The Somerville News Writers Festival, hosted by Timothy Gager:

Nov. 14, 2009  7PM.

I’ll be at the Ibbetson Street Press table from 2-4 for the:

Book fair,  11:00-4:30

[T directions:  Take the #88 bus to Highland and Benton--starting from Davis Square on the Red Line or Lechmere Station on the Green Line]

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The $250.00 pricetag is more than reasonable for these celebrated workshops.  I have no affiliation with the workshops other than Tom is both a swell guy and one heck of  a poet, so don’t worry that I’m trying to line my coffers.  Simply put, past workshoppers rave about how he has helped their work, and this poet would be signing up if she had worked in the past 6 months (yikes, this economy is killing art!).  I just noticed an old e-mail with the November 1 deadline–and felt a need to post this.  Check out the site  for more info.

Kudos to the organizers of that huge three-day event.  Man, that was fun!!   Great audience  at B&N!   Thank you to the readers who bought my book.  Big thank you and apology to the would-be listeners who missed me because of the time change and took the time to come tell me they were disappointed.  It really means a lot.   I was sooooo nervous.  Mark, my friend, you rock!!

I’ll be back with a list of cool publishers, etc. I met at the Small Press Book Fair.

After:  (October)

59 to 0   –In Boston lingo, that’s fifty-freakin’-nine to zeeerohhh!  In the gorgeous snow.  Well, damn, those guys know how to make an old New England girl’s heart go pitter-pat.

Before:  (September)

I won’t go into details of how excruciating today’s Patriots game was.  It’s okay Tom.  I mean, I’m totally ticked off that the game was boooo-ring.  And we lost.  But I forgive you.  Don’t let it happen again.

Monday night, the Patriots.  Come from wayyyy behind win!  Last night, the Red Sox.  Classic rally to win 4-1.  Welcome back Matsuzaka!  This is the time of year that makes me love New England living:  the trees’ leaves revert to their natural glory, and my favorite athletes show their true colors.

I was all ready to say, “The media is blowing things out of proportion again!” but that was unnecessary, Kanye.  Truthful, but not necessary.  She’s 19.  It makes sense that we’re just not that into her, but let the girl enjoy her moment.  Call her.  Twitter.  Something.  But apologize already!

[Update:  He did apologize the evening this was written.  I think he's right to deduce that he seriously needs a vacation.]

Whew!  Haven’t worked at all in maybe 4 months, thanks to letting a few things slide by due to an offer to run a summer writing workshop (never panned out, no reason given); haven’t had a nice, steady day job in over a year; and my copyediting gig just fell through.  Lovely!  

But someone called me to say, “Thanks for the poetry book.  Loved it!”  …and I spent the summer nearly finishing Draft 1 of my first major effort at fiction–the novella that will complete the multi-genre trilogy started more than 10 years ago.  

So I spent the summer wondering why people think it’s okay to be so casual regarding other folks’ livelihoods–and being grateful that I’m a writer.  Would’ve lost my mind this miserable jobless year without poetry and its fans and a handful of writers who make me proud to say I spent the latest Great Depression avoiding the negativity of silly social scenes…and writing.

An ardent American sports fan, I believe in 3 strikes, you’re out.  So I published a thrice-rejected poem via the new Instant Publish feature on Bostonpoet.com.  Check it out for yourself, and publish away!  It made me feel like Big Papi smacking hell out of a ball for a three-run homer with 2 outs, 2 on this afternoon.  Sweet!

Some people” de-friended” me for joining a Michael Jackson memorial club and for being sick and tired of the racist and homophobic jokes that unfortunately did not die with him. Now a friend of mine has been ganged-up on for being a White person who disagrees with the “playing the race card” talk swirling around the whirlpool of ugly damned old fashioned racially-abusive police brutality muck and mire following Professor Gates’ arrest in his Cambridge home. Here in my home state. I mentioned to a friend this afternoon that despite being as non-thuggish as they come, I still felt compelled to cross the street in Boston today because the transit police were hanging around outside of a T station I was passing, and I didn’t want any problems. That is not an unusual feeling/action for me.

I once called Somerville police at around 2am because my roommate’s girlfriend physically attacked me after I asked (them) to stop making noise outside of my room when there were three other rooms they could drink in. The actual attack came after she followed me to the bathroom and stood kicking the door while I used the facilities. The police showed up, separated us three for questioning (the roommate and his girlfriend taken together to be questioned, mind you, not just the non-roommate who attacked me in my own home); then they refused to write a report and told me I had to go to the station the next day to do so (“It’s only a misdemeanor.”) They left, leaving the attacker who didn’t live there to sit around getting drunker. This was after months of racist monkey cartoons quoting me and verbal threats about how I’d better get in line like the two other (non-Black) female roommates. I was labeled all kinds of freaky for not cowering in my room from the bullies like the others. This is a prime example of two major bigotries that persist in this country: women who disobey male authority are not natural; Black people who stick up for ourselves are uppity.

Can you imagine if I’d attacked a White woman in her house in a drunken rage that I would have been anything other than cuffed and hauled off? If so, you are seriously naive about the relationship between White cops and Black citizens at least in Greater Boston, if not the US in general. Somerville is one town over from Cambridge. I’ve stopped going to several writers’ groups over the past few years because of the racially-abusive hostility that persists. When I’ve spoken up about it in a subtle or direct manner, I’ve been confronted with increased hostility or implied assertions that I am jealous of the hateful White women who routinely verbally assault me with their violently racist beliefs. Or someone figuratively spits in my face with belittling comments such as “race shouldn’t matter” etc.

To the racially clueless: This is America. “Race shouldn’t/doesn’t matter” is offensive and stupid. It loosely translates to us “paranoid” Black people as: Racism doesn’t matter to me because I am a bigger person than you, more civilized, mature, more refined…. Don’t mention it around me, or I will be forced to cut you off mid-sentence to defend racist White people I’ve never even met. You do not matter. Kindly shut up or go away. The ignorance of [racially-insensitive White] people about that which we have to deal with just to go where they go or do what they do is vast. Grow up. Get a clue. We are not imagining or exaggerating!

There’s not much a poet who’s loved him since she was six can do with this one, the death of Michael Jackson. Maybe because the visuals of him far outweigh any words, positive or negative, that could be or have been written about the most electrifying American dancer ever to glide or moonwalk a stage. The blank journal pages just stare back at me.

The mainstream society that creates both social freaks and idols then destroys them can continue to say whatever it will about the personal trials of the entertainer, but the work he leaves behind is the true measure of an artist’s life. I’m glad that my own artistic talent fails to capture the devastation of losing that little boy who appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was six, the one-gloved wonder who incorporated the sleekest classic dance moves and the sexiest city hip grinds into his unique style, and the guy who made white socks, loafers, and high waters look Bad! Words failing, I turned to youtube to watch him dance, hear his primal yell and jangling boots…and remember the first time I fell in love with a musician.

Now who’s bad?