Irreverent 2009 & 2010 Years in Review

Cherished Friends and Family,

I have heard your despondent cries from the desert of my correspondence . . . your gnashing of teeth . . . the flickering torchlight at the breach of

my drawbridge. Behold! I give you the 2009 and 2010 year in review.

Be warned . . . what appears to be another innocent Christmas brag sheet may impart fretful tales of isolation and disaster upon eyes that were prepared only for yuletide tedium of how Brittany and Dakota received good marks and will be summering at Camp Punky Brewster. Nay! You will receive nothing of this sort from me. My epistle is the electric pig poker of Christmas narrations in a quagmire of bland and listless holiday tripe. It has a body count and Excel spreadsheets! Brace yourself as I recount my tale of daring Drew!

Why no Christmas letter in 2009? Overwhelmed by events, I realized that my best material was already posted on my blog: http://drewskidoo.blogspot.com/ Why should I kill myself to reproduce all the knee-slapping joy I provide year round? I turned my focus to the teetering apocalypse of my publishing empire and quickly realized I’d made a huge mistake: Most poetry contests and reviewers use copyright date to distinguish contest year eligibility. By publishing in December 2008, I was requiring myself, without knowing it, to enter every possible poetry competition in the 31 days of December.

To add insult to self-injury, I instead focused on hosting my cousin Jenny and her son Justin for Christmas. By January 1, 2009 I was disqualified from most contests. Doh! If I’d only put 2009 on the book, I would have had a full year to enter the book into competitions. There was nothing to be done, as it was impossible to reprint the book.

I consoled myself with a rollicking urban adventure with Karen and Susan Miles in snowy Chicago. We laughed for days, and ate like kings (Chicago without a doubt has the best food in the United States). Special guest stars included cousin Robyn Williams and Hyperion colleagues Emily and Will. Weeks later, I sprang to Minneapolis to visit friends Lois Ottmar, and the Baker family. Though a drive-by Drew-ting, a good time was had by all.

In May 2009, friend Jacqui Cintron took me to Peru in another flagrant attempt to kill me. Though I regularly demonstrate she’s not in my will, she persists (She must be doing it for the sport). The complete deposition is on the blog, and is hilarious, if I do say so myself. Best memories include projectile vomiting on UNESCO world heritage sites, wheezing my way up the Inca Trail, dodging an Indian riot / train blockade, and surviving a demolition derby ride in the Amazon rain forest at night. In short, the Lojack in my underwear totally paid for itself in the end.

Pilgrimages to my hometown of Ormond Beach, Florida proved time there stood still. Nothing in Alfie’s beachside café had changed since 1983 (especially the ground beef)! My friends and I sat in the mauve booth by the door, listening to Journey Musak and reminiscing about high school. I realized I’d stopped “Belivin’.” The graduating class of 1984 had their 25th reunion in August 2009 . . . lemon juice in the paper cut of growing old. I guess it beats the alternative . . . yes, working at Alfie’s.

Finally! . . . in September 2009, the Florida Publishers Association awarded EAST OF POURING the gold medal for poetry during the FPA 2009 President’s Book Awards. A speckle of recognition and positive reinforcement! I milked that sucker like Elsie the cow!

I attended the beautiful October wedding of friends Charlotte and Dwayne McDuffie, and passed that autumn weekend with Joy and Dave Borresen in Nashua, New Hampshire.

I spent Thanksgiving in North Carolina with Dad, and wrote the Thanksgiving poem read by my family before the meal. I noted how far I’d come: from prodigal son studying art at my own peril to someone whose words were welcomed at my father’s table.

Then wham-bam 2009 was over. That was it. That is what you missed last year, and what you have finally ripped from my bosom you clinging voyeurs! Are you Happy?! I thought as much. I supposed you want a complete report on 2010 now . . . will you never be satisfied? . . .

In January, 2010 I attended the Key West Literary Seminar and Workshop. The Seminar was a cavalcade of America’s most famous poets, followed by workshops with several of them. The fellowship between poets from every walk of life and geographical region was intense.

Newly inspired, in April I went ballistic for National Poetry Month in downtown Orlando. I convinced famed poet Carol Frost to grant permission to display a poem on the side of the Orange County Public Library, and even got my ode to city zoning bureaucrats stenciled on all the streetlights so that low flying airplanes could read my magnum opus!

I conducted a Poetry Garden at Leu Botanical Gardens and arranged for International Academy of Design and Technology students to interpret my poetry as art installations in vacant downtown shop windows. It was a huge success (costing me thousands of dollars), but by the power of castle greyskull, I had finally gotten something accomplished.

After that, I had the summer from hell: June 9th a pipe burst in my house and flooded the master bath and bedroom. I spent two weeks in a sleep deprivation exercise (with Servpro machines blowing the smithereens out of the walls and floors). The day after they packed that crap up, at the other end of the house another pipe burst and flooded the guest rooms and garage! Naturally, you have to wash both ends of the house!

Simultaneously, my phone was broken . . . so every time I tried to call anyone (plumber, water reclamation, etc) I had to align the phone with the third house of Venus rising and stand on one foot (typically in a pool of rapidly rising water!).

To make things EASIER on me, my mother proceeded with knee-replacement surgery . . . obligating me to drive to her house and feed and walk her dog twice a day! Another session of sleep deprivation; second verse same as the first. But wait, there's more!

To avoid further floods, I re-piped the house, knocking holes in 39 walls and fishing modern hose to all fixtures. $4000 dollars later, I had a Swiss house (full of holes) and no vacation money. The summer has ended with dry-wall repairs, a new water heater, $3600 in car repairs, and my father having emergency quintuple by-pass heart surgery.

Luckily for my father, my experience re-plumbing my house completely prepared me to advise his cardiac surgeon . . . and goes a long way to explaining why he has a vessel sink permanently installed on his superior mesenteric artery. As you can imagine, quintuple by-pass patients think they are the center of the universe. Give me *my* medicine. Take me to *my* doctor. I think *I’m* having a heart attack. Help *me-me-me.* Blah, blah, blah. I mean really. Scoot over on that gurney and make room, my feet are killing me! And buzz me up some hotcakes from room service while your at it, and I’ll show you what a massive coronary really looks like you bunch of fakers.

To make things EVEN EASIER on myself, I refinanced the house, installed new wood flooring and had the interior repainted (of my house, not my father). During the course of these events the painter did a full body slam on the glass coffee table (without injury to himself suspiciously) and my mother broke and entered my house (literally broke the storm door) to exact her washer and dryer replacement ring (though she had a key to the back door).

The house, now decorated for Christmas, feels new (mostly in the wallet). If I can just get the bathroom lights up and the garage window repaired . . . I might swing a little holiday spirit in 2010.

And to make things ESPECIALLY SUPER EASY and y'know, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY EASY on myself: Simultaneous to all of this home reclamation crap - I forced Orange County Florida to pass a human rights ordinance that included sexual orientation and gender identity against the Mayor's will. Wow, You say. Seriously! Say it! WOW!

All I did was spam the county until the cows came home. The real credit goes to my peeps in OADO (Orlando Anti-discrimination Ordinance Committee) who make magic happen just by being the great and wonderful people that they are. If you want to meet some rocking good people . . . come join our organization! I love you OADO! I tOADOlly dOADO!

I hope this season finds you and yours happy, healthy, wealthy and wise. I’ve made it through a very difficult year. Let’s prepare for the blessings and good luck of 2011. All my love and warmest wishes!

Christmas Card Prototype 1

I feel a little sheepish sending this to you all, but I love a good kid:

Brand I am

Well, it's official. I am a Web site (in addition to this silly blog). Check my fine seff out at:

http://web.me.com/drew_weinbrenner/William_Drew_Weinbrenner/Home.html

Yes, the next best thing to compulsively goggling ones self is to of course, build a Web site branded on ones work. I admit it. I am vain. That song is about me.

This is all in response to the relentless pressure to go legit. To provide an experience for those who look. I'm desperate for feedback . . . so let me know what you think!

Winter with the Writers

For the last two weeks I've enjoyed Rollins College's Winter with the Writers.

Last week Andrea Barrett read from her collections of prose inspired by the age of science. The characters are so fully and organically presented against the milieu of 19th century and early 20th century scientific discussion . . . that you forget the content is fiction. Amazing! And Ms. Barrett is both a gracious reader, author (signing many books generously), and guest. It was a pleasure to meet her, however briefly . . . and I highly recommend her books: Ship Fever & Servants of the Map.

This week, in addition to a reading, I attended the welcome reception for Kay Ryan at the Cornell Museum of Fine Art. (As an aside, the Rollins Cornell museum has an amazing collection of 19th century still life . . . and 20th century Soviet propaganda posters on display. Polar extremes equally rich with inspiration!)

Back to Kay Ryan: I'd heard Ms Ryan speak at the Key West Literary Seminar in early January, and was delighted I could enjoy a repeat performance in my home town of Orlando, Florida.

I was extremely self-conscious to show up alone, to a University which I did not attend . . . and to a social mixer with total strangers (including the Mayor of Winter Park, the College President, poet Bill Collins, etc). Add to the fact, that they served wine and sticky cheese in a Fine Art Museum . . . and I was holding my breath to see what antics would ensue.

I did remake my acquaintance with Kay Ryan briefly. She was very kind, waxing happily about her experience in Key West. I felt she very generously gave her focus while we talked . . . which is a nice memory to have of a poet laureate, when you yourself are an aspiring poet. Amid our discussion the Program Director ripped her away to talked with others (read as wealthy donors) . . . so that is all I have to tell.

I was glad I returned to hear her read again. The difference in venues, lighting, and acoustics enabled me to absorb more of her connotation, between the linguistic tricks of rhyme and pun. While before I found her to be clever and engaging . . . for some reason tonight, I was impacted by the passive profundity of many of her poems (reminiscent in style to James Tate - also discovered at the Key West Literary Seminar).

The Rollins crowd adored her. Putty - in - her - hands! She kept us all laughing, and then made us sad when the panel discussion finally wrapped up.

Kudos go out to poet and professor Carol Frost, for curating and managing an amazing lecture series . . . and to Rollins college, for making these rich literary evenings available to the public. After so many years in my self-imposed wilderness . . . I am now swimming in literati! Wonderful!

That Poetry Workshop Moment

You knew that I could not spend a week at a literary seminar and not humiliate myself at least once . . . at least. Count is four, but I will only mention the two most interesting stories:

Last year, I wrote a very personal poem, Famished. I was trying to get to the core of why I was not more proactive in my search for love and a relationship. My conclusion: I wasn't looking for any kind of love . . . I was looking for someone to volunteer themselves. The point being that one can be proactive, acquire relations like commodities, and manipulate a circumstance out of the resources provided . . . but the act of acquisition and manipulation means that one can never believe in that love. The only true love is that which is volunteered . . . no quid pro quo. At least, that's what Famished sought to express (I'll get back to you on the validity of such a philosophy, later).

During the poetry workshop, it came time for me to read the poem to my eight peers and then analyze its strength and weaknesses. I scanned the poem quickly, and realized that I had to vocally express the italicized text at the culmination of the poem as Onomatopoeia. More specifically, when I read the words "I ache" it had to sound like real ache.

Well don't you just know that at that very moment, I verklempt myself. I did in fact ache and I knew it. Suddenly, I could not talk, and felt a pesky tear welling in the corner of my eye. Nevertheless, the tiny room of nine people surrounding me gaped in silence . . . waiting for me to begin. Panic. I was either going to break down in a broom closet with nine colleagues, or I was going to swallow this emotion and man one out for the team. Tick, tick, tick. Oh, no. I wasn't pulling it off. I looked up to the facilitator, Todd Boss and in the only voice I could muster said, "I'm having that poetry workshop moment. Can someone else read."

No problem. We were off. Someone else took over, and I had two minutes to pull it together. But my wavering voice and red face was the elephant in a very small room.

I was filled with self-loathing. I'd spent all this time and money to get to the Key West Literary Seminar, to get feedback . . . and now no one was going to say anything . . . because they were trapped in a very small room with a weepy gay guy.

When the poem was finished being read, I immediately, in as perky a voice as possible, apologized. "Let me have it. Please! I need your honest feedback." They were poets and good people. No problem. We proceeded, and I survived . . . but now aware that Famished had cut me deeper than I ever realized, or would let myself realize.

After workshop, I found my friends and told them as much as I've told you. They did not know the poem or its connotations. Intellectually, they rationalized: Let it go. Move on. It's fine.

So, we all went out to dinner . . . a reading at the San Carlos Club . . . and then for fun, decided to take in one of Key West's many stripper bars.

I don't mention this to titillate. Heavens! If you've ever met me, you'd know what a prude I am. In any event, I find myself, a 43 year old gay man, in a stripper bar on Duvall Street drinking a 4$ bottle of water, and watching the strippers (in this case men) gyrate for their grateful audience. My beautiful friend Lizz, got undue attention from them, and ate it up! It was hard to tell who was putting on the show for whom. They were in love with her. One stripper keeps waving to me to come hither. I wondered if he thought I was Lizz's husband. I was sure he was going to ask me if I was okay with the titillation and benign physical interaction. He, a good looking physical specimen of the Russian gymnastic team - wearing not but silken red underwear, pulls me aside, in a niche in the bar with a drape. "Yes?"

In a thick Russian accent, he asked me if I would like to [censored for your protection and mine] . . . for $20.

$20. I said $20. And remember, I'm FAMISHED!!

I realized that I was living in that moment that I'd only heard about in Sunday School and ABC after-school specials. For a brief flash: What a bargain! $20!

No, no, no. Um. No, no, no, no, no. I could not live with myself if I became that person. But here I was in the position of rejecting the hottest hooker this side of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I leaned to his ear, and over the regular throbbing of the distant electronica whispered, "You are very beautiful, but I have never paid for that . . . and I cannot start now. Be well."

I slipped out of the drape, back into the bar and skittered back over to my friends. "How are you?" They asked . . . really meaning, what did the Russian want?

I thought to myself. Um, not so famished after all!

My second moment of humiliation came from famed poet Billy Collins. My beloved and flirtatious friend Lizz had secured his complete attention during the social at the Key West Customs House Museum. They'd been talking for about 15 minutes, when I decided that Lizz could be my introduction. Billy Collins teaches during the winter semester at Rollins College in Orlando, and it might be an organic opportunity to introduce myself, tell him we are neighbors and broker future acquaintance. I stepped up to Billy and Lizz, who were laughing and talking about racy stuff (which I will skip - discretion being the better part of valor).

"Hello Mr. Collins, my name is Drew." I smiled and held out my hand. Without a beat he replied:

"Somehow, I believe you." he retorted and turned back to Lizz without further adieu.

I stood there blinking . . .

Not really wanting to meet him anymore, I admitted to myself that I was probably cramping his style with Lizz . . . (But still?)

I left with another story to tell . . . and so did Lizz . . . but not Billy.

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Family of Poets

Can it be over? I'm poised for more? Yes, yes. Always leave them wanting more. Key West Literary Seminar was a life changing experience. I had no expectations. Did not know how to prepare. I just opened myself, and made my heart available to intellectual stimulus, emotion, literature, and fellowship. I think this last component is the point of differentiation. I was able to connect with people who are invested in contemporary American literature. There is a continuum of experience, work, and dialogue that is defining a new generation of poets and writers. Before the conference, I lived and worked in isolation in Orlando. I did my best, but I did not have resources (writers groups, editors, avid readers, venues, etc.). Now I see! The blinds have been lifted, and I'm aware of the context in which my naive vibrations flit and retreat. I suppose I could mourn being exposed as an amateur among a pantheon of geniuses . . . but that's really not my style. Instead, I cherish my innocence before it was lost . . . and practice stretching my wings. The beautiful people I met! Their art! It's like delicious candy for the mind. The world is a beautiful place filled with interesting people sharing the work of their lives. I have also to admit, that my enthusiasm and vulnerability made me the "nerdy" one . . . but who wants to waste time being the player. The life meals that I ate were real, nutritious, delicacies prepared with a masterful hand. My salutations to all the employees and volunteers who brought together a nation of strangers, and made them a family of poets.

I have to note some of the breakout stars, whose light reveals them as the next generation of great American writers and poets. Here are my predictions:

AMONGST STARS

Best New Book: Rita Dove . . . Sonata Mulattica

Best New Poem: Todd Boss . . . Yellow Rocket (This Morning In A Morning Voice)

Best Recalled Poem: Rhina Espillat . . . Undelivered Mail

Stilled the Collective Spirit: Natasha Trethaway . . . Heartfelt descriptions of Mexican Racial Mores in 19th century Mexican Art.

Thank God For: James Tate, Richard Wilbur, E.J. Laino, Maxine Kumin, Rhina Espillat, Billy Collins

BREAKOUT POETS TO WATCH (in order of appearance) [Spelling guessed] AND THEIR POEMS

Ellen Jaffe - Hamilton, Ontario Transformations

Water Children

Laurie DeRosiers Grandmother's Hands

Marsh Muirhead NASCAR on Sunday

Healthcare-What's Right For You

Schaley Wolp (Mira Saksina) I am Neda

Ellen Burkehead Morris Wooden Ships

Scott Cunningham - Maimi, FL The Writer's Market Summary

Feldman Examines a Carpet

Sarah Wells Ten Reasons Why He Didn't Die

The Milking Room

Rhonda ? Days After the Earthquake

Photovoltaic Song of Myself

To My Child, Preparing for Surgery

Micah Zevin Consumation

James Cherry From Summer to Fall

Gun

Alice Small Meyerson The New Nurse

H.C. Palmer Fall

Crow Speaks His Mind

In the Tall Grass of the Landing Zone

Rita Meyers Would That There Were Jagged Edges

Kelly ? Thoughts on Alaska

Lizz Huerta: Chapbook - Burlesque

Mind my word. These folks are brilliant and waiting to be found.

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Rushed on time, I could not proceed without downloading the conclusion of the Key West Literary Seminar:
Best presentation of the day, goes to Maxine Kumin (rhymes with human, but my spelling may be incorrect). She described the poetic path of her life from the 1940 to present, the diminshed contribution of women poets during the first half of the 20th century, her friendship with Anne Sexton, and her bucolic life as a Virginian horse farmer.
The other speakers were of course wonderful . . . and there is non-verbal learning by example that I have absorbed. I've noted the most interesting speakers, their choice of work, their ability to make their written language thrive as spoken word, and pitfalls into which even masters may stumble.
The weather has proceeded to deteriorate in temperature and now wind. I have battled it with Chicken Lo Mein and hot Chinese tea . . . but now on Day 4 of my vacation, I had to pause, return to my room and sleep. My unconscious needed to rest before facing the start of the four day workshop this evening. I will return with more notes, but for now this must suffice:

3 Poems from Key West

Portential
Hard-boiled islands
strung on a chain of highway

bisect the uncut peaks of topaz,
the circling barracudas.

The silken flesh of bulbus palms
shelter dark bricks. Gray and olive shadows.
Fronds mutter. Their flanges twiddle the cold
'tween drowsy blades.

Here, grandmother broke her hip
on a sidewalk planter grate on Duval.

Here, my confused heart marinated
in cruelty's salt sting, ever faithful.

Here, a stranger brushed against mein a garden lit by distant fire.
Born for death, I commit days
to a pilgrimage: a garden, on a rock, in the water:

my devil,
in a deep blue sea.
_ _ _ _
Cracked Open
I keep agreeing to go further,
figuring if I endure
I will arrive
eventually. But,
I never arrive.

My heart wants.
Involuntary wanting wants
and wanting wants
relentlessly. Still,
it wants more.

My descent is indecent.
I, enchanted, am decanted,
warm with shame, brine and heartbreak
immensely, like
a raw egg cooking in the street.

I have put my lips to the flesh of thinking,
licked his salty neck overtly,
the stream of consciousness conveys my soul,
covertly. But,
language sets these sordid pictures on the Internet.

You lay your head upon my chestand gobble up my exhalations.
I brace myself, my expectations
petrified. And
wait for the kiss, reciprocation.
_ _ _ _ _
Drastic Measures
There are those who can in fact
cut off a moderately dangerous mole
using a exponentially more dangerous axe.

The key: you must entrust at will
to stand very very very still. Very very very still
and to prepare yourself, said mole to kill.

Also key is not to know
the exact moment of the blow,
less you flinch and also go.
_ _ _ _

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Friday evening passed warmly. We were awoken by blustering fronds in the courtyard of our inn. By morning light a frigid rain began to fall . . . and me without a raincoat. We ran to the San Carlos club, for Day 2 of the Key West Literary Seminar. Another day of literary superstars reading for a grateful audience:
Rhina Espillat - The bi-lingual and granmotherly Dominican earth mother. She is a quick and lucid wit in both Spanish and Dutch New York vernacular. She had one of the favorite poems of the morning "Undelivered Mail."
Billy Collins - A part time Orlandoan emerged into my consciousness today. He gave the most successfull presentation of the morning. He is confident, objective, and a skilled performer. I think I liked his presentation best because he offered some wonderful observances as bookends to his work. An example: "Writing is the pursuit of the love of strangers."
Matthea Harvey - The best superstar performer. She's set an uphill battle for herself, by selecting to read poems that were free associated from images, forms, and dictionary keywords. Her feminine high-fidelity voice begs to narrate the next "Living Planet."
James Tate charmed and Rita Dove illuminated Robert Pinsky's panel on the "Poet's Life."
Tim Steele and Paul Muldoon impressed as well.
Finally the afternoon wrapped up with readings from Kirby Condit, Kay Ryan, E.J. Laino, Todd Boss, Dara, and Harvey Shapiro. What's not to like!
My biggest discovery for today has to be Natasha Tretheway, however. She rose and surgically delivered acute and deeply crafted poems that connected to one another, to her persona, and to her audience. I cannot say enough about her. She is a quiet master with much more chi to radiate. Unparalleled amongst her peers today.
This evening, our honoree Richard Wilbur takes the podium to read the keynote address and adjourn us to a cocktail party at the old Customs House on Mallory Square. He is our high priest in the temple of poetry. I can't wait to see what he has planned.
More to follow . . .

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Key West 2

I have spent a beautiful sunny day in the Florida Keyes indoors, in a dark cavern called the San Carlos club, with 200 of my closest friends, listening to an All-Stars Game of Poetry:
Rachel Hadas - A bit academic, but honest and adroit. She, the burden of opening and so at a disadvantage. Brilliantly trained in the classics, she is the ground wire amongst so much lightning.
Erica Dawson - A mere 30 years old, and pursuing her Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, Ms. Dawson naturally coheres language, ideas, and format. Her hard work never shows. She makes a triple axle look like a dance step. An everyman engaged in the work of masters . . . she succeeds. I'm a bit jealous of her ease, and innate intelligence. She just arrives, and bears light without self-consciousness.
James Tate - My favorite of the day. Brittle and elderly, he needed help to climb the stairs to the stage. Once seated he read humorous poems in a deadpan-comic Richard-Wright style. His common language conveys large concepts using vernacular characters and dialogue. Amazing, accessible. I laughed regularly throughout his reading!
Robert Pinsky - A genius whose intelligence is akin to defense mechanism. He's like a magician that keeps you mesmerized by the energy and activity in his right-hand . . . while he arranges a surprise below his cape. I have the involuntary desire to sit him down . . . slow him down . . . lead him back to his heart. Wind from that path that bears complex and unaddressed issues. I wonder if his intent isn't to inspire repeated inspection of content. Rich with layers nevertheless.
Rita Dove - Whose new book is my next purpose - had the most interesting subject matter: A biography of a baroque mulato violinist who traveled Europe during the age of slavery, held court with kings, was a friend of Beethoven, and eventually lead the Price of Whales orchestra. What an amazing life!
Mark Strand - Funny, but not hilarious. He had one or two classic lines from his early work (to represent the celebration of 60 years of American poetry). He is a humble and generous poet, who was more interested in his peers than himself. Also someone I'd like to take to dinner.
Tim Steele - Did the BEST job with the most difficult subject. He spoke intelligently and engagingly on meter and rhythm in verse . . . and enabled me to access every point without losing my attention. I hope a transcript of his presentation is made available. It was that good. Sterling!
There were also four panel discussions of various formal topics: Influences, Poetic Mechanics, Form, and Process. These were interesting, as I'm a poet. Panelists spoke extemporaneoulsy and informedly . . . but I was self-reflexively aware that the audience was full of poetry "groupies" chomping at the bit to repeat some of their ruminations at the next book-club meeting. Still good stuff for a poet, priming himself to gestate in a workshop next week. I should have been subjected to a complete Survey of Modern American Literature by the time I have to explain my stinking attempts at immortality (turns out Vampirism is involved . . . and I'm just not that straight!).
The average age in the room is 60. I mean who prizes poetry enough to miss a week of work, and has the income to migrate to Key West at peak season. The greatest generation is also the greatest audience. They laugh freely and typically swoon a long suppressed "MMmmmmmmmm" after poetic flourishes by which they are moved.
I did manage to get Richard Wilbur (*the* 89 year old guest of honor) to sign the title page of his anthology. I asked him to inscribe something inspirational, but he only signed his name. I think the autograph was involuntary in that public-speaking thanks-and-here-you-go kind of way. I'm told this will be worth billions one day, but I'm not the type to haggle with sacred texts.
Tonight, I will attend the performance of a staged reading of Richard Wilbur's translation of the Suitors (French farce), and attend a cocktail party. The food and company has been lovely, but alas, a day of vacation has flown by. I feel stimulated, but not refreshed. If the weather is not freezing later in the week, I may play hookie and sit out in the sun at the beach. More soon . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.