I'm here and I brought my bike--I hate walking and especially since it's much more humid here, it's nice to zip to the places where I'll be having class or activities.
Last night I checked-in to my dorm room, which is actually a lot of space (nothing like the cans at UCLA), and for the most part, my own bathroom (there are 4 rooms, 2 bathrooms, but I think only 3 people total in my suite and the other two girls use the bathroom closest to them).
I was nervous about being shy or reserved but I've been chatting shyer people up and talking about things which excite them. There is a genuine earnestness about the people I've met here which immediately puts me at ease. A far cry from registration at Columbia in August of last year. I think this week will be good for me.
I met this senior lady she referred to herself as a senior citizen. She's going to be in my Dara Wier workshop and it turns out that she lives a few blocks away from me behind the Time Warner building! She had this really reflective way of talking (very slowly and deliberate) and it was nice to have dinner with a mixed group of people--a private school English teacher from RI, another poet from RI (older than me), and Michael, an undergrad at LSU who probably loves poetry more than I do.
As we were leaving the dinner table, Therese (the senior citizen), came up to me and told me that she knew I was doing very well for myself and would be very successful. This is partly ludicrous since I have no idea where she could come up with that (we were talking briefly about submitting to journals, etc. and of course I haven't done any of that out of fear, uncertainty, and laziness)--I didn't really talk about myself much at all. It was so strange, but it made my face smile without my mouth doing that distorted dance.
James Tate read and I've never seen him (read) and it was really--lovely. I didn't realize that he was so frail. I loved it when he cracked a grin to let the audience know that yes, he is absolutely aware of the riot that he is. SO great.
I can already feel myself itching to write--my notes sticky on my iPhone is littered with phrases, concepts, nouns. It's like my crock pot and it's been simmering for over a month. I have to purge.
I was able to finally touch some poems last night and be productive! This is somewhat a (pathetic) big deal. Hopefully I can keep this up.
Waking up here reminds me acutely of Kythera, Greece. Except I don't get to see the ocean rising through the fog to greet me.
I think my dreams are just as vivid. I haven't started talking to myself yet. I want to meet fireflies.
