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Shaking hands with a poet
And the joy of doing, and not doing, things alone
I haven’t written in awhile. Busy? Out of practice? Friday (tomorrow!) is Halloween and I have four costumes still to make—I refuse to buy a thing. There are enough things in the world, especially plasticky, Halloweeny things.
Billy Collins says that one way of appreciating life without going through a windshield is to read poetry.
Last night, Mark sent me to a Billy Collins reading. Billy Collins the poet, of “The Country” and “The Lanyard”, who lives in Winter Park near where I live, was reading at Casa Feliz, a historic house renovated by the same guy who renovated our house. I remember when we reached out to our contractor after seeing pictures of Casa Feliz we couldn’t fathom he’d be interested in our small fries. But he was. He did a great job. (We lured him in with the history of our house having been built by Alan Shepherd’s grandparents; another story.)
The night’s reading was a birthday gift to me, and part of the gift was that I would go by myself. Not that I wanted to go by myself—I hate doing things by myself. Mark thought it would be good for me. He teased me…
