Today I went jogging again and I still ache from it but I had the entirely joyful experience of reaching the nearby sculpture garden when I ran and seeing some really hot artists (I'm sorry, they were good-looking, I can't help it) work on finishing their sculptures for the big opening this weekend. One particularly GQ looking guy with a goofy grin was packing the earth around his wooden structure, which was kind of like a smashed house, and a mocking bird perched directly above him and sang all the songs of all the other birds. I tried to get closer to hear better but the bird flew away. However, as I left the park, the bird followed me and perched on a telephone pole and started the whole cycle of songs again, and even included the noises of crickets, which was quite cool, as I haven't heard a bird do that before.

Also, I heard Philip Levine read. His work was ab -fab. I didn't think I liked him before, but I definitely do now. I got to see him because my lovely friend Whitney with the beautiful hair that falls in her eyes got an invitation and invited me. We agreed that Philip was wonderful but disagreed about the fiction writer, who will go unnamed but who makes boring female characters with no real emotions.

One of the most interesting things about the reading was that the audience was comprised almost entirely of aliens -- excepting myself and my friend. They were older white people, the likes of which I had never seen before. They were all dressed the same, they all had the same body language, and I'm sure they were all semi-famous writers who were quite satisfied with themselves and their lovely work about men and women who are just too numb to feel, dammit, and who display their inability to feel in silence and thoughts about the light or street in front of their houses. They were frumpy in a rich way, and occasionally exchanged piercing looks. They moved slowly but significantly.

I think I will never end up that way, but I might end up in a roomful of "them" someday.