We Will Not Trade Money for Poison

October 8 2008.

The Speakeasy is now meeting in the Root Cellar. Tonight, we meddled around in the little kitchen making black chai and peach teas, spilling hot water on the floor, scavenging for mugs (where do they keep them?). Found a distiller of what looked like cider behind an unlocked door, read through some anarchist manifestos, and maneuvered around the dentist chair in the bathroom that reminds me of the penitentiary back home.

Last week, we planned a revitalization of the old-time jazz and literature and love. Swing-dancing and saxophones. Poetry readings in dim light in a basement, clutching worn pages in print, circles and lots of chairs. Lounging, red bow lipstick, purple grapes in bunches. Some joking about using money for flasks and pipes. Our names engraved. Held warm mugs and wrote from the prompts ‘something wrapped’ and ‘bury me standing: explain’.

One no-show sent us back an email to the announce, saying, “Name the time and place, I’ll bring the whiskey.” Another said, “Tell me the secret bootlegged speakeasy position.” Bard has funny people, sometimes I love them. Over break, I’m making posters of mink stoles, pouring coffee cups, delicately-fingered hands, finger-waved hair. We will plaster them over the school.

In other news: Kevin, I have ordered the latex, we can’t turn back now.