Yesterday, the Printers Row reading. I'm not sure why, but it seemed a little lackluster. It may have been the drab windowless crammed room lacking which reminded me of a classroom. The hideous, uncomfy chairs, and the flourescent lights. Or maybe that everyone went over the time they were supposed to read, and sadly the people I would have liked to have heard more from were the only ones who half followed the rules and the rather awful ones went on FOREVER. I also felt a bit bad about subjecting my non-poetry inclined parents to it, and I kept looking over to see if they were still conscious.
I wound up reading first and only did six short pieces, mostly new, but a couple from belladonna. Everyone seemed to respond well, but the energy was still high at that point and no one squirming in their chairs. By the end, I wanted to hang myself from the overhead projector.
