Poetry

Attend launch of poetry magazine last night, Harp & Altar. Am coerced into going by the Contessa who promises that attendees won't be Dusty as is usual at poetry events but rather stylish. Before reading and party have glass of wine with Dave, the Contessa , and the New Man in attempt to arrive at party late so as to miss the readings. Dave says he doesn't understand, isn't the point to listen the readings? Yes, the Contessa says firmly, and orders a cheese plate. When arrive at party, door blocked by very drunk young man. Teeth purple. Clears throat and spits, asks where we are going. Building seems abandonded but he assures us that the party is going on--he says strangely, There are a lot of people, but it's not like they erected an alter for the Devil. (Have image of We follow--young man's gait unsteady and he stops several times to clear throat and spit some more (a hobby? Is so drunk he can't tell inside from outside?) Party in old Williamsburg warehouse building that makes me recall (not exactly fondly) time spent living in drafty old lofts and behavior of party guests who thought nothing of stubbing out cigarette on livingroom floor. Understand spitting, etc., but do not by any stretch agree with. Once reach party our guide disappears and have unsettling thought that he was a Ghost. Naturally, keep thought to self--would not like to ask others if they saw him and be told no. Party fun. Run into several people who haven't seen for years--two gladly, and one who once kissed and have been apprehsive about ever seeing again. (Apprehension justified and conversation needs to be cut short by walking away mid sentence.) After party, take car service home. Dave very quiet, but sighs often. Ask what is wrong? Hair, he says glumly. Hair is unfulfilling. He sort of fell into it--he had a talent and he pursued it, but he doesn't think he actually Likes it. Ask about business prospects--how about selling a product line--Is that Inspiring? There are more sigghs. That isn't exactly helping the world, is it, he asks. Assure him that hair matters quite a bit. He says, Yes, of course, but he can't deal with it anymore. He thinks he might sell his salon and write poetry for a while. What do I think? Have sudden unsupportive image of eating only rice and beans and never buyng any new clothes again, not to mention never purchasing an apartment or tiny cabin upstate. If he wants to write, couldn't he write a book about hair? Talk about the famous people who's who see him. No, he shakes his head, He could not.