Yesterday I went into the nearest metropolis to
buy books meet with the poet I’m doing a panel with in a few weeks. I fell pretty easily into the old rhythms, letting my subconscious remember which direction to go in when I got off the various trains, buying train tickets and crossing streets. The old habits have not been entirely erased by my easy living north of the metropolis.
I was happy to melt into the crowds, and go to a neighborhood where I spent a lot of time during my grad school days. I went to my favorite notebook-obsessing shop, as well as one of my favorite bookstores. I bought two Martha Collins poetry books. In White Papers she addresses white privilege, and one of my minor poet projects is finding white people who talk honestly about race. I’m hoping for the best.
Met BFF for a quick coffee on her way home from work. Met new poet friend and we talked and talked and talked. It was great. Then I came home and was glad to be back in my neck of the woods. I’ve lived up here for ten years, and in this frozen, fried chicken wasteland for fifteen. My own history is being written in this place.
What surprises you?