Weird Deer

On Friday evening, after Eileen read at Bailey/Coy Books, I had planned to walk back home with Monica, watch a movie maybe, or perhaps just drink the half bottle of Vinho Verde I had bought earlier and drift into a stupor.

It had been a weirdly taxing week—stupid details on top of a clinging despair I couldn’t shake—but everything was just manageable enough with the prospect of an Eileen Myles reading at the end, a reward for whatever ordeal presented itself.

And the reading was spectacular.

She read only poems from Sorry, Tree, and she read them with rapid accelerations and decelerations, keeping everyone completely off-balance, open, and rapt. She had some trouble with the microphone, and she stumbled over a couple lines (a reading the night before in Tijuana made her perhaps a little tired), but any awkwardness this created only amplified the draw—her strange mix of awesome charisma and self-consciousness is the most compelling reader persona I’ve ever seen. “No Re-Writing” and the “Dear Andrea” series were as good as I’ve seen.

Lithe and bouncing on the balls of her feet, she looked like an athlete warming up for some kind of sublime triathlon (performance, poetry, fiction?). Watching her, I felt that there was something supremely animal in her presence—a wild potential to devour, or the gentle willingness to be devoured—but now, after a weekend’s remove, I think I may have gotten it wrong. What felt animal at first, was actually something supremely human—THIS is how we’re supposed to be!—though it’s almost unrecognizable as such because so few of us allow ourselves the freedom. Eat me. Say it. Have it said.

Monica and I left the reading in awe.

When I finally opened the door to our apartment after babbling most of the way home (”I feel clean” I remember saying), I saw that the lights were out and something odd was hinging from the ceiling between the living room and the dining room. A half-circle of dark letters silhouetted by the streetlights outside the window.

My first thought was that we had been robbed, then that the power had somehow gone out, then that perhaps something had happened with Boo (how the cat could have caused the lights to go out is a mystery, but that’s where my mind went). The adrenaline-rush of confusion burned the half-crescent banner’s silhouette into my brain.

Then they flipped on the lights and yelled “Surprise!”

I saw Ross sitting to my right, and Maggie jumping up and down in the entryway, and some guy I didn’t know holding up his cell phone to record my reaction (Later, I learned this was Maggie’s friend “Clean Steve”). I stumbled through the living room smiling and receiving hugs.

(“Just take it,” I told myself, “Don’t think.”)

In the dining room were Paul and Heidi, plus Prosecco, wine, beer, Tostidos scoops with salsa, smoked Gouda and some kind of cheddar cheese. Melanie and Pete were there, as well as Brian. Lots of hugs and happy birthdays for me, so much that I felt dumb with happiness.

After Maggie had led everyone through a round-robin group critique of a review I had written (Monica read it aloud—“He dips into the darker, more methodical territory . . . ” she read, “Nice alliteration,” they said, winking and giggling) Charlie, Barb, Matthew, Dara, Lisa and Eileen all came in, a darkly dressed mass of good will.

Eileen grabbed the cupcakes and lit their candles with Monica, then urged everyone to sing “Happy Birthday.” (“C’mon, c’mon, sing!” she said to the stragglers). Out of the corner of my eye I saw her beaming a little, smiling and swaying a bit like a pirate, and an intense blast of feeling washed through me—I felt like I could stay awake and happy for the rest of my life just thinking about what was happening RIGHT NOW.

Matthew asked for a speech but I could only fumble through a sincere but awkward thank you—I was stunned and overjoyed, never having been surprised like that, and never really understanding how much I secretly wanted to be (I now think everyone should have at least one surprise party in their lives—do they?)

Monica, Maggie and Boo ended up asleep on the bed in short order, and I gave some towels to Dara and Lisa for their trip back to your place (long story).

After everyone else had left, I stayed up with the streamers and paper, reading the end of a Richard Hughes novel I had been enjoying during the week, and drinking someone’s discarded glass of wine. The entire night was like a dream of selfish happiness—the bizarre coup de grace of course being Eileen with a birthday cupcake, sweeping through the room to talk to me about poetry.

I wish you could have been there, if not for your most welcome and missed presence, then just to remind me that it was all real. But hopefully I will see you soon, and we will talk then.

XO,
Travis