Tonight I will be participating in the first Tribes Summer Reading Series dedicated to emerging writers. It is the first of its sort for A Gathering of The Tribes, an arts and cultural organization, as well as for myself. It will be my first time reading my own work out loud.
Seven minutes.
Each reader is allotted seven minutes. It is the perfect amount of time for a newbie like myself. Yet, I am still nervous. Common insecurities like
'who am I to request seven minutes of an audiences' precious time?!'
or
'other qualified poets and writers will be critiquing every syllable and every word of mine'
begin to run rampant in the streets of my mind. I flip back and forth between
'It's only seven minutes! What is wrong with you!'
to
'Dear God! It's seven whole minutes. What was I thinking?'
to the embarrassed realization that I have allowed fear to hinder me from participating in small events such as this. I have been invited to poetry readings before and always, at the last second, have backed out. My nerves, my mind, become a bit out of control. I have that terrible feeling that
I AM JUST NOT THERE YET
and I trick myself into thinking that the elusive feeling of belonging, owning, and readiness will be mine one day.
But those feelings never do come. Or if they do they only make guest appearances. They so desperately try to remind me that I need to push through. Everyone must push through.
The Cycle Repeats.
Stuck. Eager to become unstuck. Stuck again.
And then last night...I had this dream.
****
Time limits.
Time crunches.
Time is running out.
A room with many halls. Many doors. The color palette switches from an iridescence gold to a matte white.
I am running.
I give myself an extra two hours to make it to my own reading. I will be reading a story about a dream I had once. There are windows in the hallway. It is very bright where I am but there are no hanging lights. I can see the grimy cityscape flickering as outlines every ten seconds when I pass by a window.
I keep running and the lights dim.
When I arrive to my destination it is empty. Half-filled wine glasses. Cookie crumbs on plastic plates. It is dark. Nobody is here.
But I gave myself two extra hours.
I check my phone and see many messages. Messages from friends who said they'd support me.
"You are on first."
"Where are you?"
"You can read last."
"Where are you?"
"Don't be scared, please come."
I call my friend. He is a poet.
"You didn't show," he says.
"I am still coming. I will be there. I am here...I think?" I tell him.
"You didn't show," he repeats. "Were you scared?"
"No," I say. "I am confused. I have been trying to get here for four hours. I do not know why I am late."
"Everybody thought you'd be here."
"Are they mad?"
"They were waiting for you."
"But it was only seven minutes."
"You have to leave now."
"To where?"
"Go to your reading."
And then I remember that this is a dream.
"I don't want to be late for my own reading," I say to him.
"Remember to leave," he says.
I am running. There are multitudes of floors. There are bodies in doorways. I am being chased by individuals employed by the government?
A square room.
A large gold diorama is placed in the center of the room. There is a girl. A poet with red hair. I've only met her twice in real life. I am aware of this but before I can ask her what she is doing in my dream she smiles at me.
"Where were you today?" she asks me.
I take a seat next to her. I look at the gold diorama. There are only cards inside.
"I can't do this," I admit to her.
"Yes you can."
"No. You. Him. Everybody is a poet. But I am not."
"Of course you are. Anybody can be a poet. They are just words. Put your words together. What are your words, Crystal?"
I open my mouth...but nothing comes out.
I reach into the gold diorama and pick up a card.
"Is this your card?" I ask her.
"It is," she answers.
The title
COMMISSIONER
is written in gold against the white card stock.
I chuckle. "The word 'commissioner' makes everything sound elite."
"It is just a word. Put your words together," she repeats.
"Don't you see that I can't? You all are Commissioners. You all are Poets. You are all Something."
"Yes, we are all Commissioners and Poets. But so are you. Just try."
Exasperated, I scream. "Fine!"
I stare at the business card. I shake my head. "Commissioner of... Clouds," trickles out of my mouth unexpectedly. I look back at her. I feel silly.
Her green eyes open wide. "Yes," she says. "Go on."
"Commissioner of Clouds," I repeat and already a sense of awareness seeps in. "Commissioner of Souls?" I whisper.
"See..." She pushes on.
"We are all Commissioners, yes?"
"Yes," she answers.
"Even him?" I point to the doorway.
"Yes."
"Even you?"
"Yes."
"All of those bodies in the doorways?"
"Yes."
"Commissioner of Dreams!" I scream. "Yes, this is the type of poet I think I am. This is the type of Commissioner that I am."
"Good," she smiles. "You are now a Commissioner. Like all of us. Don't you see how easy and natural it is for you?"
"Have I always been a Commissioner?" I question.
"Of course you have. But now you have officially been granted the Commissioner of Clouds. You are Somebody. Own it."
I point to the gold diorama and there is a man sitting inside.
A friend.
A poet.
"You are a Commissioner?"
"I am," he answers.
"I am a Commissioner also!"
"I've heard."
The two of them stare at me.
"Remember to go to your reading tonight," they say to me.
"There is still time?" I ask.
"Yes."
"I will leave early. I will be there."
"Go," they say.
"Go," they repeat.
"Go."
****
Seven minutes.
Each reader is allotted seven minutes. It is the perfect amount of time for a newbie like myself. Yet, I am still nervous. Common insecurities like
'who am I to request seven minutes of an audiences' precious time?!'
or
'other qualified poets and writers will be critiquing every syllable and every word of mine'
begin to run rampant in the streets of my mind. I flip back and forth between
'It's only seven minutes! What is wrong with you!'
to
'Dear God! It's seven whole minutes. What was I thinking?'
to the embarrassed realization that I have allowed fear to hinder me from participating in small events such as this. I have been invited to poetry readings before and always, at the last second, have backed out. My nerves, my mind, become a bit out of control. I have that terrible feeling that
I AM JUST NOT THERE YET
and I trick myself into thinking that the elusive feeling of belonging, owning, and readiness will be mine one day.
But those feelings never do come. Or if they do they only make guest appearances. They so desperately try to remind me that I need to push through. Everyone must push through.
The Cycle Repeats.
Stuck. Eager to become unstuck. Stuck again.
And then last night...I had this dream.
****
Time limits.
Time crunches.
Time is running out.
A room with many halls. Many doors. The color palette switches from an iridescence gold to a matte white.
I am running.
I give myself an extra two hours to make it to my own reading. I will be reading a story about a dream I had once. There are windows in the hallway. It is very bright where I am but there are no hanging lights. I can see the grimy cityscape flickering as outlines every ten seconds when I pass by a window.
I keep running and the lights dim.
When I arrive to my destination it is empty. Half-filled wine glasses. Cookie crumbs on plastic plates. It is dark. Nobody is here.
But I gave myself two extra hours.
I check my phone and see many messages. Messages from friends who said they'd support me.
"You are on first."
"Where are you?"
"You can read last."
"Where are you?"
"Don't be scared, please come."
I call my friend. He is a poet.
"You didn't show," he says.
"I am still coming. I will be there. I am here...I think?" I tell him.
"You didn't show," he repeats. "Were you scared?"
"No," I say. "I am confused. I have been trying to get here for four hours. I do not know why I am late."
"Everybody thought you'd be here."
"Are they mad?"
"They were waiting for you."
"But it was only seven minutes."
"You have to leave now."
"To where?"
"Go to your reading."
And then I remember that this is a dream.
"I don't want to be late for my own reading," I say to him.
"Remember to leave," he says.
I am running. There are multitudes of floors. There are bodies in doorways. I am being chased by individuals employed by the government?
A square room.
A large gold diorama is placed in the center of the room. There is a girl. A poet with red hair. I've only met her twice in real life. I am aware of this but before I can ask her what she is doing in my dream she smiles at me.
"Where were you today?" she asks me.
I take a seat next to her. I look at the gold diorama. There are only cards inside.
"I can't do this," I admit to her.
"Yes you can."
"No. You. Him. Everybody is a poet. But I am not."
"Of course you are. Anybody can be a poet. They are just words. Put your words together. What are your words, Crystal?"
I open my mouth...but nothing comes out.
I reach into the gold diorama and pick up a card.
"Is this your card?" I ask her.
"It is," she answers.
The title
COMMISSIONER
is written in gold against the white card stock.
I chuckle. "The word 'commissioner' makes everything sound elite."
"It is just a word. Put your words together," she repeats.
"Don't you see that I can't? You all are Commissioners. You all are Poets. You are all Something."
"Yes, we are all Commissioners and Poets. But so are you. Just try."
Exasperated, I scream. "Fine!"
I stare at the business card. I shake my head. "Commissioner of... Clouds," trickles out of my mouth unexpectedly. I look back at her. I feel silly.
Her green eyes open wide. "Yes," she says. "Go on."
"Commissioner of Clouds," I repeat and already a sense of awareness seeps in. "Commissioner of Souls?" I whisper.
"See..." She pushes on.
"We are all Commissioners, yes?"
"Yes," she answers.
"Even him?" I point to the doorway.
"Yes."
"Even you?"
"Yes."
"All of those bodies in the doorways?"
"Yes."
"Commissioner of Dreams!" I scream. "Yes, this is the type of poet I think I am. This is the type of Commissioner that I am."
"Good," she smiles. "You are now a Commissioner. Like all of us. Don't you see how easy and natural it is for you?"
"Have I always been a Commissioner?" I question.
"Of course you have. But now you have officially been granted the Commissioner of Clouds. You are Somebody. Own it."
I point to the gold diorama and there is a man sitting inside.
A friend.
A poet.
"You are a Commissioner?"
"I am," he answers.
"I am a Commissioner also!"
"I've heard."
The two of them stare at me.
"Remember to go to your reading tonight," they say to me.
"There is still time?" I ask.
"Yes."
"I will leave early. I will be there."
"Go," they say.
"Go," they repeat.
"Go."
****
