Last night I went to a poetry book release party for H and found it mostly enjoyable. But guess who was there? E. I haven't seen her in person since 2016. I saw her in the corner of my eye, but did not make eye contact. I didn't mind that she was there, it was kind of awkward, but she has every right to enjoy a public reading, regardless if I'm there or not.
But get this: She kept hiding behind people and slinking around to avoid me. It's been 8 years! C'mon! I'm not going to bite. I don't care about what happened in the past anymore. Well, maybe I do? I was thinking that I was thankful for looking good: I have my new badass haircut, and I was wearing a pretty blouse from Anthropologie. I looked really good. And she kind of looked like a bum, but whatever, it's Oakland. She and her friends mostly stood outside, and I'm sure she was re-hashing with them on what a "bad" person I am. But seriously? I was going through one of the toughest phases of my life and she couldn't understand and didn't even try to understand. I'm not angry. I'm just filled with... disappointment. Am I that much of a burden that someone like her can't even be in the same room as me? I dunno. She should just enjoy herself.
Then I had trouble enjoying the whole reading. I think it went on too long and I was getting mentally tired. HH was phenomenal though, and I'm glad I got to hear her read from her new book. I've always kind of admired her from afar. And I saw some poet friends I hadn't seen in a while. The usual suspects. It made me think that I definitely don't identify as being a poet, perhaps even in a phase where I'm "rejecting" this identity. I think I went to so many east bay poetry things b/c of A. I never really saw a difference between poetry and fiction then, but I do now. Especially after meeting more fiction writers. I want to grow more in that space. When one door closes, another one opens.
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