Let’s see, I’m on a public library computer (because I don’t want to wait to blog, and because I don’t want to take the time to go set up a personal connection to blog). Besides, I’m starving and the 15-minute limit on a terminal, will probably be my personal limit before I run find an eatery.

The conference… Amazing. That’s it. Wordy me diminished to a singular, overused word. The coordination was not perfect, there were snags and issues here and there, as there are with most events. It wasn’t the orchestration that was “all that” — it was the people.

I have come to a few conclusions (and even more questions) as a result of this weekend’s experiences.

• There is an issue between my art and my social responsibility that I’ve always battled with — where I should expend my time — that really isn’t a question. Activism is the heart of Art. Period. To battle one is to battle the other. So, I surrender to this fact and now must just determine how to more carefully and more pointedly pick my personal/social/artistic battles. Nuff said.
• I needed to move to the farm to find myself. With that done, I now need to find a nurturing community of artists and creative “free” spirits, if I plan to advance my craft. So, maybe the reservations I’ve had about the potential move to Lexington… are just another step that’s needed — something that, once again, I failed to see but the universe deciphered FOR me. My husband says such statements are me “making lemonade” again — a character flaw he actually admires.
• Angry female poetry has serious merits. In my college days, I dismissed young, angry women. My mother’s desire to keep things orderly and nice and socially acceptable just floated to the surface of me and coagulated there. Firm, unbending. Now, I marvel at the ENERGY of these young artists and I wonder how long it will be until they can focus their angst, their passions, their art. And, I wonder if I’d been a bit more radical, a bit more angry — if I’d have found my direction sometime before my fourth decade on this earth. Things that make you go “Hmmmmm….” And, BTW, angry young male poetry is pretty impressive, albeit a bit shocking at times too — and I admire the *ahem* nads of the few gentlemen that stepped up and attended, and shared and offered glimpses of their own soul.
• When things appear to be going in the crapper… sometimes that means you are on the right path. Just because the registration wasn’t under my name, the classes I wanted were “pre-reservation” classes, and they were sorry but the “Architecture of a Novel” class was (and has been) full for forever…. they are terribly sorry that I didn’t get my reservation materials until Monday, despite the fact that the reservation was made for me back in January, and there is simply NOTHING they can do about it… isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not when boardmember, “Heather” managed to squeak me into the Poetry masterclass. Now, she’d gone to so much effort, (above and beyond) to address my concerns… and she even gave me her OWN slot in this class… I didn’t have the heart to allow my lip to curl up in disgust. I didn’t have the lack of heart to tell her… “ME? in the POETRY class? Oh…. MY…. God… No way… I won’t do it. I’m not a poet… I can’t DO poetry…” etc. Instead, I said, “Oh thank you, but I couldn’t possibly take YOUR slot.” And she insisted, and I thought, “Great, now I’m stuck. Haruuummmpphhh!”
• Poetry and poetry groups — an amazing way to investigate the art of writing from a completely new perspective for a prose writer. Again, the universe gave me what I was too stupid to know that I needed — a surrounding and invitation to join an impressively welcoming, ingeniously talented group of women and even a couple men from all backgrounds, of all ages. I’m blessed.

More later, but for now, my time on the terminal is up and I’m starving and I’ll have to spell check this baby later…