The month.

Little Sister performed at a fundraiser when I was home last month. Someone said to her, “The music I listen to is very rhythmic. I don’t hear any at all in what we heard tonight.”

Little Sister responded politely with something smart in the intelligent, kind way. I wanted to respond with something smart-mouthed. That’s the biggest difference between us other than age and shape—she’s not a deadbeat, will probably go far in life with politeness. One point, the same person asked me where we were born. “Here. Philadelphia. At Penn.”

I am reading a book of poetry (a poetry book doesn’t sound right) to be reviewed and I picked it for the cover, the author photo, some lines I skimmed, that order. I am currently on my first pass of the book, about half through—it is so smart and smug and sure and great. A folded sheet of paper that I read while I was waiting for the train to pick up Lindsey’s car keys says positive things about it succinctly. I use it to cover the cover, some embarrassment.

Three weeks ago, the night after my cousin died, I read a poem in front of some people. Strangers, an old professor, a few friends. The theme was Bad Date America and I won’t say much about that and don’t know if I had in an expected way, but I read a poem. Can you hear the air get sucked out of a room, everyone drinking in the light for a short time, your voice getting steady? The way I deal with grief and death is steadiness. I shook some hands, met some people, felt young and inexperienced, left during intermission. I was the only person who hadn’t published at least a chapbook, probably won’t ever, and I am okay with that, I am sure of it.

My friends Anna and Ingrid visited from Baltimore. Old friends! We sat with a bar friend for a while and he told us sensational stories. He and I have talked about Judith Butler, but I have not talked about Judith Butler with everyone though I wish I had so I didn’t crumble, feel outnumbered, be outnumbered, but that’s a lot of the time and not specifically last week when Anna and Ingrid came and stayed and left. There is the quality of sight when friends who are close and distant arrive—the way your rug is askew, the flour on the tablecloth, the unswept porch. How small the rooms, how colorful the walls.

I am listening to this record. An old one. Maybe I’ll write about the rest later. The connective tissue of culture and experience, loss in different, permanent ways, what it means to be angry and to shut your mouth, how maybe I am winding down in Chicago.