Twenty Years Stardust- Remembering Tom Natell

 

It’s twenty years ago this week that Albany poet and activist Tom Natell passed away, after a long dance with throat cancer. The day of his passing, he was scheduled to take the reins of a new open mic at the Lark Street Tavern, a favorite hangout for artistic types around the city. Word got around, and the reading took place anyway, evolving into an impromptu memorial. His ex-wife and son were there, as well as his partner Maryann. The back room was packed, and poet after poet took the mic to express their appreciation for all Tom’s work promoting local poetry.

I first encountered him, I believe, when I was newly single and eager to drive anywhere to read. For many years he hosted Readings Against the End of the World, an annual event that was briefly revived pre-Pandemic. I was pleased that I managed to find my way to Willett Street and the old 8^th Step Coffeehouse location all by myself, and that I was able to take part in what I considered an important event.

Later, I moved to Albany for a year, ostensibly to complete my MA in English. I learned more about poetry and life at Tom’s QE2 reading than I did in any of my UAlbany classes (no offense, UAlbany, but the Ivory Tower turned out to not be my thing.). He showed me what a good host does, leaping on and off stage, offering information about other events, and mainly keeping the show moving along at a brisk pace. Although my years there was brief, it was a rich and varied experience, and the poetry scene was a big part of it.

For years after, I tried to keep up. I would work my miserable shift at Cosmodemonic Communications, leap in the car, and head up to the Lark Tavern, or the QE2, or to any one of the various readings held each week. I was stronger, and somehow supernaturally motivated to exhaust myself attending these events, in addition to whatever was being offered here in the Kingston area. It was an exciting time.

Even 9/11 didn’t slow the pace, but these things go in cycles. There are times when  a poet can’t possibly keep up with everything going on, and other, leaner days when one a month anywhere can be a blessing. And then there’s love.

I can’t blame everything on love, except my survival, my sanity, the fact that a good fit is to be prized more highly than even a well-turned phrase. My Beloved moved in in July 2005, just a few months after Tom’s passing. The three years before, in addition to frequent dashes to Albany, also included weekends in Central New York to spend time with my boyfriend. The move was made, and suddenly I had almost no reason to leave the house. In the days before Door Dash, we shopped and cooked and loved like crazy. Did my writing suffer? Not in the least.

I’ve been so lucky to have landed here, and so lucky that the poetry community has welcomed me so sweetly. I couldn’t have imagined as an awkward teen on Long Island that my life in the future would be so full, so completely satisfying. Granted, the path here has not been without its potholes. But at this point the old cliché applies—I would not change a bit of it. I’ve survived, worked hard, written hard, and created a home and life for myself to the best of my ability. Thank you, Tom, thank you, Albany poets, for showing me how it could be done. I learned what my priorities should be, and proceeded in the correct direction. 

 

 

*Poem: "4:30 Sunset"

 

4:30 Sunset

 

It seems permanent, this ridiculous change,

days cut short by the sun’s early setting.

Same colors, same bombast,

but too soon to accomplish all that requires daylight,

all that daylight requires.

Sorting thru closets, dusting away cobwebs

that require a just-so slant of illumination to

intercept, wiping windows whose smudges

are disguised by nighttime’s pledge of

sanctity and chaste regret.

There aren’t enough stars in the sky

to number all I want to do, and yet now

they’re starting their shift, in order to

tease me, me stumbling by a bulb’s dim light,

dragging a hand blindly across a rug

in the utter darkness that falls when

one switch is off, before the other

can be found.

 

CAR  12/29/24

**Poem: "Radio"

 

 

 Radio

 

I wish I still had a radio in the bathroom

like back on Liberty St., Hone St., maybe even

here at first, a gift from Dan, part of

his dead grandmother’s things.

The kind of radio you see now in the

“You’re This Old If” memes,

small, brown plastic with twisty dials,

antenna built into the cord.

Eventually the belts inside must have loosened,

and it only played one station, but

it was a station I liked,

the one from Woodstock

before it melted down into one long

hipster serenade, when it played

rock, jazz, blues, classical, country,

even read books aloud.

These days, I can’t risk propping

my cellphone up on the toilet or

beside the sink, because, inevitably,

my day will be ruined.

I pile books into a basket behind the door,

and in the shower I am confined to

solitary time with only my thoughts,

the ones that used to be gilded by

the goings on at WDST.

They are bare as I am then,

pushing their heavy agendas of

sorrow, guilt, even a little nostalgia

for good measure.

Naked, I am at their mercy,

unprotected by familiar riffs,

droning DJs repeating the weather,

a hardware store’s insistent, endless

dirge.

 

CAR   5/10/24

Kondo Your Undies, and Other Tales of Had Enough

 

At Christmastime, my sister made a point of saying she is careful about covering the grey in her blonde hair. I didn’t bite. I am in fact wishing my greys would get a move on. So far, it only looks like random tinsel in my brown locks, what’s left of them. It does shine in the sunlight, and my stepdaughter Emily told me how pretty it is. Now, who would you believe?

I am in the ‘at my age’ phase of my writing, and along with purging possessions and projects that no longer serve me, I am leaning into avoiding that which makes me uncomfortable or unduly annoyed. This includes going barefoot in winter, keeping the thermostat turned low, skipping naps, and traveling over ten minutes to attend an event, even on the weekends. I came close to walking out of a movie on Friday night, but my Beloved seemed amused so, for $10, I stuck it out. It did pick up towards the end, but not enough where I might have regretted leaving after all.

I can’t say Marie Kondo has been a life changing influence on me, but I do fold my bras and undies in a more efficient way now. I am also trying to release items I have schlepped with me for four decades, from apartment to apartment, and now even to this house I’ve been in for over twenty years. I thank it, remember who I was when I bought it, then let it go. Our charities are overflowing with COVID era donations, and Salvation Army isn’t even in the running these days because of their vile actions against the LGBT community, but there are Tibetans nearby who can use the stuff.

This selective mindset includes my poetry life as well. There are fewer “live” readings to attend, but that doesn’t mean I cram my Zoom dance card with virtual events. As I teeter on the edge of retirement (from my mouth to the Calendar’s ears), I find that more and more of my peers are scheduling events for midday or afternoon, making it impossible for me to attend after my workday ends. Many of these include events well out of my ten minute range, I am sorry to say.

When I was single, I thought nothing of zipping up to the Capitol District, or down to Beacon or Middletown any night of the week, and still get to work by 8:00 a.m. the following day. My eyesight has held so far regarding night vision, but it’s the energy I’m lacking. I get up most days at 6:00 a.m. to enjoy an hour or so of diddling with words and stalking my fellows on the Internet before my actual workday begins. Now thank goodness for remote channel changers, because pressing buttons is pretty much all I’m capable of after 6:00 p.m.

When I plan to attend a reading, I research the poets that will feature. At this point, I know whose work is just plain self-indulgent drivel (this includes my own work very often, but I try not to inflict it on the general public without apology), whose work is repetitive, and whose public reading skills leave much to be desired. I avoid certain hosts who do all they can to outshine the very features they’ve selected, in the most outrageous ways possible. My filter wanes, and I may someday do myself significant mouthy harm when it comes to being invited to any of these events, but I care less and less every day.

You might say I’ve been Marie Kondo-ing all aspects of my life. I hope to squeeze another twenty years out of this before I’m finished, and every minute counts. Every evening I spend flipping through YouTube with my Beloved counts for a lot.  Selectivity, and nicely folded undies. Can’t beat it.