Oct 2, 2018
It’s me! This is my third open-mic night, and the first one filmed. I’ve still got some work to do on delivery and polishing some jokes, but I’m proud of my progress so far.
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It’s me! This is my third open-mic night, and the first one filmed. I’ve still got some work to do on delivery and polishing some jokes, but I’m proud of my progress so far.
From Facebook Memories, April 16, 2017
Well-- tonight's open mic, "Quay Words", (held at Art Matters Art Centre) went a little better than expected-- all the performers did well, we all had fun, and, well, um.... a laugh.
You see, we were robbed.
A young woman had been hanging around the Harbour Quay area, and came into the Art Matters Art Centre after I showed up to get the space ready (even though Gwynne and Dave were already there, putting out chairs and making coffee, etc....) I notice this woman come in, silent, with a huge backpack, she goes over to some of the jewelry and touches some pieces, thinking of what she might "want"; so I stand close to the door to keep an eye on her, (kind of remembering my days of working at HMV and The Bay back in Edmonton) maybe that somewhat intimidated her, because the next thing I know, she's bolting for the door, but stops in the doorway to grab a copy of the free ArtLink magazine. I look over at Gwynne, who's standing behind the counter-- we look at each other with a "WTH?" expression, but it didn't look like she took anything, so....
Gwynne and Dave leave, I'm there, running the show, a few presenters show up, willing to pay the 5 dollars for admission, even though readers get in free, audience members pay. I asked Gywnne for a bowl to put admission money in and Gwynne left me a round cookie tin which I then left on this student desk/chair, so that people coming in for "Quay Words" could drop their money in. One performer pays with a five dollar bill, and another pays with toonies and a loonie. So we sit over in the performance area and we have a decent time as people present some of their original material. The woman with the backpack returns, opening the door and asking if she could come in. I answered positively, thinking she might join us, so she sets her backpack on the student desk/chair right next to the tin with the admission money, with her back turned to me, acting like she's rummaging through her backpack, I'm thinking, "she's looking for her stories or poems and soon she'll come over and join us." Next thing I know, she's gone again. I was gobsmacked. It took me a minute to realize what might have just happened so, I do go up and check on the cookie tin. All that's left are the toonies and loonie. I decide to look for her, I open the door and look left, then right, and then off into the distance across the road-- she's far away and walking. I choose not to chase her down. I close the door and tell the group what happened. The performer who paid said, "That was my $5 bill-- Oh well, I've given to charity,"
We laughed.
That became the title of my poem about this incident.
"We Laughed"
“Can I come in?”
Sure, I said.
Some of the others probably did too.
We were busy listening to poetry;
we weren’t really paying attention,
to the girl at the door
with the overloaded backpack.
She set it down on the chair,
Rummaging through it for something;
I didn’t know what, I thought maybe she had a story,
she would share…
Little did she know, she would become the story,
the highlight of the night;
Emphasis on high if you’d like…
But then she disappeared,
along with the five dollar bill in the tin can
set aside for the admission to the show.
In a flash we were suspicious;
I got up and looked
Out the door
I looked left
Then right
Then south
There she was
Walking away
Should I have chased her?
Nah.
So I told the assembled group what was gone--
“That was my $5 bill? Oh well. I’ve given to charity.”
Then we laughed.
Maybe even applauded that sentiment,
How it fit so well.
No panic,
No fear,
Just a little confusion,
Disillusion
Everyone’s silent reflection going on internally
“Am I late?”
“Yeah… and you missed all the action.”
Another round of laughter.
Not for the arrival of another poet…
Laying high as fuck in bed, thinkin which song im gonna sing tomorrow at the open-mic
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