On Tuesday night, Emily & I went to The Boneyard in AC to check out John Gutts & his open mic night.
On the ride home, I admitted to sometimes having a notion to start a cricket farm; to be a farmer of crickets. Em laughed kindly at that, and it is rather absurd, almost grotesque: and not just because of the constant threat of cricket viruses that might wipe out an entire orchestra. But still; still there is something about it. I, too, have long legs like you do, crickets. I understand how jumpy such legs can get at night; how it can be difficult to just be still and to just sit still; how one needs to make music instead; to sing/to not be silent.
I once remember writing a poem titled “The Father of Crickets,” even; it began, “The bathroom has been invaded by them;” crickets on the hearth & toilet. Aren’t there monks who refuse to go outside during the rainy season when crickets are littering the pathways of distant monasteries; for fear of stepping on even a single fiddler, they refrain from the paths?
Wednesday night I met up with some folk from Kathy G’s class at Barista’s in Galloway. Also, Winters was there, and rather put me to shame with his too-good poem with the long-leggedy lines. And Jackie, a friend of Deborah’s, was another new recruit.
I would see Jackie again, the next night, for the Joel Dias-Porter reading at the Linwood Library.
An open mic preceded him. Em read this poem, which I’ve always loved. Emari read a revision of her poem about Sarah Palin. Afterwards, we went to The Greenhouse in Margate with Joel; had quesadillas & white wine for me & for Em in plastic cups while the blue mal de ojo of Lucy watched us.
We laughed all night until parting. Perhaps the pachyderm was more a nazar; would it lead us to protection? Would it watch over the crickets too? Can it see such very small things as them?
For the next day –– it was June, all of a sudden: June! June! June!
And the next day after that, Gerri & I went and charted all of the alleyways in Somers Point for our summer project. I have ideas now that need to be penned; to be pinned-down. We stopped in Sloop Alley to chat with our friend Rita awhile; and returning from a felafel dinner the next day (Sunday) with Miss Williams –– asked to stop a moment in at the Music Pier, and there was Rita again! carrying out her orchids from the weekend’s flower show. To have seen Rita like a many-armed Lakshmi carting away her wares, twice in as many days, well –– this must bode well for the week & for what is beyond, even; be well for the weak. Well for the crickets & for the father of crickets.