Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Stories and Poetry
I'm writing a short story at the moment. It's original fiction. It contains a huge amount of self-insertion. But it's original and not fanfic, so I can do that, nyah.
On the other hand, due to the amount of self-insertion, I don't think I'll ever post it or let anyone here read it. So... yeah.
It's the first original story I've written in quite some time. Years, really. That's sad.
I went out last night with a group of people, with whom Micki is more acquainted than I am. This is the same group that holds those parties I detest attending -- but while sober they seem like a fun bunch of people. One of them, Doug, was playing an open mic night at Ruta Maya, a local coffee shop, so we ventured out to listen to his musical stylings.
Inside the coffee shop the open mic was in full swing, but outside on the patio there was a poetry jam in session. Now, I love poetry as much as the next person, but there is just something inherently comic about people who read their poetry aloud to the pounding of bongo drums and the strumming of an off-key guitar. There were three microphones set up, and occasionally all three were in use by the poets simultaneously, as they took turns uttering their inspired impromptu verse, creating a not-quite-harmonious chorus. Around these budding artists sat a number of young beatniks, many of them sipping wine or coffee, nodding their capped heads to the music. Several were knitting ugly multicoloured scarves, bent over their handiwork like little old ladies at a quilting bee, or like small children over a Game-Boy.
As Micki and I passed this intriguing sight and entered the coffee shop, we heard a low wailing from the stick-thin female hovering vulture-like over the microphone and swaying in time to her back-up music:
"Every day you go to the rat race
with the rats
The rats
The rats
The RATS
crawling through your BRAAAAIIIIN..."
The door closed behind us, and I couldn't help sniggering.
Doug's band, as it turned out, wasn't on the list for the evening's entertainment; they hadn't been in time to select a choice spot on the performance card. We remained there for a few minutes, and then opted to go out to eat instead, since food was immensely more interesting than the variety of lame acts currently gracing the small stage.
Outside, however, an idea struck someone to ask the poetry folks whether the band could borrow the microphones for a moment and play their selection of songs outside instead of in. The bearded British hippie, who appeared to be the ringleader of the poetry fest, agreed to this, and the small crowd of listeners made no objection, and nodded their heads to the beat of the new music as easily as they nodded in appreciation of the linguistic arts that grated so sweetly on their ears.
Doug's band was actually pretty good; I'd listen to them again. They played three songs before relinquishing the microphones back to the We Wish We Were Dead Poets Society. Almost immediately a lanky black fellow began to recite his lyrical composition based on the photocopied drawing upon the yellow cover of the poetry booklet that was circulating round the group. He spoke clearly with a strong rhythm.
"The seed... to the tree
the tree... to the mind
the mind... to the seed..."
"And the branch to the tree... and the tree in the hole... and the hole in the ground... and the green grass grew all around... all around... and the green grass grew all around!" I said under my breath to Micki, in my best imitation of a serious young poet.
Then I started speaking song lyrics.
"All... the lonely people.... where do... they all come from?" I said with feeling to Micki and the rest of our group, following the beat of the music and the cadence of the poet's voice, followed by the moving recitation:
"Everybody... have fun... TONIGHT.... everybody... WANG CHUNG tonight...."
I began to make up a good deal of original bad verse, as well, and uttered it to our small group in the most earnest of tones:
"Fly, butterfly
on the wings of despair
in the air of cares
beware!
Life's not fair..."
And so forth. It was very difficult to keep a straight face.
The only problem was that everyone encouraged me to take my satirical improvisations, which were blatant mockeries of the knitting beatniks, and perform them at the microphone. It took a lot of finagling (and the discovery that one member of our group had a better talent for making up terrible rhyming poetry off the top of his head) before I managed to wriggle out of being forced on stage.
However... at some point I promised Micki that I'd be part of a poetry jam at Ruta Maya in the future. I believe this promise has the condition of being at least four months from now, at a time when I can have a bit of alcohol in my system. I recall a mentioning of my birthday celebration possibly involving bad improv poetry.
Oh dear.
| 6:24 PM |
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