"If A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words, How Much Is A Reflection?"

Rudy asked me to go to an open mic last night because he knew the girl who was featuring. It was at BloomBars, right next to Wonderland on 11th St. Every Monday night they have what they call The Garden: Open Mic. It was a really neat experience in an out of your comfort zone, i can't believe people are this talented, life is really hard sometimes, kind of way. I asked Rudy to send me the video he took of the jam session at the end, but he didn't. So if you wish you could see a visual of the night, take it up with that guy. Next week the feature is a stand up comedian, I'm pretty sure I'm going to go back. Let me know if you think you might be interested.

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There was a ridiculous amount of talent on display last night, the title of this post is a line from a poem that a guy wrote, he couldn't have been more than 18. It made me wonder what I'm doing with my life. More specifically, how long can I go on expressing myself through IASIP quotes? Hm. I'm going to feature here a poem that was read because I really liked it and beacuse it's by a well published poet and, therefore, Google searchable.

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"Medusa"

Agha Shahid Ali

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"I must be beautiful

Or why would men be speechless

at my sight? I have populated the countryside

with animals of stone

and put nations painlessly to sleep.

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I too was human. I who now live here

at the end of the world

with two aging sisters, spinsters

massaging poisons into our scalps

and sunning our ruffled snakes,

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and dreading the night, when

under warm stars

we recall men we have loved,

their gestures forever refusing us.

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Then why let anything remain

when whatever we loved

turned instantly to stone?

I am waiting for the Mediterranean

to see me: It will petrify.

And as caravans from Africa begin to cross it,

I will freeze their cargo of slaves.

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Soon, soon, the sky will have eyes:

I will fossilize its dome into cracked blue,

I who am about to come

into God's full view

from the wrong side of the mirror

into which He gazes."

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And so she dreams

til the sun-crimsoned shield

blinds her into nightmare:

her locks, falling from their roots,

crawl into rocks to die.

Perseus holds the sword above her neck.

Restless in her sleep, she,

for the last time, brushes back

the hissing curls from her forehead.