If we’re lucky, it’s the Vogon Guard come to throw us into space. If we’re unlucky, the Vogon Captain might want to read us some of his poetry first.
Poetry readings feel like that sometimes. I haven’t felt right reading at them in Toronto at all. There are some amazing writers out there who are willing to put themselves up on stage and read. And there are some not-so-amazing writers who do the same. It’s all subjective anyhow.
I don’t have the look, or the flair, or the showmanship that a lot of those readers have. I’ve never had it. I’m a freak in sheep’s clothing. I look just like everyone else on the outside. I don’t always dress in black. I don’t wear shiny clothes, although I do covet them. (mmm… shiny…) I’m just someone else, anyone else. You won’t see me, because I’m with them, and they’re a lot flashier than I’ll ever be.
Sometimes this bugs me, but usually it doesn’t. If I could wear evening gowns once a week, I would. If I could get up on a stage and sing for people who were listening, I would.
There will be no poetry reading in my evening tonight. I think it lost its appeal when I left London. It’s not my place anymore, and I don’t think it ever really was. I’m not one of them either.