Well, today’s the day my…

Well, today's the day my Chicago account goes away. :( I feel as if I should call and complain or something, but oh well. Too busy to waste time on those idjits.

Yesterday was an interesting day. Sorry I didn't write anything, but I was busy working from noon to almost midnight. See, Mills hosted a branch of the annual Writers' Harvest last night (a fundraiser by writers for hunger relief across the U.S.). I had planned to help them out a lot more, but kind of forgot, so my guilt kicked in yesterday, and I spent the day helping run errands, set up food, clean up, sell books, etc. I'm not sure how much we raised, but a goodly amount, I think, and the readers were fabulous. Floyd Salas, Sesshu Foster, April Sinclair and Beth Lisick -- all writers I wasn't familiar with because I'm so out of the loop regarding contemporary writers, and it's clear I've been missing out. Sesshu was up from L.A., but I think the others are all Bay Area folks, so if you're in the area and hear they're doing a reading, you should definitely check them out. Beth Lisick in particular is a performance poet and amazingly funny -- she tells me she performs regularly at Cafe du Nord in S.F. I'm going to go hear her again next week if I can squeeze in the time.

So today I had a good ensemble class, as usual (only two more classes until we perform, argh! (you are, of course, all cordially invited to hear me play, Friday December 6th, 12 noon, Mills campus chapel). Just finishing up e-mail and then I'm running up to Berkeley to get a decent lunch and do some research at the library. (I had a donut for breakfast. Very bad. The food options on the Mills campus are most unappealing).

I think I may hang out up there for a while, in a coffeeshop or outside on the grass, reading Crowley's Little, Big. It's excellent, which I should have expected, considering that LeGuin said of it, "A book that all by itself calls for a redefinition of fantasy." It's certainly making me think of new ways of structuring my novel (what, again?? :-). This poor novel.

Okay, I think that's all for now. I had two ideas for poems last night, but don't think they've jelled quite yet. Perhaps later today...

--Wrote one of the poems. Rather different from what I've been writing lately. Here is:


A petty poem.


I imagined her smooth,
soft skin turned dry and scaled
with age and neglect;
the whitening of her lush hair,
the souring of her body.

Time would shake beauty from her,
if beauty exists, until she became
a bare and scrawny trunk
surrounded by wisps of past glory.

Her muffled cries would fade
into the years, and the shine
love lent her eyes would
dissolve into a tired dream --

or so I thought;
I thought that love was
nothing so important after all,
and I could shrug, indifferent,
and let her walk away
with her wet cheeks
and anger --

and oh, if I could take back that day!


That is what you'll say
the day after I leave you.


You were warned.

M.A. Mohanraj
November 15, 1996

<grin>A little silly, I know, but I think I like it.

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