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I slept most of yesterday. I got back from the final day of Bumbershoot, carrying a bag of chapbooks and our tri-panel posterboard of Tent City, and fell into bed. I slept until about 2:30 AM and woke to the keyboard clickety-clicks of Wes writing his column for Real Change. I got up and browsed around for awhile. I didn't write an entry, but I did write a website review that is also a journal entry. On Sunday I bought a few things at Bumbershoot besides books: Dragonblood incense sticks, scented oil, and a little package of frankincense and myrrh...

When Wes was finished with his column, about 4:30 PM, I read it, then went back to bed. He came to bed soon after emailing it in to the editor.

At 9:45 AM we were both awakened by the horrible scream of the building's fire alarm. While we stumbled around like Keystone cops getting groggily dressed I growled, "This had better not be a drill or I'm going to strangle somebody." We padded down three flights of stairs carrying our shoes, preceded by one of the more disabled residents on her crutches -- and arrived in the lobby to be told it was a false alarm. I have no honor. I don't keep my word. I did not, actually, kill anyone. We just turned around and went back to bed. (But I wasn't actually obligated to kil anyone, was I? It wasn't a drill, it just wasn't a real fire.)

I hadn't gotten my disability check Saturday even though the direct deposits usually arrive promptly on the 1st even on holidays. Since I had budgeted myself so that I would be able to spend the last of my money from August at Bumbershoot and have my September check for necessities, I was in a bit of a fret. (I live on about $550 a month; a paycheck for part-time work, and a partial disability check.) I had meant to go down to the state disability office Tuesday afternoon to check on it, but it was too late when I woke up. I called my case manager, however, and she reassured me; all of the state checks had been delayed because of the holiday weekend, but would arrive on Tuesday. Which mine did.

I caught up with "sites I read" barely in time to get to writing workshop, and ended up thinking I should perhaps have stayed home another day and let my associate-director do the facilitating tonight. My nerves were still over-excited, and one of the participants was demanding on the nerves -- the kind of person I usually have a lot of patience with, but who in my current state almost drove me screaming into the night.

He hasn't been in for quite awhile and his files had been put in the backup archives. He was looking for them, so I said just a moment I'll put them back. I had several other windows open at that time, and I started closing them or putting them in "hide" so that I could get to the directories I needed to move his files, but he was already at my shoulder leaning forward saying, "That's not my file, where's my file, that's not my file..."

I wrote a lesson on sonnets for the night, and tried to get everyone to play with sonnets. Wes wrote one, everyone else at least discussed why they didn't want to write one, Kevin found a "Sonnet on Writing Sonnets" on the Net, this guy pays no attention whatsoever. I encourage everyone to write what they want to write -- the Topic of the Evening is just to stimulate you if you need an idea to start with. He wrote three free-verse poems, I was tickled. But it's also Rules of Workshop that you listen to other people while they are reading! He would keep writing, and start talking to himself under his breath as well as soon as someone else started talking, as if he needed help to concentrate over the distraction. I had only enough energy to be annoyed, and not enough to confront him, which I should have.

Then at the end, it took forty minutes to get him out of the office. We meant to catch the ten o'clock bus and caught the 10:30 bus instead. He wanted to type up "just one more poem." (That I can sympathize with! ) He couldn't remember how to save his poems. I was trying to walk him through saving and he says, "But where do i put the title?" and I say, "You've already named it" and point to the box that says, "Save Current Document as:" and he says, "I mean the name of the file.. that says document" !!!

All of you who have done Tech Support or User Training are now nodding your heads and either wincing or grinning. I confess, I raised my voice; I said, "Just.. do .. exactly what I tell you to... and come in... for computer class... LATER!"

As we finally walked to our bus stop, Wes asked plaintively, "Can I garotte him next time, please?" but I answered, "No, dear, we can't kill the workshop members, it plays hell with the statistics."

With all the annoyances, what I find myself worrying about the most is that he might not come back. He mentioned having been in jail long enough to write a story; I suspect that whatever trouble he got into, he should have been diverted to Mental Health Court. If he will come into workshops regularly, and if I can stay calm around him, he might find the experience helps ground him. Storm was in almost as chaotic a state when she first started coming in to StreetLife Gallery in 1993, and she's blossomed since then.

Anyway... when I woke this morning I felt much refreshed. I think I'll make it to WHEEL meeting. I'd better get a move on though.

First, Wes's sonnet:

Poetry Race

This is what I'm going to call a sonnet;
Don't try to tell me it is otherwise.
I haven't decided what to write upon it,
Except that I wouldn't write about flies.

My sonnet's second verse is now a'startin'
My poetry horse has run half of its mile.
So far she might as well have been a'fartin'
She'd win more points for fartin' style.

Round the last bend we're coming now!
Without any idea of what to say.
Oh no we're about to collide with a cow!
This hasn't been our best poetry day.

My sonnet is lying dead in the dirt.
I was thrown clear; I wasn't hurt.
© Dr. Wes Browning

Write On!