Since 2009, I have been hitting the open mic for spoken word in Second Life. A metaverse (we coined it before Mr. Zuckerberg did) that was full of fascinating people. I met friends from India, the UK, Australia, China, Japan, Germany, and of course, the United States.
For me, being an OG gamer since the days of Half-Life, and mIRC, Second Life was addicting. And socially fulfilling for me. When I was living in downtown Toronto I had no car. So, that meant I had to live along the subway line. I am completely crappy at taking buses on a complicated system. I end up in another country. Almost.
Anyhow, the apartments along the subway line are of course, very expensive. And I wasn’t making much at the time. Barely $39k per year. I couldn’t afford a car anymore. Or cable. Internet was myentertainment. And lifeline to growing my subcontracting opportunities as a freelance writer.
I slammed the mic in college and university. And I have hosted poetry events, taught poetry, and shared my open mic performances in Second Life for fourteen years now. I’m ready to do it offline now. And hopefully, meet some new friends.
Tonight I am going to slam the mic… except I don’t really SLAM. I read spoken word. The SLAM style is only one of them. A musician friend in Oregon (Rusty) said my style was weird, but incredible acoustically. And uniquely me. I love ya Rusty. You are a great friend.
For the Record I Am Scared As Heck… Still Going Though
I bought a blouse that is weird and wonderful. It has a ‘ye old Britain’ look to it. I know it’s weird, but so am I. And I don’t think the feather boa I ordered on Amazon will arrive in time tonight. But I’ll have it next Tuesday when I go read spoken word at the same venue.
Austin has a number of spoken word communities. I am not going to share the one I have chosen. But it’s pretty cool. Not pretentious. Open to readers of all ages and backgrounds. It’s not snooty (I guess that’s the same as pretentious). It’s about human expression in all forms. Happy, sad, angry, lonely, erotic feelings, and broken hearts. I can be EMO but I prefer to be the clown whenever possible.
But my poetry is sensual. Heartbreakingly honest and raw human emotion. Victories? Many. Disappointments? Many more. And thoughts about some cute man that happened to draw my attention? Sure. Why not appreciate pretty things. And people who are even prettier on the inside, with mind-blowing personalities and brilliance.
Did I mention I really like smart people? Here is the kicker. I like people who are smarter than me. Diane for instance? Brilliant. My friend Christina in New York? Creative AND brilliant! And a savvy businesswoman and animal nut. I don’t learn anything by being the smartest person in the room. I prefer to be surrounded by people with big brains.
I’m rambling because I am scared. They said I could read from paper because I haven’t memorized any of them. Some parts of my favorites though. So, I will be able to lift my head and make eye contact with the crowd. Still, I am going to a popular bar, and standing up at the front, and reading my poetry. The words will be judged by every person in the room. The structure and the meter too. And my personality will also be judged because the poems are transparent.
The Single Girl Blogger Was Born in an Effort to Learn About Herself
I was alone in the city and broke. I did go out on more coffee dates than a human ever should. I believe my second husband was coffee date #77? I blogged those dates, keeping the men anonymous. The blog caught fire and got tens of thousands of readers monthly.
But I was a bit of a jerk too in my early thirties. Less sensitive to think that some of those guys may have read my blog. Sure, I shared the nice stuff too. But crash and burn stuff? How would I have felt if someone shared that about me? I’m not cool with that now. Unless I have something flattering to say. Because that would be nice for someone to read about themselves. So that’s the rule… no dirty laundry (except my own). Positive stuff that makes the world a better place.
I reserve the right to be self-effacing. My inner critic is on overdrive right now. I’ll get her duct-taped to a chair in my psyche again soon enough. She just took advantage of the “holiday blues” to take a bite out of me. And my sense of self-worth.
What is different about this blog? I am older. Wiser. And more considerate about what I share. I’m not a passive-aggressive person and hate people who are. I see your passive aggression and raise your aggressive aggression! Just kidding, I really just don’t have it in me right now.
Understand dear reader, this blog is about me sorting things out in my head. Learning. And patching up some holes that were punched through my spirit and self-esteem. The optimism is still in there. Because I see good people all around me if I look. Nice people. Doing the best they can, like me.
The Guerilla Poetess in Toronto Canada
I used to do this cool thing when I lived in Toronto. I would print my poetry at work (please don’t tell my old boss) on colored paper, and distribute it across the city. I would sign the poem “The Guerilla Poetess” and leave “random works of art fare around the city. On the subway, a park bench, by the harborfront where I used to sit and write. And wait for something good to happen.
Once they wrote a short blurb about me in the Metro. Some free paper they give you on the subway had a little square with the caption “Who Is The Guerilla Poetess?” Maybe fifty words about what I was doing. And how some people loved it. The concept of it.
I used to watch them you know? Put a few around, and then sit back and see what people did with them. Sometimes, they started reading and threw it out right away. On the ground? Eco-girl would go pick it up. Some people laughed as they dropped the little piece of paper. But that’s okay. Not their thing, right?
But some people would read it. Take a deep breath, and fold it gently, and place it in their pocket for keeping. And that’s when I felt like a superhero with a secret identity. I was “The Guerilla Poetess” and I made you stop in the middle of a fast-paced, negative, and sometimes hostile city, and consume something beautiful. And realize that was my gift to you. That creative moment you enjoyed in your day.
Small gestures matter. Kindness matters and so does creativity. I have the creativity to spare and always look for ways to share it. Especially if it makes someone happy. Even for a moment. Or feel less alone in their struggles, and burdens, and questions about the meaning of life. 42!!! Nevermind…
What Next Writer Girl?
I’ve always written poetry. Since I was seven (7) years old. Ask my Mom. For a long time, I had to hide the poetry from my Dad. You see, he wasn’t the creative type. But his dad (my Grandpa) was a published poet in Italy. And a writer. In fact, his ability to write in Italian and English landed him in Mussolini’s administrative office. One of them anyhow, in southern Italy. And then after Italy was liberated, he helped translate for the Allies. Earned some brownie points, and was able to immigrate shortly after to Canada.
How is that for the power of the pen? Nonetheless, my Dad thought creative people were distractable. Flakes. Probably why I ended up in Marketing. It was the business education my Dad wanted me to create, but I managed to find a creative angle within it. As a content (writing) and digital media strategist.
The “Microcosm of Ms. Skylar Smythe” is archived now. Because it shows a transition to a happy new married life in Texas. It hurts to read those hopes and dreams now. I feel stupid reading the idealistic gushing of a girl on her way to a happy new life. I’m not that girl anymore.
I decided to not start a new chapter… I was going to create a whole new darned book. From scratch. My story. My poetry. My feelings, and emotions and victories and losses. And my learning of self-mastery. There are so many projects on my plate it is insane.
Or it is me hiding from loneliness the only way I know how. And that is to work. Clean. Cook. Take care of my dogs and live a quiet life reflecting on stuff. Reminding myself how much I have going for me. Even if I feel I have so much further to go before I feel like me again.
What To Wear?!?!? Yep I Am Nervous AF
But I am starting to get there. My separation started verbally and in my head, in December 2019. It’s been two years of exit. And 2022 needs to be growth. And personal fulfillment. And no more dogs. 🙂 And good people to spend time with. I can’t do this isolation crap anymore. I need humans sometimes. Offline.
Wish me luck tonight. This matters to me. Reading spoken word. Please don’t let the bar be filled with guys that make me feel uncomfortable.
Now I am thinking of dressing down… Nah. I’m wearing the darned blouse. Okay, maybe not the heels. Don’t want to overdress. The riding boots. Yes! This is already intimidating.
Anyone find my confidence laying around somewhere? I know I had it…
I invited someone to attend. A few someones actually but hey, it’s Christmas week. Everyone is booked up, I get it. But I am actually glad I’m going alone. Some part of me feels like I need to. If that makes sense.
So much for the beta-flash theory. 😉 I’m just a little insecure right now. And that’s okay. It’s a process.
