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. 

 

 

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.

2023: An Overview of Sorts

 

The end of the calendar year is supposed to bring a review of the previous 12 months, or at least an assessment of accomplishments. In this near-post-Pandemic environment, there was a facade of normalcy, but deep differences that will take years to return to former experiences.

There were live readings, with many in attendance still masked (not a bad thing). I usually do not mask at this point, but others are of course free to do so. Am I in denial of the consequences of COVID? Probably, but here we are. I’ve been vaccinated and boosted multiple times, and even spent a week with my Beloved ill, and still have not contracted the virus. With all my allergies, I can’t believe it’s anything more than luck that’s kept me well. I’m also working from home for half the year, limiting my exposure to others for great lengths of time in enclosed spaces. I’ll take it.

I’m sorting through files again, this time with more purpose, determined to put things in a usable order. The first time I worked from home, I was too frightened about the state of the world to do much cleaning or organizing of consequence. I’ve abandoned that fear, for the most part, and am now primarily concerned with making the most of the rest of my life, artistically speaking.

There have been a few readings sprinkled in, a short feature courtesy of the Ulster County Women’s Network, a couple more live streams with CAPS, and a Hudson Valley Writers Guild reading in Albany with some Midwest poets I hadn’t yet met in person. I published another Flying Monkey Press chapbook, and helped out at Bruce & Joanne Weber’s Samsara poetry marathon this past New Year’s Day.

I’ve been writing a monthly column for the HVWG newsletter, but somehow this blog has fallen off my task list, despite appearing again and again in my planner. A lot of what I would normally say here has ended up there. Whether or not anyone reads either is anyone’s guess. Both systems make commenting difficult, and I know that there’s a lot of competition these days for eyeballs on the internet. I hope some find it at least diverting for a few minutes. Don’t we all need diversion from this reality we could never have imagined?

2023 is a big unknown for me so far. Resolutions are a daily thing, so making more at the end of the calendar year is no longer a thing for me. With recent health revisions, I am more acutely aware of changes, good and bad. I push through. My mortgage is paid off. I’d like to stop working altogether in a few years. I promise not to be bored when my schedule is my own. That’s all for now.