August cooks up a storm
And then began the whole mad swirl of poets and words, guitars and accordions and all of what was left in Paris of my mad poet friends, who sweltered in a cellar beneath the Lizard Lounge to spin tales and verse-thoughts and punchlines and songs, enough to well up around us like a drowned sea of sound. Stefanos asked to meet my mother and sang me a waltz (Thanks!) while Leah and Nila and Erica nailed down various shades of just what is hollow and wrong about tacky suburban boxes. Conor was Raven-ous (how the hell does he remember all those words?) and lent a hand as Alexa revenged herself on the Lawn and remembered Getting It in Mexico. Neil's beautiful bottle-green jacket was as elegant as his poetry was understated and true, Bex bit us with laughter and Pearlie shone, while anonymous lost 18th century wisdom from a toilet wall illuminated the night. And a good bit more besides.
When I left, Conor had grabbed the guitar and was singing with a mad gleam in his eye.
Pics will follow.
When I left, Conor had grabbed the guitar and was singing with a mad gleam in his eye.
Pics will follow.
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