Higher Power.
I am back within the Mystery, the Magic. I'm sober, money in my pocket, a job to do tomorrow. Amazing, how I've not done a blessed thing and yet the work has come pouring in. And I have been taken care of all along the way.
I feel blessed to count you of the Circle as my friends, those who care about me. I love when you share the Mystery of your lives with me. I am touched and sometimes transformed. Amazing, what true intimacy and trust can do.
It is such an incredible thing simply to be alive, to be a conscious being in this miracle of a universe. I sometimes think about it, the odds against any of us being here, and yet we are all here. The creation surrounds us, the leafy branches sway up and down, the river runs, and all is as it should be. Amazing.
I remain warm, enveloped, taken care of, watched over, fed, nurtured, held by the Spirit, touched by your concern.
Poetry becomes more and more important to me. I am suddenly struck by how little I know, of the past nearly 30 years when I read virtually nothing, when I had utterly given up on any talent I might possess. And now, some of you prod me, push me, insist I must... write. Well....
It becomes more and more important.
I look ahead and can see but a short distance in front of me until the path meanders, bends, and I am at a loss to see what lies ahead. So much of this thing takes place within the matrix of...blind trust. I move ahead because I cannot stay still. Everything moves, one greek philosopher asserted. I think that's so.
If all goes according to plan, I will go out to Nancy's farm tonight, spend the night in the Pullman Dining Car, then work on the front deck Saturday and Sunday. So I will not have a chance to write until Sunday evening at the earliest.
Write me.
Make my day.
Envelop me with your words.
Thus, I grow, heal.
Luvya's.
Dickens
