It amazed me. I never thought I would hear from them again.
The other day, I heard from someone connected with the Writers' Night at the Tambourine Lounge in Sturgeon Bay. I hadn't been connected with them for nearly three years.
It's an expression, if you will, about the cultural cadre that's developed there. On Thursday nights, the bar closes but the stage there--a very small one, at that--opens up for songwriters, essayists and poets to display their wares for a small but engaged group of devotees.
Or, anyway, it used to. Then Covid hit with a wallop and it shut down. Even with the gradual recovery that has ensued, nobody endeavored to reopen the venue. At least, not until now.
I learned about it at a writers' retreat in the summer of 2019. When it concluded, it was suggested that we try out our writing by reading it aloud on stage. I decided to try that.
Being on stage and reading to a group of people hasn't scared me. First, because I used to read things to my classes in Cedarburg, and the number of kids somewhat equalled the number of people listening in Sturgeon Bay. Still, you get butterflies because it's your own stuff and you're never quite sure how it will be received.
Second, because the last time I read something to someone, it was at the NEA-RA in 2009, when I read about 70 percent of Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address. That was to some ten thousand people. That reception was spooky; almost no one reacted. I think it was because I had surprised them at how powerful Lincoln's rhetoric could sound. The follow-up comments of some people afterward suggested that I had done what nearly no one could: Shut the RA up with the force of Lincoln's words. That was a proud moment, one that I'll never forget.
So no, reading to 20 people, or so, wouldn't intimidate me. In fact, I drove up there every four or five weeks or so--about five hours round trip, and with the session starting at 7 p.m. and lasting two hours, I'd get home at nearly midnight--and people came to expect me. It because my little cubbyhole, my hideaway I utilized to stay culturally connected. It became saturated into the rhythm of my life.
I named myself Mark from Milwaukee, and got quite comfortable with the small stage, dim lighting, and enthusiastic listeners. Nearly everyone else, to my knowledge from Door County or the area, applied verse to music. I don't recall more than one other person who read anything in prose or poetry.
So I was empty when I'd heard that the lounge had been closed. I checked back twice, once in 2021 and once last year. Nothing doing. I'd pretty much given up on it. It didn't feel like any enthusiasm was left.
Then, just two weeks ago, I heard from someone who must have kept the business card I'd given some of the listeners after I'd performed. The Lounge had opened again, he said, though only regulars knew at that point.
I was gratified first, because he had thought of me, and second, that I'd been considered enough of a "regular" for him to reach out to me. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" I wrote back.
There was no dearth of material for me to choose from, since the last time anyone had heard me read was January, 2020. I kept things short for now. I had two novels in the works to draw from. They would come later.
But I'd also been burned by a false notice on Facebook. Who to trust? I called the Holiday Hotel, which is just around the corner from the Lounge. They would have the latest update.
Yes. Yes. It was open on Thursdays. Worth the drive, about 2 hours and 20 minutes? Of course.
It was a smaller cadre than I'm used to, though, because the re-opening hasn't been widely publicized. People were there by invitation, of which I was also quite appreciative. I hadn't met the facilitator, either, so that was a little awkward. But I got my chance. I made the best of it.
The format hadn't changed much. Someone gets up there and sings their new creations, someone else gets up and reads their new writings (or, with me, some of my old ones dating back three years). Back and forth. Everybody gets their few minutes. The stage is small, but their hearts are large.
It usually ends at 9 (starts at 7), but it ran over this time. No matter. New creativity needs room. I stayed until the end. Hey, they listened to me. I owed them the same.
It felt a little rickety, but I'll keep writing stuff and return in about a month or so to read it. We'll see if the rough spots wear off by then.
Even from that far out of town, to feel connected again, to feel as if I belonged and someone had also recognized that, was a giddy tonic. Retired as I am, out of the national union cause for more than a decade now, one simply fades away whether one likes it or not. To have anyone remember me felt like an oasis in the desert.
I'll return for more refreshment, then. We'll see what transpires. Right now, I'm just grateful.
Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.
Mister Mark
No comments:
Post a Comment