In which the reclusive poet ventures forth.
"It isn't that I don't wanna go; it's that I don't wanna leave." - DMR
A couple of weeks ago I journeyed over the mountain in a barrage of alternating rain, hail, wind, snow, and sleet, straight into the heart of Denver to pick up a friend, where the barrage of alternating rain, hail, wind, snow and sleet was met with a steady barrage of traffic.
Strange how a harrowing road-trip can be exhilarating.
At Fort Morgan College, out on the eastern plains, life is slow, night is dark, and they treat their poets freakishly well.
My thanks to dear friend Rachel Kellum for the invitation. Attendance was quite good in spite of the wonky weather, and the folks were a joy to converse with. I was able to stop on the way home and enjoy a soggy lunch with my son in Golden.
The following weekend, I set out over the mountain again, this time with the husband. The barrage of alternating rain, hail, wind, snow and sleet had become old hat.
We were off to attend opening night of The Scarlet Letter in Denver. Our dear friend, the brilliant David Mason, wrote the brilliant libretto.
It was a great pleasure to meet Ed Shacklee, and so many other wonderful folks. And I may well have turned into a blubbering idiot when Chrissy introduced me to Dana Gioia. But it couldn't have been a more enjoyable evening.
I did not know which to prefer,
the magnificence of the production,
the happy hours just after,