Word After Word

Minton Sparks, my new favorite poet, a stunning performance artist, based out of Nashville, said this during her one-woman show, referring to a difficult member of the family. I laughed so hard. I loved my own people all over again.

 I just got back from Nashville, where I was honored to be part of a symposium on women and class and low class and work.   Dorothy Allison opened up the week and Minton Sparks closed it; I cried at both and laughed at both. When I called home, my Ron Paul said, “Your accent is back already.”  Creasy greens, shelley beans, “where are you from, somewhere south of decent?”, “sipping on a storm,” “truth be tole she’ll be the death of Darrell,” men named Lonnie and John Jackson, “didn’t say hi nor bye kiss my foot,” and “the hell she did.” This talk made me feel down-comforter safe, it’s familiar and luscious and finely wrought as anything I’ve ever known.

I did not want to come back.

But I am glad to be back in my studio, writing (I have a new star chart going–ten days without missing a studio session and I get a prize. What are the prizes? New sunglasses. New tight jeans. New book. New pen. New digital camera. So I can illustrate the blog. There’s more prizes.) writing using my metaphorical seed money, my life’s work.