Art is Not Free

It is Tuesday morning at 4:30 a.m. and I have just posted my blog for the day, but here I am starting a new one for Thursday, because I am waist deep in the comments section on my local news station’s Facebook. Here is a link to the article that folks are talking about.

To summarize very briefly, a businessman took pictures in front of the local mural and posted them on his professional website. The artist of the mural then sent a bill to the businessman, citing copyright infringement. A few things to note: firstly, the businessman is not the man who owns the building- that man offered the artist the wall for free to paint upon, just FYI. Secondly, the businessman never received a cease and desist letter. Now, it could be argued that the businessman is not necessarily using the mural to sell anything, although it could also be argued that he is using it to promote his business. The artist wishes to receive compensation should the latter be the case. I don’t think they went about it the right way- you definitely need to send out a cease and desist first. You can’t just throw a bill in someone’s face. However, what is irking me is the belief that because the artist painted it to be enjoyed by the city, they deserve no compensation should it be used for promotional purposes. I don’t think that the businessman had any ill intent in his use of photography of the mural, but if he was using it to sell anything or promote his business, he means to pay the artist. What really makes me angry is the faction of people on the internet who think that it should just be painted over out of spite. As if art is created without time, effort, or money. It was at this point that I closed out the comment section and took to writing this blog.

First of all, copyright infringement is a problem- and the only thing you can’t copyright is an idea. If nobody ever told you that, I am telling you now. For instance, every word you are reading has been copyrighted. There’s a little disclaimer I put on the bottom right hand corner of the web browser version of my blog, and it states as such- I have literally put it there for the people who do not know that everything you publish in a blog is copyrighted. And yes, when it comes to the Fine Arts, the mural an artist paints on a wall is copyrighted by the artist. That is their intellectual property.

Secondly, regarding the fact that you cannot copyright an idea, to earn a copyright you must complete a project. Ergo, you must put forth the time and effort needed for that project. When you think of the steps that it takes from inception of a story idea to basic outline to rough first draft to final edit to finished book, you see why an idea cannot be copyrighted. We all have ideas, but it is only those who make the necessary efforts that get to put their name on the idea. A lot of people who do not work in the Arts think that art comes easily or naturally, and sometimes it does. But mostly it takes effort and time, and often money. That artist probably started out with a pencil drawing and a blank wall. When I think of everything they put into it from buying the paint and brushes to measuring and outlining to actually doing the damn thing- that’s a lot of time. That’s a lot of effort. It was probably a lot of money, too. So of course, if someone were to use that mural to promote or sell something, the artist should be compensated.

And finally, how dare these folks say they should just paint over it? You would destroy someone’s work, simply because you don’t feel they should be rewarded for it? Who, exactly, are you? I’d like to see you try and create something half as worthy of presentation. Gtfo.

Admittedly, I do not know who is right and who is wrong here. I agree with the businessman, in that he should have received a cease and desist letter instead of a bill, and I think that the water surrounding whether or not he has a right to use photos of the mural is still quite murky. And I agree with the artist that they should be compensated for their work should someone else be using it for monetary gain. It’s not like they’re saying tourists can’t take a photo in front of the mural and post it on their Facebook- yes, the artist created it for the public in that perspective. But if someone is trying to make money off of it, any money made should go to the artist. Really, it just seems like a big ol’ mess. And now it is 5:00 a.m., and I have been going on about this for far too long.

See, it just really bothers me, because a long time ago I had a blog where I published some of my poetry. Someone stole that poetry from me and published it under their own name- and that wasn’t even the first time I was plagiarized! It has happened three times to my knowledge, once from a personal acquaintance and twice via blog. Anyway, that is when I started paying attention to copyright law. That is why I put the little disclaimer at the bottom of the page. Because people just don’t know – every word I write is copyrighted. Anything I have had published on the internet is copyrighted. As it should be! I put plenty of time and effort into my ideas, and I do not get paid for it. If nothing else, I deserve the respect of not being infringed upon. Art is not made in a moment, that is only the idea of art. Art is made through effort, and effort deserves recognition.

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Ancestral

Here is a link to a poem that I wrote about St Patrick’s Day. It was published a little while back in the Ghost City Press Review. I penned it while at a workshop led by one of my favorite local poets, Justin Karcher, who also edits for Ghost City. I was very pleased he wanted to include my poem in the review. I know I shared the poem on the blog already when I wrote about going to the workshop, but I would like to talk about the poems deeper meaning today, and the current feelings the approaching holiday evokes.

The topic that we were given at the workshop was “home.” I expressed “home” in that poem in three ways. The city I live in, the country my ancestors come from, and the people who made me- my grandparents. Without Pat and Jim Hannon, there would be no Brigid. Sometimes I like to think about the great architecture that brings us as generations forth after so many eons of existence on Earth. Thing is, aside from my great-grandma Ag, I didn’t know anyone past my grandparents. They are the relics of my family, the keepers of the knowledge of our ancestry.

Three years ago this week, my grandfather passed away. It was the worst Saint Patrick’s Day we have had. Obviously, my family has a tradition of passing around major holidays, which is a little annoying because it tarnishes very happy days that my family always celebrated together. One of those very happy days has always been Saint Patrick’s Day, and when I was young we would go downtown to the big parade- apparently second only to New York City. Buffalo has a huge Irish population, so we have a really big celebration- and we have another one that is only slightly smaller, too, called the Old First Ward parade.

When the bulk of the family stopped going to the big one downtown, my mom got the itch to go to the one in the Ward. We started taking the kiddos yearly, and she would make them a big Irish breakfast and give them non-alcoholic Irish coffee and bake shamrock cookies. The kids were always excited- I remember one year when L was only 10 and he shook Byron Brown’s hand. He thought that was pretty cool- I kept my mouth shut, letting him enjoy what he thought was a celebrity encounter. The girls always seem to have the most fun and look forward to it, so it was no surprise to me when both of them said they wanted to attend this year. But then, my heart hurt.

See, I celebrated Easter with my mom last year, but we only did a small breakfast. Plus, I have the unfortunate side effect of PTSD that makes you black out the time surrounding traumatic events. For instance, I do not remember third grade because my grandmother had just died. And, I do not remember Easter last year, because within the week my mother was in a coma. I do remember last Saint Patrick’s day though, and it occurs to me that this holiday will be harder than the other have been. It is both my first St Patrick’s day without my mother, and the heralding of the end of a year without her.

Yes, Momma died on Christmas, but she left just after Easter- our last conversation was in April, and that is quick approaching. In many ways, we are closing in on a year without her, and that is painful. But then I look to the good. Because she would want me to, you know? The good is that the girls still want to go to that parade. They want to keep my mother’s favorite tradition alive somehow, and for that I am forever grateful to them.

So, Saturday I will bundle up and face whatever crazy weather comes here in Buffalo in March, and I will go watch people walk through the street, cheering and singing. And I will be with my family, whom I love so dearly. And hopefully, my mom will be watching from above, finally having the best seat in the house.

My Last Photo of Us-Old First Ward Parade, 2022

Nobody’s Fault

Some people celebrate their dating anniversary. Some people celebrate their wedding anniversary. My husband and I do neither, though that is not to say we let the days go unnoticed. They’re both in September, which is convenient because then we just really have to remember the month. But in March, we have the Usiversary. That was when we truly made a commitment, instead of just screwing around like our 20-something selves. I am pretty sure I have written about it before, so if this sentence is highlighted, that is true. Really, it is just an anniversary for us and no one else, and that has always made it more special.

Anyway, this year we were going to go to the movies and see Cocaine Bear. I had tickets and I had a gift certificate- it would have cost me nothing for an evening at the movies, and I had been saving these items for this special occasion. So, of course, when I went to get them from the drawer yesterday, they were not there. Immediately, I accused Mark of moving them, and he replied that he did not touch them. So then, I considered it was the hoodlum children, but I have no evidence. I looked everywhere, to no avail. I was pissed.  Suffice it to say, we did not go to the movies last night. Not that I could have if I wanted to.

Around 1:00 p.m. I got home and it had started to snow. I texted my boss to see what weather conditions were near school, and she said the north was clearer, so I decided to give myself 10 extra minutes and headed out at about 1:45. I slid down the street, was unable to break at the corner, and slid around it. I thought “okay, side streets are no good-” but I kept driving, because that’s how I am. We know how to drive in the snow here in Buffalo, and a little slip at the corner only means I need to pump the brakes. However, by the time I got to the stop sign at the next corner, the visibility had become worse. And when I pumped the brakes to stop…I did not. I almost got t-boned by pickup truck instead, and my life flashed before my eyes. Instead of turning right to go to work, I turned left, and drove 15 miles an hour around the block to get back to my driveway. I texted my boss and told her I would not be in, which really made me mad. Everything kind of came to a head then, and I started bitching and yelling at myself.

See, I felt like a failure somehow, like I had screwed everything up. Fortunately, I have been steadily taking my meds so Sane Brain was able to make an appearance and tell me that I was being ridiculous. It’s not like it was my fault that I couldn’t go to work- it wasn’t my stomach or anything, it was nature. And it wasn’t my fault we weren’t going on a date, because I know *I* did not misplace those tickets, and also it ended up snowing so how would we even have gotten there? None of the things that were making me mad were anybody’s fault, really, so I realized I was really being mad at no one-not even myself.

I went and took a nap. When I woke up, I didn’t feel crappy anymore- well, correction, I felt sort of crappy because I always do after a nap, it’s why I don’t nap. But I just needed to reset yesterday, and I think it did me good. When I woke up, I felt better. I got a good night’s sleep, I woke up in a decent hour today, and I am feeling fairly positive at the moment. It is my day off, and the house is unexpectedly quiet because unfortunately the kiddos are not here- they’ve got the ‘vid at their house. Which is terrible, but I know I will at least see the girls next weekend for the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade. So today, I will welcome the peace, because the only thing I really need to do today is some light housekeeping. My Usiversary did not turn out great this year, but this morning Mark and I took a drive and talked and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. And that’s what matters about that day- 12 years, and we’re still talking, and laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. Nothing else matters.

Drag Queen Storytime

I have seen a lot of talk in the media and on the socials about all the laws people are trying to pass regarding drag queens. I will admit that I didn’t pay much attention at first, mostly because I thought it was pretty f**king stupid. Because, at the end of the day, this is: stupid. Utterly, unbelievably stupid.

Now, I’m not going to go into Trans rights. That is another stupid thing because I think that if you are a human being you deserve the exact same rights as every other human being. End of GD discussion. But the drag queen thing I will address, because frankly it’s ridiculousness catches my attention.

The first time that I saw a drag queen, she was on stage performing Girls Just Want to Have Fun at Club Marcella in 1998. Sounds a little cliche, given the tune, but I very much adored her Cyndi Lauper rendition that made me smile and laugh and feel less awkward in the situation I was in. I was 16, and back then you could get into the club with a special card that said you were 16 to 18. We would go sometimes, my group of girlfriends and I, and that first night I felt very out of place. For instance, I didn’t know very many LGBTQ people. The ones I did were adults, none of my friends had come out yet, and few were even suspected to be anything but straight and cis. At that time, for me, I was aware that I liked boys and always had, but for some reason a lot of people thought that I was gay. So I thought maybe they were right, and went through a little bit of anxiety the night we went to Marcella’s for the first time. (I should note that this is when it was a gay club on Main Street under the Tralf. Not whatever mess they made at the new location with the new setup. That place is a tragedy and should be closed.)

Anyway, I watched Cyndi perform, and I danced and sang along, and I thought it was great. My friends and I had a good time, and started going back there every other week or so. Over the years, we went to Marchella’s a lot, and eventually even got the boys to come along. We had good times there, always enjoying the drag performers. They were the highlight.

When I was 19, I decided I was going to go to the Pride Parade. This is when it was held in the Elmwood Village, and was a much smaller affair than the massive celebration we have every June at Canalside now. But I went, and I wore my Straight Ally pin on my shirt, and I thought of my dear friend Mike, who was still kind of in the closet, but if he hadn’t been, would have definitely been my side. I went for him, really. And while I was there, my lighter fell out of my pocket.

I was holding my cigarette and fumbling around, putting my purse on the ground and looking through it, when a pair of red leather stiletto boots suddenly appeared beside my bag. “You okay, honey?” I heard from above, and looked up to see the most beautiful creature attached to those beautiful boots. I got a little flustered. “I lost my lighter,” I told her, packing my items back into my bag. I stood up and looked at her outfit, nothing but red leather and sequins. Her hair was long and blonde and pulled into a high ponytail. She had lashes that girls today would be envious of and she had makeup on that we didn’t figure out how to do until late 2010s.  The point is, she was perfection, and when she pulled out a lighter and lit my cigarette for me, she became my sister.

I’ve never forgotten that moment, because it was the first time that a drag queen interacted with me one-on-one. And I am here to tell you, I survived! I was spoken to by a person in drag, and I lived to tell the tale!

Now yes, I was an adult when this encounter occurred, and of course we must protect children, right? Tell that to myself watching Bosom Buddies when I was like five. Get out of here with that. I’ve seen a man in a dress. In fact, I’ve seen a great many men in dresses both on screen and in real life, and they do not scare me half as much as a man in jeans and a flannel with a trucker hat.

Listen, if you are afraid of a drag queen, you are afraid of something within yourself. For instance, I was afraid my first night at Club Marcella- what I was afraid of, now that I’m an adult who knows things, was typical teenage sexuality coming out for the first time. Totally normal crap that every single one of my friends was going through at the same time, but back then, we didn’t talk about it. I find it interesting that older Generations think the current youth is being brainwashed by “woke” culture, when in actuality, they are just more open to talking about things. Probably because they have parents from my generation, who hate how our parents kept us in the dark. Also, way more Millennials go to therapy. Like, almost all of us. We learned to talk about our feelings, and we taught that to our children- don’t be mad just because the kids aren’t stupid and silent anymore.

Anyway, like I said, I had no problems with drag when I was a kid. I understood that it was a man in a dress for performance purpose- there was no confusion. And then I became a teenager, and I started to explore other things, and that led me to learn that it was a lifestyle for some people. Which is cool, because they are excellent performers, and as a performer myself I really appreciated their gusto. And then as an adult, I started to pay attention to real problems in the world, and never in my life did I think drag queens was going to register as something I had to write a blog about in an effort to convince people to shut up.

See, every time I see some news item with some Republican senator complaining about someone in drag reading a children’s book in the middle of a library, the headline I hear is: Volunteer Takes Time Out of Day to Assist Small Children’s Education at Local Library. And if you are against such things, pretty much sounds like you’re against education and libraries and volunteerism and kids, in which case maybe you should just lock yourself inside your house where none of the big scary drag queens can hurt you.  I mean, wow. Get over yourself.
That’s enough rant for today.  Happy Tuesday,  my friends.

Losses, Big and Small

Some stories, particularly ones related to the theater, I save for myself. Perhaps for a memoir, perhaps a compilation of sorts- essays or something. Maybe even for a play I will write somewhere down the road. Anyway, these are not the tales that end up in the blog. If I were to share one, it would have started with: let me tell you about the worst job I ever had…

I was 20, and my mother told me to go look through the Yellow Pages to find a job. I thought this was a nonsense way to do things, given that most recruiters had started using email, but I gave it a go anyway and called up a costume store downtown and asked if they were hiring. Strangely, miraculously, they were. I had a pretty good interview and started right away, though in retrospect I don’t believe myself to have been the right fit. For instance, while I had a theatrical background which benefited the overall theme of the store and company, I didn’t have much in a retail background or any kind of customer service. But that wasn’t even the problem there- there were tasks involved in the job that were not brought up in the interview, such as ironing. I can tell you with great shame that I did not learn to iron until I was 20 years old, in the basement of this old store on Main St. They had special ironing boards, where you would  press a pedal and the fabric was sucked down to the board, making it much easier to iron the wrinkles out. Another thing that I was not prepared for were the bunny rabbits. When I started working there in February, they were taking returns for Cupid costumes and such. I was told that soon would be the time for the bunny rabbits, as my boss gestured to the ceiling. The store has three racks stacked upon each other, costumes from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, and in the utmost back corner were dozens of bunny rabbit suits.

I spent the next two months with those bastards, renting them in and out in a way that is similar to my current job, and then washing them and preparing them for the next renter. If you ever wondered what was harder, renting automobiles or renting bunny rabbit costumes, I am here to tell you the rabbits win. I would rather wash the clunkiest Jeep driven through the dirtiest field filled with the hungriest kids who left the crunchiest crackers behind, than have to wash another bunny rabbit costume in my lifetime. I don’t know what it was about it, I just know it was miserable. They came back smelling terrible, and so into the washer it went, and you could only do one at a time. While it washed, I would Febreze and brush the head and wipe down any surfaces inside. You couldn’t put them in the dryer, so instead you used a hook on a stick to lift them from the washer and hang them to dry from the ceiling.  It was a feat requiring strength that I did not have, as they swayed and bobbed up towards the roof and I clumsly hung them a bit of pipe.

I like the retail aspect of the job, when people would come in for makeup or costume accessories, and I would help them find what they were looking for. But a lot of it I didn’t understand, and a lot of it had to do with where my head was at the time. I left after only a few months, because I knew I wasn’t doing a good job, not to mention the fact that I was on the dreaded 14 pill cocktail at the time. I couldn’t hack it anymore, so one day I quit. I felt bad, but I am sure my employers knew it was for the best. Anyway, it gave me a fun little anecdote about bunny rabbit costumes that I tell at parties sometimes. 

Then Wednesday last week I was on the way home from the hospital when my dad told me that the store was gone. I thought “gone” as in liquidated, so I didn’t think much of it, really. And then he said a firefighter was missing. I was woozy from morphine and Ativan, so it took me a minute to ask him if these two things were related and sure enough, they were. There was a massive fire at the store, and the structure fell on one of the firefighters, who ultimately lost his life. I have a lot of feelings. I don’t like that these people I once knew lost their livelihood. And more so, now an emergency responder has lost his everything. A Buffalo firefighter, like my grandfather.

I see a lot of posts on Facebook about this brave man, and I ache for his family. I also ache, perhaps strangely, because I know it is nothing in comparison, for the history that went up in flames. I believe this would be considered a great tragedy whether or not there was a loss of life. And now here we are with a man who cannot return home to his family – and while I feel bad for those beautiful handmade costumes, as well as the people that made them, I can’t help but feel broken for that family- that is so much worse. And yet, all I can think of is dozens of burned bunny rabbits heads. 

It is an image in my mind, created simply by facts, and it brings forth a great many feelings. I poured them into a poem over on Patreon, because that is how I deal when I have a lot of feelings. And then I wrote this blog, about loss in many ways. Even the tiniest ways – for instance, I don’t think I will be telling the story of my worst job at dinner parties anymore.

Paper Flower

Shortly before the fugue state, my mother told K that she wanted to take us to the Botanical Gardens. Buffalo has a amazing domed greenhouse placed amongst its even more amazing Parks System, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted in the early 1900s. One time, when the kids were smaller, we took them sledding on the slope in front of the Garden. I remember K asking if we could go inside, and I sadly had to tell her we could not, since we didn’t have any money. Anyway, I forgot both these things, but she apparently did not.

So on Saturday morning, when she came into my bedroom and asked me what we were doing for the day, I was a little dismayed because I had made no plans. That is a difficult thing to do in the dead of winter in Buffalo- we can’t do any of our outdoorsy stuff that we do the rest of the year. I was thinking of “outdoors” when I mentioned the Botanical Gardens offhand, and she immediately wanted to go, reminding me that my mom was supposed to take us. I panicked, because I don’t have any “going to the Gardens” money, but K saved up some of hers for just such an occasion. I thought it was truly sweet of her, and I also appreciate that she would rather spend her money on an experience with her stepmother then on some Dollar Store crap like I would have when I was her age. I was very proud of her, and graciously accepted her offer.

We drove there and I could tell she was a little worried we wouldn’t get tickets because the website suggested you buy them online, and she, of course, does not have a debit card. It was pleasantly empty however, except for a baby shower happening in one of the greenhouses. When we arrived, the cashier looked to me for information and money, and was surprised when K stepped forward to ask for two tickets. She then handed us a flyer with nine flowers on it that were all pink. They were scattered about the gardens, and there was a special Valentine’s Day scavenger hunt for them. If you found them all, you won a prize! K and I spent the next 2 hours wandering around the greenhouses, looking for pink flowers. I showed her some of my favorite bits- like the koi pond, the corpse plants, and the Venus fly trap. She enjoyed all the fish, and the cactus room. And in the end, after half an hour of searching the Palm Room for a plant we walked by maybe six times, we completed the scavenger hunt! We went out to the cashier and told her, and she gave us stickers with pictures of the front of the Garden building. It was a little bit of a lame prize, but it was definitely a beautiful time. K went to look around the gift shop, and when we got back to the car she handed me a candle that she saw me admiring.  Again, I, myself, at 13 years old, was far too selfish to think to do such kindness for my elders. My heart swelled once more.

This is pretty much just a K appreciation post, I guess. I wrote one about E once, so I guess K is definitely due for it. She is growing into such a lovely and special young woman, and I am very proud of her. I can’t wait to see what she has in store for us in the future.

Wind, Work, and Writing

As I sit here, I can hear the wind howling outside. My phone tells me it is 7 degrees Fahrenheit, and -15 is the “feels like” temperature. I spent the morning mostly outdoors, safely bundled but wishing I had put on a third layer because it was certainly colder than I expected. It wasn’t, however, as hard as I expected to work in the cold, and at one point I did think to myself that if it were a nice summer day it would be an enjoyable morning of work. Really though, it was an enjoyable morning of work. I can’t really explain to you why I like working at Avis, because you would probably find it to be a slightly dull job. But, I suppose it is more exciting then sitting at a desk and working on a computer or answering the phone, or sitting on a factory line, or maybe for me, sitting is just the equivalent of dullness. Anyway, I am almost always on the move at Avis, even more so than I am at the school job. So it was easy for me to keep warm despite the frigid temperatures coming off Lake Erie.

After I got home, I sat down to write but nothing really came up. I was going to do a poem about the cold and the weather, but no new words seemed to needed to be said about the subject. Then I realized I updated the blog on Wednesday, which means it’s due to be updated today, if I want to keep up with my twice a week postings. And since I am doing a terrible job of sticking to Tuesday and Thursday as planned, I am insisting upon myself to at least keep the numbers up. So I tried to write this blog, but nothing really came up again, and so that led me to organizing the files that are saved to my phone.

I edited three poems, and put them together as the beginning of a submission packet. I haven’t sent out a packet in over a year; in fact I haven’t sent out much of anything in over a year. That’s not to say that work has not been produced (you can find everything new on Patreon on Wednesdays…hint.) However, I have not find tuned anything and presented it for reading in quite some time. So today, I started to work on that.

I need a publication. Even if it’s just a tiny poem in an obscure journal, it would be a delight- simply because I haven’t had anything out in a while and I could use a little boost of serotonin. See, I am still very stressed out about a certain mini-chap that should have gone to press over a year ago. I still do not know what is happening with it, and have been completely unable to contact anybody. I am about to take it elsewhere, because I think I could find another home for it- I just really loved what this press had planned. It’s just a disappointment, and frankly I am not in the mood for anymore of those.

So here we are, on a day where I don’t really have anything to write about, but I feel like I have to write, anyway. I guess I just take a minute to write about writing? I have some big writing goals this year, and a month has already disappeared in a blink. So, I guess I need to get myself organized again. Wish me luck, and happy Friday.

Liquidation

Last weekend, I found out that the New Phoenix Theater in Buffalo was having a liquidation sale. I was unable to go, but my father went in search of Christmas gifts and some sort of situation for his record player. I have written about this theater before, because that is where I was working when I met both my best friend Sahar, as well as my husband, Mark. He didn’t work at the theater like Sahar did, but he did hang out at the coffee shop around the block, and we met after rehearsal one night. So were I not hanging around that theater every night when I was 20, I might not have met the man I ended up marrying. I know I would not have Sahar, because we came from totally different worlds. I am forever grateful for these two people, and perhaps it is silly, but I am grateful for the building that brought them to me.

I found out a while ago that the owner of the theater, Richard, was putting it on the market. I was instantly sad, and truly desperate for a million dollar lotto win so I could take it off his hands. Alas, that is not reality, though I did hear that local theater folk tried to purchase it to retain it as a theater. Unfortunately, that deal fell through. And so, it will be turned into living space.  Sigh.

Now, it’s a pretty cool building as buildings go. I don’t know it’s complete history, but I do know that it was a sort of convent/soup kitchen situation prior to Richard purchasing it. It’s at least 100 years old, and a beautiful representation of old Buffalo architecture. It has a very scary basement, complete with spider webs and leaky pipes and possible ghosts. The first floor was the stage and seating, as well as a small reception area where photos of local stars lined the walls. On the second floor was the rehearsal hall, and a bar area where receptions were held after shows. Passing that were the dressing rooms, and a staircase up to the third floor, which was a full apartment. Richard lived when I first met him.

Richard always owned the theater, but when I was young it also housed a second company called the Buffalo Ensemble Theater. It was BET who posted a flyer on the bulletin board at my school for a youth theater group. It was called the Explorers, and was run by the Boy Scouts of America. It was coed prior to Boy Scouts becoming coed, and was career focused. So. BET put together a group showing careers in theater. I jumped at this, and ended up being the club Treasurer on day three. 5 years later, I stopped doing shows there when the theater started to dissolve.

But God did I love that building.

So, years later: I was fresh off my first stage managing gig and ran into Richard, so I was thrilled when he asked me to come work a show at New Phoenix. The show he hired me for never came to fruition, but I did end up doing another there soon after. I always hoped I would return to work there again someday, but it turns out that is not in the cards.

Richard retired to Florida, and likely the building will become apartments or something. But when we were young, that place was so magical! I know so many people who discovered their talents there and went on to pursue them, and really…we were just kids. We were just having fun, and look what happened!  Life skills!

Anyway, I’m very much looking forward to Christmas morning to discover what trinket Dad collected for me from the liquidation sale. And I guess I can muster some excitement to see what they do with the building in the future…hopefully it isn’t terrible. It doesn’t matter though, because I will always be grateful for that place, and everything it brought into my life.

Friends, family, and confidence.

Poetry in October

Everything, of course, is garbage.  Meaning, everything I write; meaning, complete hamster-cage liner.  I mean, yeah, I know that’s not true; just let me have this meltdown for a moment, ok?

So, October is coming up pretty quick, huh?  Many things are going on in October for me, like moving to a new apartment, my husband’s 40^th birthday (E has a b-day, too,) my first weekend running the shop on my own, at least one trip out to Erie to see mom, and Halloween/my sister’s birthday, wherein she turns 26 and I finally live in a neighborhood that hands out candy.  Also…poetry night, featuring yours truly.  Clearly, we are going to talk about that, since I started this post by telling you all of my writing is garbage.  Hot, stinky trash. 

Nope, that’s just me psyching myself out.  I know what I want to do: a couple of pieces from, A Lovely Wreckage…gotta sell those books.  A piece from the yet to be picked up (Un)Requited.  Maybe VII from Me and Jesus etc.  Some outliers…the ones I really like that I haven’t read yet.  And maybe The Squirrel, and Halloween…y’know, because…Halloween. 

See, I know what I’ll read, and I know I’ll read well.  I don’t have the panic I had a few years back.  Still, old habits die real hard, and I find myself judging my work through my most critical eye-which I despise, of course.  I thought that my imposter syndrome was dead and gone, at least at the level of writing I have achieved.  This is new, however…being a featured reader.  I get like 15-17 minutes or something crazy when I’m used to doing 3-6 minutes at a time.  I’m going to have to figure out timing on my performance as well.

Anyway, that’s what I’m going to go work on during this rainy Monday afternoon.  If you’re here in the area on October 28^th around 6pm, do drop in and hear me read.  On one hand, I want to pack the place.  On the other hand, I’d like no one to show up at all, besides the regulars I am already comfortable sharing with.  But it would be nice, I think, to see some familiar friends in the crowd.  So come on down to Dog Ears, and I’ll read you a poem about a squirrel.

Happy Monday.

Poems in the Past

The other day, I received a memory notification on Facebook that 2 years prior, I had been published in The Buffalo News.  This was a momentous day which I wrote about in my blog back then, and am writing about now, as well. 

See, long story made very short, I wanted to be published in The Buffalo News poetry column since I was about 15, and I did not accomplish it until well after I began my publishing career in 2018.  On Fire was a special little poem I wrote for a poetry contest that I won, and I liked it enough to throw it into my submission packet, and then one day I got up the guts to actually send it to The News, with literally no expectation whatsoever.  In fact, I forgot I even sent it, until the day it appeared in the Sunday paper.

I felt so accomplished.  I know to some it may seem like hardly anything, but for me it was a dream 20 years in the making. I had already published several pieces, and my book had been out for a few months, but that was the day I truly felt like an actual author. 

Well, folks, the paper dropped the column.  Shocking, isn’t it?  This left me with a hollow feeling, as if now the newspaper is completely devoid of hope.

The column has been run by Robert D. Pohl, a man I have never met but know of via socials and friends of friends.  Despite not knowing him, I would run up and hug him if I could, because in my opinion he gave me the gift of a dream come true, and I am sad to see his legacy leave the newspaper. 

Another thing Robert did was keep the literature calendar, which I believe I heard he will still try to continue to do, which Is a blessing to all us writers.  The literature calendar told us who was reading where and when, and also who was hosting open mics and other events.  Buffalo has a pretty broad writing community, and I am hopeful that we will still be able to figure out how to get together. 

Anyhoo, I am very sad to see this feature go, but I am very grateful to have been published when I was.  What we need here in Buffalo is an arts magazine again.  We used to have one, but it folded, and now we have nothing to promote and discuss our incredibly vibrant arts scene.  I wish someone would step up and create such awesomeness…I can tell you, you would not be short of content.  We have enough writers in this city to bring it to life-shame I don’t know a single entrepreneur, though.

@hamneggs716

On Fire by Brigid Hannon #poetry #poetrytok #poem #poet #mentalhealthawareness #covid19 #majordepressivedisorder #publichealth

♬ original sound – Brigid Hannon