On that Thursday evening

I walked into a room thick with heat and boasting at least 50 slightly sauteed men and women and one boy. There was a kid on the stage playing something uninspired on a guitar; I think he was singing as well, I forget now. I sat on what looked to be the only seat available, way in the back, inbetween a gay man and a lesbian. My luck eh? The Lesbian introduces herself as the president of so and so lesbian club up yonder over there and I believe she threw in her name to complete a proper introduction. It matters little since I forgot it before she was done speaking. Sorry, I wasn't paying too much attention. The heat was stifling, the music, horrendous and Mr. Gay man to my left, disarmingly beautiful (i.e. a major distraction). Before I could bite my tounge, I told her this was my first time there clearly exposing the nervousness I was consciously stuggling to conceal. She smiled and invited me to their next meeting. It was an "aww, how cute" kind of smile too. I hate those.

The kid and his guitar exit the stage and the host of the event declares an "open mic" which I learn means the mic is available to anyone interested in using it. A girl who I'd noticed, sitting hand-in-hand with a young man, gets up to address us. She tells us that she's a freshman, only 18 and had just days before, been disowned by her family for being a lesbian. She thanks the club for giving her a place to "be renewed and reassured". Those words make me happy for her and I smile even though she's on the verge of tears. She points out the love of her life in the crowd who -surpise, suprise- turns out to be, not a man as I'd assumed, but one of those Ellen Degeneres-type butch lesbians. I remind myself: close cropped hair, a pair of slacks and a white long sleeved shirt does not make a person a man and any assumtions about gender within this group must be backed by emperical proof which at some point will require such uncouth statements as "Pull it out" or the subtly suggestive "Let me see it". She descends the stage into a standing ovation and I wish her all the luck she'll ever need.

Another girl comes up and recites a poem in a style that was neither Tennyson (certainly NOT Tennyson) nor Angelou nor like anything I'd ever heard. She read it like she was rapping, hip-hop poetry and at the end I wanted so much to tell her what a genious way it was to read poetry like she'd just done. It had such a smooth flow and yet it had drama and passion and gentleness and ferocity all in the delivery of the poem. I mean the words were like a backdrop for the rhythm of it. At times she spoke so fast the words came at me in a riot but because of the way she said it, I got it. It was understood. The way she sped up at certain points and at others, dropped the words one after a pause after another after a pause after another... I tell you I was so enraptured by it, I felt the urge to shout alleluia in appreciation ...or was it in agreement? I appreciated the beauty of it and it agreed with my senses so maybe both. I discovered later that it wasn't such a ground breaking effort. It's a way of delivering poetry called "spoken word" and if this lady's delivery left me hungry for more, the lady that followed satisfied me enough to promise myself a copy of her CD.

So here this other lady steps up and introduces herself. Her name is Pandora Scooter. She said was Asian I think and started off with a comedy skit. I spent the whole time just taking her in. She was a lesbian and had made that clear with the first joke. She wore a bra and I know this because her top was see-through. She tied up some locks of her hair in blue and red and green ribbons that made me think of her as a tree hugger or a hippie or a woman who didn't give a fuck about what you or your friend thought of her. I liked her immediately. After getting the crowd lively with a few jokes, she dove right into her first spoken word called "Box". Fun and funny and throughly entertaining, we chanted "more! more!" after she was done to which she treated us to another she called "Chilled Hot Cocoa"; a, dare I say, better poem. Here are both performances found on youtube that'll save me an extra paragraph or two of struggling to describe each one. (These are not footage from that day)






After Ms. Scooter was done and said goodbye, the experience for me was over. I had things to study for and I was beginning to cook in all that heat. Nothing became of Mr. gay man to my left. I sort of forgot about him (thats what happens when I give my bigger head preference over my little one), oh well. Maybe next time I'll introduce myself. As for the lesbian...well...what am I to do with a lesbian? (I kid, she was nice)

Ok, I'm too tired to continue. Sleep overwhelms me now. Forgive me if I stumbled through this post, I've had this story on my mind and had to write it down before living consumes me again.

g'nite

zzzzzzzz