Some performances were long. We raged past the show and burrowed furiously into the night. Other performances were lonely and quiet, intimate, with soft conversation and relaxed acceptance of letting the flow be. On the last night, our voices rose and fell in play with one another, harmonizing at their own accord to the perfect pitches, intervals, frequencies.
Typewriter Poetry at the Paperback Poetry Festival Today, I’ll be setting up with my typewriter, gifting strangers and friends Free Poetry at the Paperback Poetry Festival. The Sankofa House 906 South 49th St 4PM – 9PM I’ll also have the latest Tiny Epiphany books and zines, including special Limited Edition Read more…
I’m extremely grateful to say I’ve crossed one more item off my bucket list: perform Typewriter Poetry inside a museum. It brings Typewriter Poetry to a complete circle. I am able to put my typewriter to rest with pride and move on to the next adventure.
Captivated by conversation, tapas and wine, attendees were enthralled by the night. In a literary wonderland reflected through timeless glass, everyone bubbled. Princeton Library celebrations were led by live classical music, auctions, vendors, food, dancing, and free poetry. I’m honored Typewriter Poetry played a small role in the enchantment, even if it was for one night (and one night, only).
The Reef was full of passionate foodies and crafty vendors; what an inspiring mix of people to collide into. Every isle you meandered down beckoned you with some sensually stimulating substance. Scented spices, meats and cheeses–even goats! They nibbled you softly when you went over to say hello.
Most of the people I typed for at last year’s Artisanal LA event have blurred together in memory. Even still, there is one fellow I have no intention of ever forgetting. He came over with a friend. She wandered off to take pictures as he and I began to talk. At first, we did the basic Typewriter Poetry dance. He asked about the project, I answered with my usual bases covered. Soon, something shifted. He sat down on the floor. I halted my work on another person’s poem. We dove into our hitchhiking and traveling stories; afterward, he shared his love of robotics and electronics with me.
Ophelia–also known as “Killer Rabbit”–is the one in the blue #15 helmet. That evening, she moved in a way that reminded me of my younger self. An untouched sure-footedness which, I think now, stems from being oblivious of your own confidence. It’s something tough. Lasting. The aura before you discover what awkwardness really means.