Carrie Rudzinski. Performing here. I got to hear her perform her poetry tonight in Hokitika and she was utterly wonderful. I think I'm a bit in love with her actually.
So you're saved. I was on the verge of blogging about buying bedlinen and my odd feelings about respectability. I was even on the verge of confessing my interest, dating back to my childhood, in British Royalty, and what a weird and frankly sinful socialist that makes me. Some people watch reality tv, or Shortland Street. I can tell you that Kate the pregnant royal who spawned a thousand brown updos and probably caused sales of peroxide to plummet, wore a pink Harvey McQueen to a prestigious horse/birthday show the other day. The linen is a worse story - best you are spared it.
But it's okay. I went out and got myself some seriously wonderful culture, learnt what poetry slam is, discovered codes for such a thing, discovered that I can drive, sort out offspring squabbling (well sort of), plan dinner and think about what I've got to do next at work all at once, but I cannot click my fingers in appreciation of great performance poetry at the same time as I am listening to and absorbed in the poetry.
I've bought her books and her CD: The Endless Return Home, The Shotgun Speaks and the CD of her live at the Boston Poetry Slam. Now I'm going to go to bed with Elizabeth Strout's The Burgess Brothers. I finished Kate Atkinson's Life after Life and it was wonderful and deserving of its very own blogpost. And scorched almonds.