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7:51 p.m. - January 21, 2003
A shot in the arm, to say the things I've been afraid of all these years, the morose poetry will have an audience and I will read my writing
I write an entry and it disappears Web site not responding.

Good thing, too. I was overly excited. I've breathed since.

Out of the blue a woman who coordinates poetry readings at one of my favorite bookstores called in a cheery British accent, asking me to read my poetry. I was confused for a moment until she explained that she's been working on an anthology project with one of my professors at ye olde alma mater and my name came up, as did where I live. If I think about it I'll be pissed at Doctor X because she knows how private my poetry and writing name are but I'm not going to think about that right now. I'm tickled. Only a few former professors, my current advisor, and my siblings know my writing name; maybe Bathsheba, but she's never said anything.

February 16, Berkeley, California.

And I said yes. I said yes!


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