A soulful dancer graced the stage, opening the first in- real-life poetry reading I’d attended since the pandemic had begun.
I had invited a friend, who had been a dedicated member of the Austin Writers Roulette, to join me. We used to attend such events individually with writing material in hand and laugh when we’d see each other from across the way. Now we check in with one another to see if we’re attending the same event.
Years ago, attending such an event didn’t warrant clearing so many extraordinary hurdles other than having the time and energy to go. And yet, for this event, I wouldn’t have attended had I not been double vaxxed, and boosted. Not to mention the night was clear and beautiful, so I didn’t have to cancel due to icy or flooded roads.
Next arrived the Slam Poetry Queen herself.
She filled us with her limitless energy as she emoted each poem, which punctuated her narratives with seamless integration.
The poem that resonated with me the most was about pockets. All the angst I’d felt toward the fashion industry for neglecting to make the vast majority of women’s clothing with pockets versus men’s clothing bubbled to the surface. Men’s nightwear has pockets. Even their underwear has pockets for their dicks.
As a matter of fact, the fancy secondhand jacket that I’d worn to the event had an inside pocket that I’d sewn because fuck them for not having one there in the first place.
That was part of a phase I’d gone through where a few jackets gained inside pockets and several pants had their pitiful shallow pockets deepened.
A few of the deepened pockets need to be reinforced because frequent wearing and washing have worn holes at the seams. I don’t attach superstition to the fact that money can slip through those holey pockets because I know that’s not where my money went.
Nothing as simple as that. This pandemic ripped away the economic illusion of my gig survival. I’ve landed a straight up full-time job with several production metrics, an hourly wage, benefits and praising the lord that progressive liberals before me negotiated a 40-hour work week along with the concept of the weekend.
Those pockets still have holes in them. My money’s all digital now.