PLU Open Mic featuring Cecilia Woloch
Whilst the poets are away, the novelists write plays…
As I was kindly invited to guest host tonight, I took the opportunity to propose a prosy revolution, plying the poets with Proustian madeleines. However, we had the wonderfully talented Cecilia Woloch as featured poet, and eighteen other performances, and time will tell how many of the poets I managed to corrupt.
First up was Liliya, eloquently thanking her lover for not consuming her. Then Erika, flooding us with soulful anxiety, depression and grief – a tribute to her dear dead friend. Milla gave us some beautiful Haikus in French, and will shortly be publishing Instants Temporels.
Will, from the famous Bellevile Park Pages, found art in pencils and sorts of other places, including the casinos he left home to frequent. A short play: The Emigrating Space Pioneers Take A Mediaeval Instrument On Board Their Rocket, featured a battle between ancient and modern, and the startling revelation that animals never wore clothes. Good Luck at Intergalactic Lute Camp, ye intrepid astronauts.
Stephen talked about fairy tales and rhymed delivery with chivalry – nice. Michael, Stephen’s (almost twin) brother spoke of aborted love spilled like baby food, overdrafts, the million dollar baby girl he’s planning to buy from Walmart, and concluded that men should probably die first. His unsanitary imagination also remarked that God was a bit Jewish, before going to the laundromat to hang out with some trannie hookers.
Cecelia Woloch took us to the East India Grill to meet the most beautiful waiter in the world, sporting eyes of Hindu blue, evidently a delicious man who also happens to be equipped with food. Unfortunately his whereabouts are no longer known. Our next destination was Jorge’s hammock where we lay and thought of childhood gardens, vegetables, and sex. All the men Cecelia has never slept with, calling us to eat. She wanted to be her floozy aunt, then felt guilty about mice caught in traps and not being Buddhist enough (Cecelia, not the mice).
After a break, where rumours of a flasher in the vicinity abounded, Cecelia took us riding through the woods, “toward flame with the sky in our mouths” on two borrowed horses. She gave us Jesus Robinson, a brave and serious child, then told us the secrets of her parents’ bathroom, a devilish no-go zone… from whence babies came.
Before performing, Xanadu asked me whether poets here generally adopted special reading costumes. He came on stage wearing sheer 7 denier black tights and a balaclava. This is Paris, why would anyone be shocked? Through the wool muffling his mouth, he spoke of Jeff Koons, calligraphy, and moons; appropriately enough, his exit from the stage happily coincided with a spotlight shining brightly in my eyes.
James from the Belleville Park Pages (he denies being Will’s twin, but I have my doubts) told us of the lovely wax in little ears and licked all sorts of things. Antonassia sang in Greek about the idea of paradise on earth and no devil, no hell. Her singing was smiley yet I sensed something joyfully revolutionary going on and wished I understood Greek.
Albert Alla and Company graced the stage with his play: Peter Purple. We were thoroughly rocked to the core by the unusual sight of Peter Brown praying… to the gods of literature. Oscar, Aldous, Gustav, Fyodor, Ernest… we venerate you accordingly. Peter then invented purple prose and developed the magical ability to send everyone’s speech elaborately purple with a simple glance – which backfired when he looked in a mirror. The evening ended with many, many songs from Pierre and poetry died a discordant death. I am sure it can be resurrected…
We are delighted to welcome Cecilia Woloch to our stage this week – Cecilia describes herself thus:
I drive a pick-up truck and can climb into and out of it in a cocktail dress and high heels. I can dance salsa and cha cha cha and speak fairly decent French. I’m trying to learn Polish and can fake it in a couple of other languages. I know maybe more than is healthy to know about eastern European history, the Bolsheviks, WWII and Hitler and Stalin, but way less than any academic specializing in those things would (I hope) know. I’m an excellent parallel parker. Good navigator and map-reader. I have expertise in making complicated travel arrangements and in getting small children to laugh, if not getting them to go to sleep. I can ride a horse with a Western or English saddle. I can do splits, but not cartwheels. Double pirhouettes but not triple. My grammar skills have advanced to the point that I know how and when to use the subjunctive. I can braid my hair with my eyes closed. I can explain the history of English prosody in fifteen minutes, given a couple of coconuts. I make a perfect cup of coffee and a mean omelette, but that’s the full extent of my culinary skills. I know the names of many wildflowers. Can still do “figures in my head.” I’ve taught creative writing to the criminally insane and line dancing to the elderly. I’ve crossed the Polish-Ukrainian border on foot in the company of smugglers, been robbed by a Russian gang in Warsaw and rescued by off-duty police in Paris. I’m not talking about Havana. I prefer to live out of a suitcase. Once gave myself a haircut with a breadknife. Can build a fire and bathe in a bucket. Can apply lipstick in a rearview mirror.