My daughter says…

My daughter tells me about her friend–how he uses Facebook to get the word out about his upcoming spoken word performances.

He creates a new Facebook profile picture and he asks his friends to use it for their profile pictures. The idea is that it starts to show up a lot–and when other friends ask about it, they get a link to the event.

Does this work? Is it annoying?

I don’t know, but my daughter says I should try it, and this seems like a prime time. If you have friends in the New York area, can you help me get the word out? (And help with this experiment? It could be brilliant–or it could be the fastest way to lose Facebook friends ever.)

Here (again) is the picture:

Cornelia Street Cafe, New York

Here is the link: http://on.fb.me/yGugPH

(In the best interests of the Department of Redundancy Department, I’ve posted a Facebook note, too.)

Countdown to NYC: 2 days
Countdown to The Cornelia Street Café: 3 days

3 days to NYC

Countdown to Cornelia Street: 4 days.

What to wear: Not yet.

New shoes: Nope, not yet. (All my shoes are clunky, old, and not good for long walks–a triple whammy. I need style plus comfort if I’m going to Gotham.)

And the ups and downs: Today I found out that one of the papers I’d sent p.r. didn’t, in the end, have room to fit us into their calendar. On the one hand (always that one hand!), I was glad they at least showed an interest. But it was still disappointing.

I’ve been trying to stay philosophical. Lately, disappointments seem to be followed (even at a length) by… what’s the antonym of “disappointment”? It seems to even out.

Oscillations.

And another sneak preview–Sarah Sarai’s poem “Like Wings”:
What can be said. Speed is
a calling. Desire is a bidding.

Judgment rises from steam
and then where?

Fortune is the heart of
two chambers like wings

and the instinct to soar,
migrate, see the world

and its topographical
gestures. Topography is

the back of a woman seen as
desert or a reptile’s spine

seen as disco hall of mirrors 
as glitter and gold lamé.

You have not learned to trust
(the muted instinct).

Fixed stars are lighting
your dance floor. Risk.

Sarah Sarai, “Like Wings,” published in Redheaded Stepchild

If I were a Beatle, I would not be worried about this

Cornelia Street Cafe, New YorkCountdown: 6 days to NYC, 7 days to Cornelia Street

And will anyone come?

Yesterday I heard “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,” and I thought about the Beatles–how they didn’t have to worry about drawing a crowd. (They might have thought about it before their debut at the Casbah Club–but I wonder whether they were just so amped about getting to play that they didn’t stop to worry about having an audience–and that’s cool!)

Plane ticket: Check

Hotel: Check

Rental car for the ride up to the Cape: Check

Books (!): Check

Audience: Still working to get the word out

What to wear: Whoops!

Until then, here’s a taste of what’s to come–Margo Berdeshevsky’s poem “To Open the Arms.”

I have been told. And in the returning bright
ahead of April I will carve a bird from a remnant bone, crone-
whisper it to fly, to be an owl, if it dares, haunt these passages,
what stolen heart and fresh blood in its delicate clasp,
arms, wide open?
The Filipina midwife who tells me how it is,
who watches lives coming in because I
crawl womb-ward, backward, busy
in my cave whittling bones of hope because,
always homesick for a tribe I do not, never
know how to join, like tracing paper–what
is a scream and what is a war, and what is
a hand for, if not for touching, making, what
is a wing for when it breaks, how to lie in kindness
how to plant for spring and not explosion’s terrible
art–because I make the infant lines, rather, have
a midwife to tell me how she mourns the deformed
baby girl, the blonde mother of three, dying stubbornly,
the metal marriage without love, the pale animals
all in one village who leave the land in concert,
on the wing.

Margo Berdeshevsky, “To Open the Arms,” from But a Passage in Wilderness