It’s Always The Woman

Men are natural navigators…

but it’s always the woman who asks for directions.

Direction

Men have endurance…but it’s always the woman who walks a thousand miles in someone else’s shoes.

Men have strength…

but it’s always the woman who carries the burden.

Baggage

Men have feelings…

but it’s always the woman who asks how you feel.

Sharing

Men have ideas…

but it’s always the woman who plans.

Now, let me think...

Men build bridges…                                                                                                                  but it’s always the woman who will mend fences.

Fence

No man can reach her apex, no man can touch her success.  No man can give birth to a universe or a nation.  It’s always the woman who will create life but also engage it: upholding feminine ideals while adding a touch of grace.

Note: This poem I left unfinished because I couldn’t think of an appropriate way to end it.  I didn’t want it to sound like a slam to men, but I wanted to convey the vitality behind good women who can be counted on, depended upon, trusted upon.  So I left it open-ended.  Place yourself in the poem and add your own lines.  Add your own entries and make it what you will.  Men may have the upper hand in society, but women know literally, how to skirt it and persevere.  Kudos, ladies.  I truly am our biggest fan.

I’m Not Afraid of You, Sister Soldier

Manic and not human.

Wander always, not pacing.

Reach the sky minimal nature elemental,

Not of this world.

Shake my tail and graze.

Search for water.

Flanks and mud, quickening speed.

Running, racing as the sky darkens.

Over my shoulder, a man approaches.

But he, like me, is part beast.

Gallop for miles, I never tire.

Will he ever catch me?

Not in the least.

The Frida Exhibit That Saved My Life

A colleague at work continued asking me to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit in Philadelphia because she and I share many likes and dislikes.  She’d been dying to speak to me about it, but knew that it wouldn’t be the same if I hadn’t gone.  I only knew what most people know about Frida: mainly from the Salma Hayek film about her life.  I have always been fascinated by her strength and sexual freedom and her seeming love for her husband, Diego, despite all of his flaws.  Always an appealing artist, I started bugging my sister to drive there to go see her work and was annoyed that I wasn’t getting the reception that I had hoped. My sister, Florav was aloof as I insisted:

You don’t understand.  I have got to go see her work!  They’re showing it in Philadelphia and it is a perfect opportunity to go see it!

There are many artists that have followed me all of my life: Degas, Dali, Warhol, Pollack…but since Frida was the only female contemporary painter in the bunch, I related to her style the most.  I liked Frida even before I really knew anything about her.  I had stumbled upon her works in a little shop in Hoboken that featured Frida’s work in chachkas and handbag designs. 

It was the final weekend to see her work and I was sure that I was going to go, even if my sister didn’t want to.  As I finished up on my final plans and as Florav’s allergies got worse, I felt that I had to do just that.  What surprised me was my sister’s insistence that we carry out our original plans and go together.  But I know my sister can be fickle so I made sure to call her again the night before and reiterate my total disappointment if she cancelled out.  Luckily, she didn’t. We picked up some odds and ends–before leaving–and off we went.

The Driving Experience:

Let me begin by saying that Florav’s a great driver.  She’s, dare I say, better than my mom. It still didn’t make the experience completely nerve-wracking.  Florav has a penchant for getting angry at the most innoportune times, which affects her driving and my mood.  So we had a couple of foibles, but once we began following the instructions that the Philadelphia Museum website gave, we were fine.  Turns out that these directions were perfect. 

We get there, we park, and we laugh about the Rocky statue that still stands alongside the base of the steps to the museum (not in its original location at the top).  We laughed so hard because the statue is almost like an afterthought, hidden there at the base of the stairs, looking all forlorn.  Yeah, we think of stuff like that.  Anyhow, we drove in a circle and parked and laughed some more at my sister’s meanderings to get into the most perfect spot EVER, and you really couldn’t miss Kahlo.  There was this extremely huge announcement hanging like a giant drape over the entrance to the Museum, so you know that this thing was a big deal.  I mean, they don’t just hang curtain-draperies-to-the-gods for just anybody.  So we hiked up the steps (which go on forever) and made it into the venue, where we were met by an usher who proceeds to ask us if we had “tickets”.  Huh.  Who knew?  Since I didn’t really pay attention and do my homework, I almost missed that huge big thing that would’ve affected the whole day tiny little detail.  I sheepishly said, “No” and was immediately directed to this gargantuan line for all of the other idiots patrons waiting to see when / if they could get in.  Of course, by the time we reached the register, I felt a knot in my stomach because we had come all this way and could very potentially have to wait.

Chance is a Fool’s Name for Fate:

When we got to the register, the lady behind the counter began with her regular schpiel about how the next “viewing” would be at about 4 o’clock.  It was barely 11am when we arrived and I kept thinking to myself: Holy crap!  I should’ve paid attention and bought the pre-sale tickets!  Dammit I’m a complete jerk! But, it was then that one of those strange fateful things that occurs frequently for me and my sis, happened.  Let me just say that someone up there loves us! 

Lady behind the counter – Oh, wait a minute!  We just received a cancellation for the 11:30 showing!  They are just assembling right now.  Is this ok?

Us – Sure!  I mean, of course!

Lady behind the counter – Very well, please step over to the line on your right…you’re all set!

And there we were.  Lucky and appreciative but unable to fully grasp the enormity of this little turn of fortune.  We stood on that long line as it snaked all the way around.  There were quite a mix of people there: young and old alike.  One group of really young girls talked loudly about the history of Frida’s life and they seemed so sure, so knowledgable that I almost felt as though I were on another planet.  But I soon got over it when two ladies strapped those audio earphone contraptions over our heads like Hawaiian leis.  As we inched closer, all we could see was a very benign self-portrait that opened the exhibit.  This single painting betrayed the paintings further inside.

Stepping Into The Psyche of A Sad Woman:

I had no idea.  My initial impression as we entered the mouth of the exhibit was that this would not touch me or my heart.  I removed myself in the beginning to try and see the paintings formally, as if I couldn’t be moved at all.  Soon though, the paintings took on a life of their own: they spoke volumes of women’s toil and in particular, Frida’s struggle to get the attention of the public, and in particular, the man that she loved: Diego.  It was a tumultuous love affair; Diego was unable to curve his womanizing even after he married Frida.  But hidden behind Frida’s engaging self-portraits is a sadness that carries and carries.  You watch this woman contend with her beliefs, political views, and raw emotions.  She endured excruciatingly painful surgeries that had her recurperating (on her back) for extended periods of time.  She even photographs herself this way and mails the heartwrenching photos to her beloved, who no doubt was still enjoying the company of other women (oh yeah, and HER SISTER) while she did so.  Harrowing.  Tough to watch, given the nature of the subject matter. Yet the worst paintings were still to come as we passed two rooms full of her works.

The Most Heartbreaking Work of Art I Have Ever Seen:

It was obvious that Frida was getting more and more introspective during her later years.  The paintings become more complex as she deals with being force-fed, crippled, and emotionally hurt.  Her greatest work: Las Dos Fridas, or, The Two Fridas instantly became one of my favorites for many reasons, but I cannot do it justice by writing about it…one must see it live and in living-person to truly grasp the enormity of a work like this. 

The first thing that you notice is its size.  It is the largest painting of her career: a work that upon reflection, is a triumph just based on that.  However, the work itself is a large-scale commentary on what Frida was truly feeling on the inside.  To the viewer’s left is Frida in Victoria dress, a white monstrosity that hangs about her in the way that she envisions Diego wants to see her: an American lady of rank and position.  She holds forceps to stop the bleeding of an unsatisfying and often difficult love.  To the right is Frida as she sees herself: poised but dressed in indigenous garb. She reflects on her old self, a woman unable to meet her husband’s needs and unable to change her roots.  She holds a small baby picture of Diego (a recurring theme of Mother and Lover) showing her need to reconnect to him as a large vein winds its way ’round his photo, through the hearts of both women and finally, to its open end, bleeding steadily.  She holds her own hand here, expressing her feelings of loneliness and abandonment.  It is tough to watch and yet you cannot turn away.  Her gaze becomes a part of you and you feel as though you’re watching something very personal, but you are also being challenged to see it as Frida defiantly stares at you from across the ages.  Who’s watching whom?, you wonder.  There is a stillness in Frida’s works that keeps on begging you to share her pain.  It is an exchange, after all.  I didn’t get just how personal it was until…it was over.

Caring and Sharing:

Unfortunately, Frida’s works sparked a heated argument which was long overdue and had nothing to do with the art at all.  That’s what’s so great and horrible about these works.  It got me and Florav to talking about pain and about loss and about anger and distrust.  It was an emotional roller-coaster ride and I (and she) was all in.  The showdown happened because we needed to get out what we just had seen.  Both of us have had our share of disappointments so it seemed fitting that Frida would call that deepest part of our feminine lives, the parts that women rarely (if ever) talk about. 

Womanhood.  I can go off on a tangent about this subject alone.  Let me just begin by saying that as complex as Frida was, a woman is ever the complex organism.  There are peaks and valleys all over the span of a woman’s life that do not exist for men.  I’m not sure if it’s just because women are born nurturers and therefore take in vs. give away or, if women are just this way because of their ability to give birth to the universe and all of its inhabitants.  I don’t know if its the history of women holding their tongues or their ability to house the world’s secrets within their stoic hearts and minds.  I don’t know if it’s just the fact that women have a tendency to live longer and be more intuitive that allow them the ability to get inside a person’s soul; her advice being the stuff of legend.  Maybe it’s just a bunch of hooey. 

For whatever reason, there we were–my sister and I–arguing very loudly.  There was another level to this arguement.  Oh sure, the old demons came back to haunt, but there were some new ones as well that surprised me.  It was like a living, breathing thing between us and it snaked around as we got lost and complained and fretted about the route home.  It sat in our throats as I gave up, throwing my sometime map to the side, infuriated.  She collected herself in a mini-mall parking lot and asked some people how to get back on the highway.  We didn’t speak for a better part of a half-hour as she followed someone else’s directions and got us home.  We sat in the car a long time, feeling that bittersweet sting as when you win the lottery and find out that most of it will go to the IRS.  When I finally had the gumption to look up, there was a well of tears in her eyes.  That got me going and when it was over, I felt as though I ran a marathon…it was draining, but elating.

It renewed my faith in art and in life.  There are still beautiful things in the world which make it work living.  Frida was the one that made this all possible from on-high in her Mexican dress, waving in the breeze of Every Woman. 

I think that now my sister and I have both found that happy medium.  There’s a lot of his-tory and her-story there; now it’s up to us to write our own. 

MeMa: Goddess Queen of the Universe

Oh, my gosh!  You just can’t keep me away from my computer these days…

I’ve been feeling a bit inspired.  This time it is by one of my favorite painters: Frida Kahlo.  I know, I didn’t know too much about her either until I saw Salma Hayek’s movie on Frida’s life.  But I decided (on a whim) to once again look at the artwork of Frida because a colleague of mine at work had suggested that I go to the Pennsylvania Museum of Art where Frida’s work is being showcased until May ‘08.  I have entertained the idea so I decided to revisit her work to see whether or not I really wanted to go or not.  Turns out that this work is worth so much more to me now than it has ever been.  I’m not quite sure what it is about this Mexican artist that is so haunting.  I believe that her use of symbols:

• Universal: the heart, plant-life, skeletons
• Feminine: Mother Nature, dolls, fertility goddesses
• Personal: self-portraits, babies, body casts

She possessed a skill for a self-taught and homegrown artist that had not been trained.  The vibrance of color schemes, odd animals, vines and veins captivate you as well as the commanding presence behind the artist herself.  Her profile is always directed at the viewer, daring them to judge her portraits.  Always forward.  Always confrontational.

So it seemed that the source of her art was the working out of some kind of problem.  She was working through her “pain”, confined for extended periods to her bed while recuperating from a staggering injury that affected her for the rest of her life. 

For me, the greatest artists need to admire other works from other artists in order to be inspired and to grow.  We create wells that we can constantly fill when we are empty.  Beauty can be found everywhere.  So long as we know where to look.

Mother Nature

  

The Writer’s Struggle Continues

When one is left waiting, having taken on a new project–wondering in which direction the story will turn–the feeling can be nerve-wracking.  I’ve extended myself more than I expected this past week as I see my play slowly starting to become real.  The one thing I have to work against?  Myself.  It’s an endless battle.  My heart sinks when I picture something less than stellar being produced from my desktop.  I churn.  I am riddled with guilt over not making it more accessible.  I wonder if it’s any good.

I’ve been writing a long time.  So it only seems natural to want to grow as a literary artist.  My pen is my brushstroke.  My poetry is my outlet to let go of my constant feelings of inadequacy.  Most writers don’t just want to hear, “It’s really good.”  To a writer, this is a death sentence.  Where is there room for growth from such a broad statement?  A writer is never quite finished.  A writer is always attempting to get better, stronger and more expressive.  Deep down inside, though, there is turmoil constantly at the ready to shoot down any creative shot, any idea worth writing about.

Enter the ingenue…someone who has potential but is (as yet) unskilled.  Such a wonderful opportunity was presented to me, quite by accident.  A colleague of mine had basically shoved a young man into my midst who had a handful of pieces that he had written.  It was obvious that he was a neophyte in the world of creative writing, but I really took his pages and made a decision to approach his pieces, much like a teacher would.  I didn’t want to insult him by “breaking out the red pen” or anything like that.  I just wanted to give him some things to think about: alternate approaches to his poetry.  It rather intrigues me how often young writers struggle themselves with the pitfalls of trying something new.  I sometimes go back and re-read some of my older works, marvelling at how bad they really are.  Still, others thought to take a chance on me and challenged me in every way possible.  I’m still never finished in the definition of my work.  Learning is something that never goes away, even when you believe that you’ve mastered this or that style.  There is always something that could’ve been said better–placed better–in a poem.  But that would come later…

So I read the pieces and came to a funny conclusion: this was coming natural to me.  I felt a sense that I had actually helped someone attempt to better themselves by working through the craft of writing.  I found myself offering more information than I believed he understood. 

The first thing I wanted to tackle: rhyme scheme

Most beginning poets find rhyming a natural progression.  The words flow and ebb and seem so effortless.  The problem with rhyme scheme is that in order for it to be any good, it had to be natural and poignant.  Most rhyming poems end up sounding like high-stylized limericks or Hallmark cards.  Let’s face it: rhyming in poetry has been present since Time Immorial and there is so much more to be said through free-verse.  Even iambic pentameter, sonnets, prose, haikus sound and relate so much better when the strict and limited rhyme scheme is removed.  It allows a newer poet to pursue, analyze and explore the world around them freely.  It is a sobering experience when you realize that you don’t have to adhere to a firm set of rules.  It’s like the first time swimming in a river naked when you always used a bathing suit.

 Next order of business: Show Don’t Tell

I also had to notify my student of “showing” and not “telling” me what the action was would be helpful.  Again, this is a youthful mistake, but one that invites a new view, a different angle that I could tell he hadn’t gone before.  Every feeling, no matter what the emotion, lost its rhythm when the writer told me that the main character felt “sad” or was “unhappy because of a death in the family”.  This ruined the vision and the creative art of allowing the reader to see what is actually happening gradually.  It also left no room for the reader to draw their own conclusions.  It makes the read boring and the reader lazy.  Why should I even pay attention if every step of the poem you’ll tell me what to feel?  If that were the case, there wouldn’t be any novels or poems at all.

Poetry Like Lyrics

Thanks to success stories like, “Def Poetry Jam” new writers are now submersing themselves in a hip-hop culture that is re-defining poetry.  I’m all for the movement to press forward and bring a new, fresh look on the poetry taught to us as children.  However, there is also a difference between lyrics and poetry.  Even Jewel capitalized on the confusion with her book of poetry (and lyrics) to feed a new marketable generation of consumers who didn’t so much care about poetry but tried to get in on the trend.  No doubt that there is a temptation to freshen up poetry by setting it to music.  Beatniks of the past often suffused jazz sounds to their creative works in a very successful way.  Modern-day artists mash up anything they can think of in order to promote, package and sell their works.  But poetry shouldn’t be about any of this. 

Is Art Still Worth It? 

I’m aware that poets no longer want to starve and that there has been an ongoing backlash from the mainstream media to quelch the ”blowhards” who claim to be poets and artists in general.  No one is doubting that some “artists” are just trying to please their wealthy parents by showing “proof” of what they’ve done creatively as justification to attend wealthy colleges.  Others are just trying to pass their “junk” off as the next best thing to earn some cash.  Some of that is true.  Still, my take on the whole issue is that there are some real serious poets out there that could write clever refrains about all of this to provide meaning in their, and in others’ lives.  I am of the opinion that there is a reason that art still exists.  I still find it a valuable outlet to express ones’s creative ideas.  Period.

In Conclusion

I think that I like this new role as teacher.  It is fun to think that I could bring beginner’s to an intermediate or expert level in writing.  The notion is exciting to me.  Besides, it beats mulling over my own work thinking that it sucks.  Don’t you think?

Love, Yvette

Dedicated to a good friend of mine who is battling cancer:

 When someone asks me how I am, I have no answerTherefore find it suspect when soliloquies are bornEmotions defined so clearly as if it sat across the tongueFor such occasion that breath should set it freeFlying through the air as just as any truthWhen someone asks me why I smile, I find no explanationThe source of all delight as present as the sunThe mystery of which I oft contemplateDrawn to a center that I’ll never reachBut understandCan’t foresee the value of a sunny day nor a rainy oneOr tell you how I feel about awakening each dayWith purpose: using all five sensesTo build thoughtsTo write poemsTo sing songsOr view the world in lense-reverse painted with rainbowsWhat could I say to get you to believeThat which I can scarce express in all divine ways combined?Can’t pin down lofty words like, Love or LossSo I choose not to waste my days deconstructingEverything I see, I touch, I feel, I smell, I taste is mineAnd words can never do them justice

Get Infected

It’d been awhile since I had been in front of anyone to read my poetry aloud.  I think the very last time was several years ago when I forced my boyfriend to drive me to a small venue in a small town in New Jersey.  The place had a coffee-shop atmosphere which was more interested in reveling at the newer, hipper artists than to ‘old timers’ like myself.  I swayed, I sauntered and I choked a little in front of the mike, puzzling over my folio of work that hadn’t been carefully selected.  I poured my energy into it and was a hit, but I felt that the success was bittersweet…and too soon forgotten.  First of all, it was too far away for an encore.  Secondly, it wasn’t my type of venue.  The sassy newcomers were raining down on the place and it was clear by their poise and ease of their memorized material, that I was out of my league.  The artistry and the music of poetry; the cast of characters that were almost caricatures of themselves were not present here.  These were a newer breed: hungry for fame and destined for marketing campaigns.

Making the decision to read aloud–once again–was big.  My story was typical for those who can remember the heyday; the time when the poetry was about mastery of language and imagery.  But it was more than that.  This time, as I read to the handful of onlookers I was keenly aware that I still had something to say…after all of these years. 

I read in front of a small crowd more interested in their liquor than to the person that stood in front of them.  The mike smelled like sweat and the lights were too bright on my face.  Someone took photos of me from off-stage and I only vaguely remember hamming it up while trying to focus on my extensive collection.  I was still indecisive because I was so preoccupied about not having read in such a long time.  The over-polite and anxious owner made her introduction and faded out of sight.  It was just me in the night.  Just me and the words that I was so privileged to say out loud. 

Once it was over, I was aware of a very inebriated gentlemen telling me about the beat poets in his slurred speech; giving me more accolades than I rightfully deserved.  In truth, I wasn’t looking for praise or for a forum.  I only wanted to be able to hear the words out loud, allowed to be free whether there was anyone to hear them or not.  I did it and I surprised myself.  Glory to The Muse!  Blessed Be Verse!  The pressing in my chest, from keeping these gifts to myself, ceased. I felt whole again.  I felt me again.

I breathed easy when I walked out into the night.  There was a spark of inspiration in my sister’s eye.  There was an energy that had passed from me to her that brought us closer than we’ve ever been.  You see, she didn’t really get it before.  She’d always thought me a little selfish for imparting my talents to a clique of haughty, self-absorbed nerds.  We seemed like a cliche: mediocre talent that passed ourselves off as revolutionaries when really we were just elitists who were full of our ourselves.

After that night, she started writing in earnest.  The torch had been passed and now she had a voice which was new, surprising and refreshing.  I’d like to think that I am (at least) partly responsible.

Vive La Revolucion!

The New Year – A Pessimist’s View

What news could a New Year bring? What office?The tender leaves have turned to breadThe lampposts are uncertain alight with fodderThe time is sublime, running like water Haven’t any worries yet, my friend?Have you seen the sunrise with its sweetness?Its wide eye hiding behind the guise of kindnessOh, it will come as it always hasGrief and disappointment like a shard of glass It’s best to sit and wait on itBefore it plunges with disregard for feelingsIts aching beauty is quick to challengeA noble heart that will stretch, will strainThere can be no other truth to pain

Colder Than A Witches’ Teet

I read recently at a venue that was less-than-stellar.  It was a local dive and I was eager to try out some new material that I’ve been working on for a solid two years only to find the reception cold (at best).  Perhaps my sister was right about the writing needing to be more commercial for the audience to grasp.  It’s just that the poems read now more like a personal memoir than anything else.  My vain attempt at trying to be more universal leaves me perplexed and asking those questions that every writer asks when they reach a plateau in their creative curve: tune in or sell out?

In essence, I’ve been working so closely with myself as Muse that I scarce can find anything else to say.  The journey inward has been a natural progression since I just have developed an insight into the psyche by evaluating my own inner struggles, defeats, triumphs.  I have to trust that these are universal feelings and that my audience would be slightly interested in hearing me rant in a more cohesive way rather than wah, wah, wah-ing about dating or some other trivial subject.  Still, I often feel that there’s always a risk that a writer takes when they stay true to themselves and reveal the workings of an active mind out loud.  I always gravitated to narrative poetry: a glimpse into one’s subconscious thought.  I don’t think that you can have truly good poetry without it.  It’s just that too often the popular sentiments presented are so simplistic as to be shameful or boring. 

THE TROUBLE WITH YOUNG POETS

I was a young poet once.  And just like all the young poets of my day, I felt the need to complain–a lot.  I complained about my parents, my friends, my relationships, and the taste of the cafeteria food.  The trouble is that all that I described in well-constructed verse or iambic pentameter was a bunch of bullshit.  Then came the discovery of expletives.  How I loved to sprinkle these four-letter words all about my poem for “effect”as if no one had ever used curse words before.  Ah, the freedom and magnificence behind freedom of speech!  What a marvel!  Imagine that.  I still never wanted the bad words to replace the language or to be used as a placeholder–for lack of a better word–no!  I was a purist that way.  Looking back, though, I realized that I was kidding myself into believing that I actually had something to say.  A poem about a dead cat or an ode to a changing season, lacked depth and probably bored my mom to tears (poor thing).  Some of the poetic topics are indeed worthy of pursuit to encapsulate the feelings and individual experiences behind them.  We’re talking about some very broad concepts like: Anger, Rape, Betrayal, Happiness, and Love.  It is interesting to me to see someone’s unique point-of-view on these and other topics.  I especially appreciate the challenge to find the least amount of words to describe these things in terse, brief lines of verse or prose or both.  But I find some young writers sacrifice the poem’s true purpose by cheapening the words to accomodate a larger, attention-deificit audience.  I enjoy lyrical poetry, but I don’t think that converting poems into lyrics or reducing the length of poem just to suit the modern approach to poetry: brevity.  It cheats the listener and gets them used to partially realized poems reserved for Hallmark cards.  Sometimes my best writing will follow a true rant to get away from the surface-observation right to the root of an experience.  Which means that sometimes the beginning of a poem is just crap until you get to the bottom, the beautiful source of Creation Divine. 

THE POEM AS PERFORMANCE ART

I am still not completely convinced that poetry should always be performed.  I think that naturally some poems are so broad in scope so that they almost need to branch out into a performance art piece to be given justice.  But I don’t always agree that poems are worthy of performing.  There’s a difference between a poetry reading and a rant.  To me, a rant could be about just about any subject and often is a response to an overwhelmingly dominant feeling.  A rant doesn’t have to have rules, it could just be allowed to flow as you think the words and breathe them into life.  Not so with a good poem.  A good poem is thought out, planned and rehearsed.  It often requires tweaking so that the sound matches the intent.  But sometimes the poem is private and personal.  What do you do then?  I think that it is worthwhile and cathartic to be able to reveal to strangers deep-seeded feelings and thoughts, but it really does depend on your comfort level.  I prefer to keep some secrets to myself, so to speak.  I don’t always feel that it is appropriate to read items that are especially painful or overly personal.  That’s just me.  But, I like to get some things off of my chest for community or to reach a mutual understanding.  It makes me feel less alone.

So maybe my ship has sailed when it comes to my poetry hey-day, but I wish that I would’ve gotten a better reception.  It still won’t stop me from writing my poetry and doing what I do, but I just need to make a decision on whether or not I’ll continue reading and be more selective on the venues.  Everyone wants to be heard, but they want to be among friends and peer groups with something to offer so that the gift keeps on giving.

Here’s hoping and wishing…