Wole Soyinka has this quote, “The tiger does not sing his tigritude.” But, I think that if the tiger entered a world of leopards, he probably would. — Mara Jebsen
Apropos of nothing, I just love how Mara’s mind works and her writing is second-to-none.
This weekend was…tiring and counterproductive. Short, aimless getaways just don’t work with kids this young. India throwing up in the car Friday night just as we had pulled into the Pathmark parking lot to go grocery shopping was a sign to cancel the whole trip and stay home. We didn’t, of course, and the three-day weekend peaked on Sunday morning when we all slept in until 10am.
Saturday night in Worcester was more fun than expected as the kids had a blast once they warmed up and so did we once we did the same. Sou and Bill are wonderful hosts and their son Liberty is an adorable ball of energy. Motherhood’s treated Dawn very well and her son Henry is a charmer. Morris – bearing Magic Hat #9 – showed up near the end of the night and looked as healthy and happy as I’ve ever seen him. I daresay he’s officially become an adult, though completely on his own terms! Morris aside, it was a little weird hanging out with people I know more via email and specifically via the slam scene I’ve more or less walked away from, but the common bond of parenthood is an amazing thing for breaking the ice. Until Morris arrived, there was little talk of slam at all and when there was, it was an interesting discussion of what’s next as opposed to the usual rehashed gripes about what sucks. Bill’s idea, while unlikely to appeal to the hardcore competitors, is an amazingly simple angle on using the slam to build community while still entertaining the audience. Established separate from PSI – using more of a network or association angle, a la the National Bed & Breakfast Association, perhaps? – it would be a tempting opportunity to start up a new reading.
Speaking of B&Bs, the State House Inn was undeniably the most beautiful accomodations we’ve stayed in yet. Stunning, really. Sadly, it was run more like a hotel than a B&B, feeling extremely sterile and leaving us unlikely to return. Not serving breakfast in the room was a definite negative, especially with two antsy kids. The Barnaby Inn has spoiled us, I guess.
Providence is a beautiful city, easily one of my favorites, and if it weren’t quite so white – ethnically and meteorologically – it would be a tempting place to relocate. Did a lot of driving around on Sunday, looking at houses and exploring neighborhoods we hadn’t seen before. Drove south on Route 1 through Cranston and Warwick down to Wyckford and back. Ridiculously big houses are the norm and serve as an indicator of the kind of neighborhood as some are single-family homes, others carved into two- and three-family apartments. Funny enough, the latter two usually house apartments larger than most here in the city, likely for half the price.
Came home yesterday exhausted and dispirited, looking forward to a relaxing day at work and anticipating my mother’s arrival this weekend, her first long-term visit with us…ever! Much cleaning to be done. Sifted through tons of spam to find an interesting email re: my comments on Vernon Ketcher last week. He was the 82-year-old with the .17 blood alcohol level and two prior arrests for drunken driving that plowed into a minivan carrying a group of teenage soccer players, killing two of them and himself. An apparent friend of the family wrote me to express their displeasure at my comments, noting: “I hope that his grandchildren don’t type his name in google one day and find your comments because they are as innocent as the children that died.” I was a little torn at first, acknowledging their valid point but not convinced that it should temper what I wrote in that moment of anger and disgust. If anything, I would hope that those grandchildren would realize the enormity of their grandfather’s actions and be equally angered and disgusted by them. While my comments may have been harsh, the offense they may cause doesn’t hold a candle to the far-reaching ripples of Ketcher’s selfish actions, both to the families of the teenagers he killed as well as to his own family.
Tonight: Acentos. If that doesn’t improve my mood in relation to poetry and “the scene,” I may go back underground for good!
