When She Moved To Alaska, Spoken Word Poetry by Mel C. Thompson скачать в хорошем качестве

When She Moved To Alaska, Spoken Word Poetry by Mel C. Thompson

This work has a few problems. 1. It's extremely sentimental. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. But this (and one other shamefully sentimental piece appear in a collection of works that was meant to be especially harsh and judgemental). 2. It doesn't really belong in this collection. As I noted, the tone of this (and one other in the booklet) don't really fit the overall tone. 3. The poem is very dated (as is made obvious by the name of a Governor appearing who hasn't ruled in decades). 4. The writing is fairly artless and lacking in guile, but it is, as noted, surrounded by works which are all about cunning of mockery. The brevity and simplicity of this one will sound odd to the listeners who are used to hearing either long rants or pithy axioms from me. I would have left this one out entirely, but I'm trying to archive a complete record of the state of my writing (such as it was) and emotions at the time this odd little booklet came out, a pamphlet, as it were, that may have only been circulated to ten people. The story here is a bit quirky. We were never lovers, but it was extremely odd that we became friends. I was living in San Francisco at the time, and the woman in this work, it turned out, had once lived in the very Tenderloin basement unit I had lived in. Furthermore, she ended working as a barista at my favorite cafe. We were mismatched in age, looks and temperament; me being loud and long-winded and her being curt and quiet; she being young and me being old; she being beautiful and my looks being, shall we say, problematic. We sincerely did not like each other. But again fate pushed us together. When we had to have our unit retrofitted, I ended up being temporarily housed in her apartment. Plus, it turns out that she knew some of the same poets I did, but she disliked them whereas my world depended on them. We didn't bother to try to chit chat as the chemistry was all off from the start. But, as a Woody Allen movie might have it, we were both caught in the rain and took shelter in the same doorway; and, rather forced into an awkward conversation, we found out that we had similar feelings about our parents (and you need not use your imagination to guess what those feelings were). And, curiously enough, she also liked to smoke and drink. And, in her own way, she was an artist, back when it was not yet known that the iPhone and the Samsung Galaxy would destroy half the photography careers on earth. And we both struggled financially, and lived at a humbling subsistence level. Before long, we had each other's phone numbers and emails, and we even made a point of getting together for smoking and drinking and talking (and our conversations were no longer awkward, but very intuitive). Things progressed just to the point of getting slightly physical (her tolerating, or even liking, hugs and back rubs, etc.), before, as the fickle gods would have it, she was accepted at the University of Alaska, and, if she was to make it to class on time, she'd have to be moving in a week. Again, I apologize for this indulgence in infantile crush poetry; but I believe my next numbers in this series will return to their typically irritable and ridiculing tone. And thus I did not go down the rabbit hole of writing sentimental goop forever, far from it. (Although, fast-forwarding a couple decades, I did not expect, in my old age to again be writing, as McCartney said, "silly love songs." But, in all fairness, no indigent, single, 66-year-old man expects to be suddenly dating again. So I was rather caught off-guard by the universe.)