Much like a Perfect Nancy dream the rich voice of Neil Diamond floated out of the façade of a pizzeria as I walked by. There's nothing quite like the Zen of a song matching a mood in a public aural venue - a soundtrack moment. At lunch table today I asked what kind of movie our various lives would be.
It was decided that mine would be shot with a hand-held camera. I said it would probably be all jump cut and after a half hour or so people would either be diggin' it or saying Ohhh, I feel squeamy with all this non-stop.
Last night, whilst in the epicenter of a party, someone asked Do YOU still write, Nancy? To which I responded I write every day.
Someone said, No, she is the sort of person, Nancy, who thinks that writing is solely poetry and fiction, non-commercial expression.
I then said Yes, I do still write.
And why isn't it public? Because there's no public forum in this middling city whereby I would be happy to plan to stand atop a stage reading emoting effusing dissecting.
It would have to be the right sort of event, not a barfly-infested (yum) poetry event typical of here.
I told the questioner that I write pieces, print them out, scotch (yum) tape them to the wall and look at them periodically until a new one comes.
Off to yet more points beyond, including a sale of beloved John Lennon objets d'art. I have an inkling that tonight a JL piece will be hanging in my happy barely live/majority work space. Onwards.