Tonight I went to dinner with my family for my parents’ 32nd wedding anniversary. My little brother (18, recently graduated from high school) asked me if I had ever been to the Mercury Cafe (little brothers who live in the burbs are so precious, right?). He said that he has heard of their open mic night, and he wants to go there to read some of his poetry.
Which is funny, because I didn’t even know that my brother did anything of the sort.
It reminded me of my 18-year-old days, and how I used to try to write. Those tendencies seem to be way beyond me now. My head no longer holds the creativity or patience for it. I searched through my computer and found a document of some old stuff (not all of it. It seems that a “greatest hits” of sorts is all that I ever saved). For a long time, I have shuddered at the thought of all those old writings. But going over it, I have to say that’s it’s not terrible. I might have ripped off Sylvia Plath, Virginia Wolff, and Allen Ginsberg a few times (alluded to, sure), but all in all, the stuff is somewhat digestable.
I even edited one. Ha!
And now it makes me wonder what my little bro’s poetry is like…