An unconfirmed case of spontaneous AWP rapture: mid-morning I almost tripped over this topcoat, briefcase, and hat on the floor of the convention hall:
I hope he was ready. I'd like to think what launched this literary pilgrim was one of the sessions-- an early morning magical realism or slip stream barrage or a jewel of insight into "Expectations into the Mulit-Genre Classroom" or a reading from the Afghan Women's Writing Project.
More likely it was prose fatigue or transcoastal disconnect. Like this fragment overhead walking through the halls:
"Where you from?"
"I used to be from England. But now I'm from Southern California."
This AWP the Year of People Dressed in Costumes and Other People Wearing Weird Shit on Their Heads:
There was the man with a balloon hat and anther with two bright white headbands. There was a centurion in vinyl armor hawking a poetry collection called CIRCUS MAXIMUS.
Then finally to end the morning a woman in a shark costume handed me an invitation to a off-site poetry slam.
After that I wandered into the connecting mall to watch the wet snow fall and sit with the old men drinking Dunkin Doughnuts coffee in their work clothes.
