Michelle and Robert give their critical introductions and their readings and the audience is stunned to tears. It isn't that their is anything depressing, overtly sad, or nostalgic about it, it is the sheer power of their words, the power of their friendship, the power of these two open, dedicated people. The crowd lingers in the room for almost twenty minutes. Each person is trying to find the time to get a moment with the writers, to pass along a hurried congratulations, and to express their gratitude for what they shared.
I'm in a mood. Not a bad mood, but a mood where I can feel some kind of quiet settling over me. I need to find a room with a door where I can lock out the outside world. I need a room with a door and one person with which to talk. I miss Katey. I miss Beth. They would be a perfect balm to me in the moment. Instead, I make my way to Stephen's room to see if he remembers the student/faculty dinner.
His room is adjacent to mine and so it is easy to slip next door. I knock. I hear the scamper of a dog behind the door and am soon greeted by both dog and master. I'm invited in. I'm given a glass of red wine, a chair by the sliding glass door. I'm given the gift of conversation, quiet conversation, passionate, expansive, hopeful conversation.
Stephen is a gifted conversationalist. He knows much about many things and our conversation whirls between the typical literary conversations, Israel and Palestine, Obama, Congress, Apocalyptic visions, hope in the face of the future, hope in the face of overwhelming odds, hope as a way of sustaining oneself, hope as a way of entering the writing, of expanding it, of finding something to treasure in the space between words, of committing to the act of creating something beautiful and lyric. I look him in the eye and his eyes dance.
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