Lounge #30 [F]

I went. It was, interesting. I walked in on a woman mid-reading and took a chair at the back. Her words reminded me of the second and third installments to The Matrix — A very convoluted confabulation, or what I call, word diarrhea. I gave it a chance but couldn’t grasp her stanza. She made a reference to a Rhianna song and lost me basically.

All the seats were taken and the room was full, leaving latecomers to stand or sit in the small adjacent room entrance-way. I didn’t recognize any fellow students with backpacks or their summer threads, mostly smart-casual dressed people who I’m guessing were all postgraduates. There was a comradery in the air as if all were part of a secret club. That might have been thanks to the bar being open in the same building down the hall, or perhaps everyone responded to the unique expressions of truth being articulated across stereophonic sound waves. I heard the abbreviation ‘MCW’ (Master of Creative Writing) mentioned quite a bit, but I was admiring the craftsmanship of the backs of wooden chairs and the parallax-like pattern on the carpet to fully pay attention to their accolades (Does my honesty sound cynical to anyone?) Some woman’s pair of leather-seamed-ankle-high-folded boots became another favourite focal point of the evening. Seriously, they were très élégant. You ladies would’ve been jelly.

Of the evening, there were ten chosen who stood confident and read aloud. Between them, diverse feelings were spoken; one women even used her left and right nostrils and sniffed a poem into the mic. The room was silent. I had to try my best to be as well. She did give a brief hypothesis before she started and ended with a translated version of course.

I walked out of there wishing I could say something too, envying the privilege those readers had. I can’t reflect on that anymore than I just did. I went. It was, interesting.