February 03, 2005

Last night I drank four glasses of wine before barging into the girls’ washroom in the Grad Pub. “If anybody comes after me, stop them,” I told Bernard. I wanted to experience the washroom by myself. It was as good as I remembered: the full-length mirror was still there and the cupboards were full of surprises. After I finished peeing I rushed outside, grabbed the mike, and told everyone to explore the girls’ washroom.

And then I read them a poem. That’s what makes poetry readings fantastic — it’s easy to fall in love with people when your head’s swirling with wine and words. People became poetry. There was Regan, whose experience gutting chickens messed his mind; and Max, whose shit is full of apple seeds; and Igor, whose poetry has too many beautiful words and too much longing; and Bernard, whose poetry is infused with wine and booze.

And once I finished my bottle of wine I rushed up the stairs to chair the ERC meeting. Everything was monstrously funny: Janet first gave me water, and then beat me up; people decided to mess with my plans; and I gave up my position to become a male escort. I was drunk.