I’m in a very ritzy hotel in Louisville. The lights are
chandeliers, they have ballrooms, the obviously rich and wealthy stroll the
halls, and when they hit the elevator button to the 25th floor, it
doesn’t light up and then go out, refusing their admission. No, they go up to
the top floor and eat dinner in what is apparently a circular room that rotates
to show the expanse of Louisville from every angle. I’m assuming the walls are
glass, since there must be some point in the spinning, because you can afford to eat in a restaurant that moves underneath
you. Anyway, I feel like an overly-apparent small town girl in my hoodie and
jeans and my nerdy, nerdy glasses, because my contacts just make me blind
anymore.
Though I am here for work conferences, and I am learning
some interesting stuff to take back to the library with me, I find my socially
awkward self half-desperate to return to my room during the day, where people
can’t look at me like I’m some hoodlum that wandered in off the street, wanting
a copy of James Patterson’s autographed book.
Why didn’t I pack a dress? Or, at least, nicer jeans? Those
questions are easy enough to answer, even though I’m still kicking myself for
it. The jeans I forgot, and the dress.. I am one of those girls that tries on a
dress once and really likes the way it looks but never has the guts to wear it
anywhere. I feel incredibly vulnerable and idiotic in a dress—not to mention I
would kill myself in heels, and flats just don’t do it for a dress.
So instead of going down to the bar and trying to socialize,
I’m sitting up on the twentieth floor, in my room with the view of half the
city and half the river (at which I’m continuously glancing, feeling this
strange sense of almost-sadness that has been plaguing me at random moments for
weeks), and I’m writing a blog post that I can’t even post until I get home.
Why? Because this hotel is fancy, and apparently paying for a room isn’t enough
to merit free internet, and I’m not about to pay to use it.
Then there’s the fact that I’m not really into watching
television, and I just finished one of the books that I brought with me, and I
have the undeniable need to write something. It’s because of the book. I go to
some weird place when I read, and I come out all emotionally twisted on the
other side, but for the first time in at least two years, I feel like writing
fiction. I don’t know why, and it annoys me, because what am I going to do with
it? It’s a waste of time. My thesis semester starts in July. My life has to be
poetry. And I don’t even know what I would write about to begin with.
That’s my thing: I write scenes, not stories.
There’s a quote somewhere about writers having too much time
alone to think, and I think that’s what’s harassing me right now. When there’s
no one to talk to but yourself, all those things you don’t want to think about
start cropping up. The what-ifs and the maybes and the, “This city is pretty
cool. I could live in a city.” Sometimes I think about going to sleep just to
shut my brain down.
Anyway, to change topics slightly, I went to my first derby
yesterday at Churchill Downs. My coworker, Ray, took me with his family,
because they had a box seat. It rained a bit and got pretty cold, but it was a
cool experience. I didn’t bet, because I have terrible luck, but I enjoyed
myself, sipping wine and placing mental bets (none of which would have won me
money). Then, when we’re leaving, I look up and see the top half of the
building, all lit up and thumping with music, and, again, I’m looking at all
these rich people, wondering what it would be like to be able to go to the top
floor, to sit in the millionaire’s box. Then I see this girl, who can’t be much
older than me, who’s way too tan and wearing a peach dress that barely covers
her rear, and she’s on the arm of this guy that has to be like seventy, and I’m
just like, nope, not even for the millionaire’s box. Especially not if I have
to act like an idiot, because what kind of life is that? You can’t even have a
real conversation, because you’re too busy acting stupid and easy.
Moving on, I went to conferences today (Sunday), went to a
luncheon, and got a signed book from James Patterson. I’ve never read anything
by the guy, but he gave a nice speech about Family Literacy, and everyone that
got an orange ticket this morning was allowed a free, signed copy of his book
“Alex Cross, Run.” So I thought, why not? Then it was kind of strange, because
he wouldn’t allow anyone to take a picture of him, which I didn’t understand.
Like, I know we didn’t have time to stand with him and take a picture, but
people were standing to the side and taking pictures of him out of the way, and
people came over and told them to stop.
There wasn’t any reason given, but it kind of made me want
to read his book less. Stuff like that just seems egotistical to me. Like what
do you think they’re going to do with your picture? Sell it? I doubt you could
get much for a picture of an author signing their book. Especially a crappy
quality, phone camera pic. Then someone tried to talk to him, and he was just
short about it. I know they were trying to get the line through fast, but he
could have at least smiled at the joke. I know writers are weird. I, myself,
don’t like having to talk to people (because I never have anything good to say,
it feels like), but if I was famous and had as many fans as he does, I think I
would be a little friendlier. So, as of right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever read
his book. Maybe it’ll go right on my shelf next to Nick Flynn’s book that I’ve
never read.
It’s kind of funny. I’m on the twentieth floor, and I swear
I can still hear frogs. Surely not.
Anyway, I think I have exhausted topics for this blog post,
and it’s getting dark, so maybe I’ll just sit on the windowsill and watch the
city at night and try to write some poetry. I don’t even know if I want to.
With the funk that I am in, I’m in for a restless night if I try to delve into
that murky mess. I still can’t change topics. I still can’t find a new subject.
I still keep beating this horse to death.
This month, I hate poetry, and poetry hates me. Which
reminds me, I received another rejection letter today. Another. I know it’s all
a part of the game, but it really sucks, and there’s just no getting around
that kind of suckage. Not that I’m going to quit writing. I’ll keep writing
until I’m gone, even if no one ever accepts anything I do, ever again. It would
just, you know, really suck.
Okay, I’m putting this up now, for real with the promise
that tomorrow I’m wearing a nice shirt, flats, and jewelry, and, after all the
conferences are said and done and the banquet is over tomorrow night, I’m going
to do something to make the most of it all while I’m here. Even if it’s just
sitting at the bar, by myself, looking hostile and grumpy.
P.S. I was also incredibly upset to learn that next week,
after I’m already gone, The Wallflowers are playing a free concert on the
riverfront. The Wallflowers! I didn’t even know that they still played shows.
Just my luck!
---
So it’s Monday night, my last night here. Let me start off
with the fact that I received a rejection letter tonight. UGH. To a contest I
paid to be in. And I got some sappy, “Oh, your entry was really good, but we
received so many entries…” Etc. Barf. And then all that nonsense about
submitting again, because half the people they picked were repeat entries. So
what I get from this is: maybe next time the other entries will suck more, and
you’ll get in. No thanks. I have some dignity, you know!
Anyway, I’m sitting on the windowsill of my room, looking
out over Louisville. The sun has just gone down, and everything is just starting
to light up, including the Hard Rock, but I can’t see the guitar from here. I
can, however, see the end of the Louisville Slugger bat and the front half of
the Muhammad Ali Center. I can also see the interstate and the river and
several big buildings I couldn’t name.
Today, we had several conferences. I can’t say that the
first one started out well for me. We learned about Wonderopolis, which is this
cool site for young kids to learn interesting facts about the world. Well, one
speaker got up and started his speech with, “I’m a poet.” I just felt my brain
shut down.
So you’re a poet, who cares? What does that have to do with
this presentation? What’s worse: his Wonderopolis question was whether or not
people still write poetry. At this point, I’m growing annoyed. I sure HOPE
people still write poetry, or everything I’ve done in at least the last two
years has been a figment of my imagination. So then of course he starts reading
poetry. Bad poetry. Easy rhyme, feel-good poetry. Dr. Seuss-y. Not that there’s
anything wrong with Dr. Seuss, but if you’re trying to prove that people still
write poetry, please, do not throw Dr. Seuss out there. Or any of the following
poets he used.
To make things worse, he started talking in elevated
vocabulary. At this point, I wanted to put my head down. I know I probably
sound like a snob, but I feel like people who feel the need to talk over the
heads of other people are snobs. I can’t stand that. If you want to use it when
you write your poetry, fine, but no one thinks you’re any smarter for using it
in a presentation. You just sound like a snob, because who honestly talks like that every day? One of my bosses at a job I had
a while back once commented on the fact that, for an English major, I sure
didn’t “talk smart.” My answer to that was, “Would you like me if I started
talking in big words over your head? No. I don’t like to act like I’m above
people.” That solved that criticism.
Anyway, I’ll lay off the Wonderopolis poet. After his
presentation, Ray and I decided to scout out a new restaurant to try. We ended
up at, I think it was called, Tom Crows. It was a grill/oyster bar. It was
pretty cool. The food was good. The company was great. And we were seated by a
window. Afterward, Ray wanted to show me a few sights. We went to the
Louisville Slugger Museum, which was interesting, and then we tried to go to
the Muhammad Ali Center, but it was closed. I have to say that the immature
child in me was most amused by just walking past the thirty foot tall, golden
Statue of David.
Because he’s naked, obviously. And, well, you can guess the rest.
I wrote a poem about him, kind of like my, “I’m in St. Louis
to Find You,” poem, which used the Arch as a metaphor. David is my metaphor
now. I’m sure you can imagine what that’s leading to. Jeez. I have to reign it
in.
So, tonight, we go to this banquet. We have this nice salad,
chicken, and fish. Even chocolate cake with a nice glass of Merlot to wash it
all down. Then we had probably the best speakers we’ve had so far. They’re
these guys that experiment with Diet Coke and Mentos. They do all sorts of
crazy things with them—the most crazy being a coke and mentos powered bicycle,
from what we saw. They were encouraging everyone to experiment and take risks
and be stubborn. Then they closed with probably one of my favorite youtube
vidoes ever: the one with the guy, named Matt, dancing in different locations
around the world. A completely dorky dance, but he owns it, and he gets all
these people to join in, and no one can help but, at the very least, smiling when they
watch this video. I just love it. And,
if people would pay me to do it, I’d certainly go all out dork dance if I could
go to all those different places.
I mean, really, what better use of youtube is there than to show everyone people all across the world having fun and dancing together, not caring what they look like or if they're even a decent dancer? The first video is the one they showed at the conference. The second is just another great one that I enjoy.
I mean, really, what better use of youtube is there than to show everyone people all across the world having fun and dancing together, not caring what they look like or if they're even a decent dancer? The first video is the one they showed at the conference. The second is just another great one that I enjoy.
So, to close this blog post, I’d like to return to something
I mentioned in my post yesterday: the difference clothing makes. Yesterday, I
wore a hoodie. People acted like I had the plague. The lady at the registration
desk hesitated to even give me my orange slip to get Patterson’s book. You
should have seen the way she looked at me! Please, lady, even your clothes
can’t make you look better with that horrible look on your face. No one was overly friendly or talked to me.
Today, I looked EXACTLY the same, except that I wore my contacts instead of
glasses and a nice, black lace shirt. People looked, smiled, talked. I even got
a nod from some dude in the elevator. Of course, this did nothing but annoy me.
And the kind of feminist side of me just decided I would never wear a dress
again, if that was the only reason people would want to talk to me. I hate
that. HATE that. Then all these women I keep getting stuck on the elevator
with. And I’m on the twentieth floor, so it’s not a short trip. They’re all
dressed fancy and obviously older, and I am, of course, seen as the kid on the
elevator, and they talk to me like I am. Ridiculous. And they’re all obviously
drunk and thinking they’re hot crap.
I am so cynical of people. I’ll be the first to admit that.
I’m always looking for ulterior motives.
Anyway, I think I’m going to wrap up the night sitting at
this window and watching Louisville, feeling bad for the people in the open
windows across the way that are obviously still at work. Sucks for them. After
this post, I probably won’t be heard from until after Disney World, which I
will report on. Goodnight!
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