I used to dance a lot when I was younger. Jazz, tap, ballet. I was a Kansas City Kitty in the tap program in Missouri. I joined up with UND's dance program when I was in high school. And in college I danced and performed with a small dance studio in Winona.
Playwright Kevin Kling writes about dancers and writers. Dancers have bodies like exclamation points--tall and limber and joyous. Writers have bodies like question marks, bent into shape by all that sitting and crouching over desks and keyboards.
"Mama, I don't want to be a question mark anymore."
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
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I was at a writer's party in Carbondale, Illinois. (It wasn't exclusively for writers, but we were always the thickest knot at any party, and probably hosted 90% of them.) I had thrown on some wrinkled t-shirt. It was clean, I swear, but I'd neglected to fold my laundry.
Behind, a man said, "Writers are the most rumpled people in the world."
I turned. It was a poet. And he was drinking from a bottle of Night Train.
-cK
The only Night Trains I know are the Empire Builder from St. Paul to Grand Forks and Auden's poem ("This is the night mail crossing the border. . . ."). How funny to learn of this favorite of wine bums--and poets.
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