Monday, October 29, 2012

Writing Out Loud

...has got to be the name of some non-profit that I heard and stole. In any case, a few weeks back I found myself behind a merch booth next to Dessa's at The Triple Rock, selling the book Chorus on behalf of Saul Williams (above), and doing what I could to "act naturally," as if selling books inside a dank club full of people downing tall boys, shouting "NO, I DONT NEED A RECEIPT, THANK YOU! BABE, LOOK! THIS CAT'S FROM GARRISON KEILLOR'S BOOKSTORE! WHAT'S YOUR NAME, MAN?" was the sort of thing I do. I'm not making that last part up, by the way (okay, I did make up the "cat" part, but it works to paint the scene): you'd be surprised how many young people are die-hard fans of Prairie Home Companion. Unless you're one of them, in which case you'd just want to know my name, I suppose.

Anyway, so there I was, manning my table, trying not to shout with glee each time my square card reader worked, and kindly reminding people that I wasn't selling Dessa's t-shirts, when Dessa, who up until that point I'd spoken to, but hadn't looked at, took the stage and put on the most unique and fluid show of what I thought to call live poetry I've seen in recent memory. "What the hell's live poetry?" I could take or leave the attitude, but not my sense that writing is a process which itself is in the process of swapping out the solitary writer's desk for something like the stage.

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