Long Live Rock
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"
Everything is. Nothing is. Take your pick.
(Geezer Annie been listening to The Who again.)
This entry is pure navel-gazing, so toddle onto the next online contributor if you like. Anne figures this crazy blog will someday help her fill her days when they have more hours than they do now. So sometimes we have to be personal.
Okay, Geezer Anne, fix in your mind:
1. Beltane festival at LlynHydd Grove (already wrote about it, see sidebar for link).
2. Pizza and Poetry Nite, May 3, 2006!
How appropriate for Beltane! A celebration of the birth of two notable artists, Walt Whitman and Isadora Duncan. Love poems went flying around the room like beautiful jenny wrens. Seemed like everyone wanted to read, write, dance, love, love, love! (Bored Gods channeled.)
The Monkey Man (if you're new here you have no idea...) took off his jester hat and substituted one that would have made Whitman proud, then proceeded to recite from memory "Leaves of Grass" and "Song of Myself" with great dramatic flair. His Monkey, tie-dyed t-shirt as usual, was draped over a pint of whiskey that turned out to be for Isadora. She came floating in, all scarves, at the end. Then we all danced.
Oh, the Monkey Man, the Monkey Man! How he reminds me that the most important part of life isn't where you live or how much dough you make, but a complete immersion in that other-dimensional world of wonderful words, odd friends, and even odder puppets. How refreshing to see a true hippie who has never stopped walking the walk!
Pizza and Poetry Nite is held once a month in Camden, New Jersey. The pizza parlor is small and dingy, but it lights up like a flare when the Monkey Man comes in and sets up his pictures of the poets or artists being feted.
Coming and going from where you park your car is a matter of faith. Trust me on that. But if you don't take that leap, you die in your heart. So nuts to the danger, let's live a little!
I used to pay a learned professor at the University of Pennsylvania forty bucks a pop to be in a writing group. Monkey Man doesn't charge a penny, you can eat for free, it's goodwill offering and bring your own wine. And no one reads a poem and then sits down to a barrage of criticism. Is there any such thing as a bad poem anyway?
Twenty-five folks at this most recent Nite. The youngest, 2. The oldest, hmmm. No idea. In between, a cute 8-year-old who said a poem about connecting with the dad who wasn't around when she was little.
Cy was there. Weird poems. Way weird.
As I lumber down this weary road, I hope to follow the Monkey Man and realize that even if your hair turns gray you can just cover it up with a jester hat, raise your voice an octave or two, and leap over the puddles.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS
AREA 14, STAR 14