As the first reader was obviously wrapping up his story on the beauty of failure, I remembered that I was about to walk on stage, alone, all eyes on me and my neon green tank top. Immediately, my palms started to sweat. I took a swig of water, hoping more than ever before that it was bourbon. As the roar of applause started to fill the room and my own insides began to freeze, I heard my name. I stood up as certain as I could knowing that the potential of actually vomiting in front of this lovely crown was quite real. Suddenly feeling calm knowing that I was being introduced by a friend, I found comfort in a quick hug as he tagged out of the ring. Unfortunately for me, we weren't on the same page. What was expected to be a hug turned into an awkward pat on the shoulder and suddenly, I was thrust back into the realization that sometimes things don't turn out the way we dream. As the worn metal tips of my heels clanked with each timid step I took, I tried to decide what to say first. Normally in situations like these, a minute feels like an eternity. Not now, not for me. Time was speeding up and before I knew what I was going to say, my lips started explaining to these strangers that I was nervous and had given up on my planned introduction. Great.
A considerable number of months ago, I witnessed the talents of a poet who's name I won't mention in fear that his talents have brought him fame and a booking agent. He seemed so naturally graceful on stage. His presence was poetry enough, his words solidifying his right to be heard. He discussed one particular subject. Being a nervous wreck on stage. I first thought to myself, he had to be kidding. He spoke as if he was born to be a public figure. His approach was unlike any I had ever heard. At the risk of butchering his explanation, I'll continue to say that what everyone considered "butterflies" or the feeling of free fall was actually energy emanating out of us, and into other people around us. So essentially, the feeling of being nervous was actually inflicted upon us by those around us.
I asked the audience to close their eyes. Mainly, because if I had closed mine, I would have fall off the stage, but also because I felt like it calmed them down. According to my previous lesson on nervousness, I had to get them to relax before I could. Worked like a charm. As soon as their eyes were taken off of me and placed onto themselves, I knew I'd get through my performance.
I started with a poem discussing typical situations that people go through in relationships. Losing yourself in someone else. Becoming unsure of you're own convictions. Your gut becomes this fickle wad of jealously, paranoia and lust. It's a damn shame. The words came out of my mouth with such authority, that I almost convinced myself to forget my current love. I'll say this once and let it be known: Poetry is medicine. Follow the dosage. Beware of operating heavy machinery. Love is the heaviest.
The applause warmed my blood. I was ready for hardball. My next poem was torture for myself and my loved ones. It is based on a horribly true story. I was once told by a clairvoyant that said relationship was so painful that I would rather feel physical pain than the emotional pain. That because my reality. Bruised, battered and left for dead. As I continued through the poem, my eyes kept falling on the recognized faces. I felt somewhat guilty for dragging them through something I had no choice to bare. They would lower their eyes, each and every last one. I loved them more.
As I wrapped up my final poem, I anxiously waited for my breath to run out so that I too could run out and feed myself some much needed nicotine.
The thrills of performance. What a bitch.
A considerable number of months ago, I witnessed the talents of a poet who's name I won't mention in fear that his talents have brought him fame and a booking agent. He seemed so naturally graceful on stage. His presence was poetry enough, his words solidifying his right to be heard. He discussed one particular subject. Being a nervous wreck on stage. I first thought to myself, he had to be kidding. He spoke as if he was born to be a public figure. His approach was unlike any I had ever heard. At the risk of butchering his explanation, I'll continue to say that what everyone considered "butterflies" or the feeling of free fall was actually energy emanating out of us, and into other people around us. So essentially, the feeling of being nervous was actually inflicted upon us by those around us.
I asked the audience to close their eyes. Mainly, because if I had closed mine, I would have fall off the stage, but also because I felt like it calmed them down. According to my previous lesson on nervousness, I had to get them to relax before I could. Worked like a charm. As soon as their eyes were taken off of me and placed onto themselves, I knew I'd get through my performance.
I started with a poem discussing typical situations that people go through in relationships. Losing yourself in someone else. Becoming unsure of you're own convictions. Your gut becomes this fickle wad of jealously, paranoia and lust. It's a damn shame. The words came out of my mouth with such authority, that I almost convinced myself to forget my current love. I'll say this once and let it be known: Poetry is medicine. Follow the dosage. Beware of operating heavy machinery. Love is the heaviest.
The applause warmed my blood. I was ready for hardball. My next poem was torture for myself and my loved ones. It is based on a horribly true story. I was once told by a clairvoyant that said relationship was so painful that I would rather feel physical pain than the emotional pain. That because my reality. Bruised, battered and left for dead. As I continued through the poem, my eyes kept falling on the recognized faces. I felt somewhat guilty for dragging them through something I had no choice to bare. They would lower their eyes, each and every last one. I loved them more.
As I wrapped up my final poem, I anxiously waited for my breath to run out so that I too could run out and feed myself some much needed nicotine.
The thrills of performance. What a bitch.
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