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Last night, on a kind of whim, after Seth called from work and told me John Ashbery was reading in Providence, I attempted to drive down to hear him read. I've been in a funk lately, and we both thought it might help snap me out of it. My gut said, "It's already late, it's a longish drive (90 miles one way), and the area is unfamiliar," but my limbs hopped into the car and drove. "If I can average 80mph on the way down," I thought, "I'll make it." In reality I averaged far less, but I was still feeling relatively optimistic when I exited the highway at 6:55 for the 7 o'clock reading. Then it all went horribly wrong. I must have been looking down at the Mapquest directions when the off-ramp split, because I ended up losing myself for more than a half hour. By the time I found the reading it was 7:40. Ever tenacious though, I managed to find a wee spot just down the block and work my parallel parking magic on it.
The real humiliation began as I approached the door of the caffe. Sitting with his back to the street in Tazza's glass storefront was John Ashbery reading to what can only be described as a sardine-like mass of bodies. For those of you familiar with Boston, think Green Line after a Sox game. There was absolutely no possibility of my squeezing in to catch the tail end of the reading. The moment I cracked the door, people would have begun spilling out. Had I not been so beside myself with frustration, I would have snapped a photo. And I would have hurled that photo at every whiny critic who likes to claim Ashbery & Co. are the reason folks don't read poetry anymore.
Unfortunately, this episode is typical Ginger--not as bad as forgetting to pick my daughter up from school two weeks ago--but still disconcerting. I have an appointment tomorrow to have my head and meds checked-up. Hopefully a new doc will have something wise to say about putting my Humpty Dumpty brain back in order.
