Some Prose

     Still not a single comment about Notes from Oblivion. Perhaps that is a good thing. Anyway, since the beginning of my self-publishing journey I have been writing a chronicle of the experience. It is now over 43,000 words and here is a recent excerpt:

November 6, 2023
I feel I should put up a blog post to indicate, at least to myself, that I am alive. I have posted the herbed cream cheese canape poem and photo. In a few days, I will announce the creation of The Birds of Courtenay. Speaking of which, I believe I have perfected it. I think this is a really great poem and am considering debuting at a "Reading Night" hosted by the Puntledge River Writers Clique on the 26th. This is how I envision it:

Reading Night at the Library

     This was my first attendance at the Reading Night, and I was not sure if I would be participating; perhaps there was a scheduled list of speakers. As it was from 6-8 pm, two hours, I felt that it might also be a free-for-all. So I brought my new poem, The Birds of Courtenay. The event was at the local library and I arrived ten minutes early. There were already about 25-30 people gathered, mostly what you’d expect, and they all seemed to know each other. They were arranged in a loose semicircle facing a modest podium with a microphone. When the readings began the lights were dimmed and a soft spotlight illuminated the speaker. The MC informed us that they would begin with regular participants and then anyone present who had something could read it. I quickly discovered that many of these people are seriously demented. They would orate something unfathomable, often gesturing, the audience listening rapturously, and then return humbly to their place, beside themselves. After about an hour it was open mic. I should note that it was not just “poetry” that was recited but also vacuous mutterings with no narrative structure. As I am totally shy, I did not immediately raise my hand. When it seemed that most who wanted to contribute had, I did. I have a morbid fear of attention but an even greater desire for it. As I approached the podium I became aware of an atmosphere of apprehension, if not suspicion. I began by saying that this is a little poem about birds I had written recently and a few people chuckled. I had just finished the second stanza

Geese also pause on their migration,
respite from a flight so daunting
As they pass by in vee formation
I always wonder what they’re honking

when some guy shouted, “That’s bullshit, man! You can’t rhyme daunting with honking!”. I could see he was about thirty, had light curly hair, a beard, and glasses. There were murmurs and someone cleared their throat. I looked at him and said, “Who the fuck are you?”. Immediately there was a brouhaha. While the goof was stunned into silence, everybody else began expressing their displeasure: “Who are you?”, “He’s not a member!”, “Oh my God”, “Why?”, and several of them actually began honking. The MC, a featureless woman in deck shoes, khaki slacks, and an aboriginal sweater, approached me and said, “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The hubbub subsided. I looked her in the face, looked at the critic, who seemed to be frothing at the mouth, and then walked out of the library, fractured and at the same time exhilarated.

Or something like that.