I will never be hip. Nor young again. Nor do I wish to be. So it didn't sting all that much to receive an e-mail today from Reb Livingston, rejecting my poems for the new Bedside Guide to No-Tell Motel anthology.
But it's very weird that just the other day, as I was chatting with my friend Betsy, she asked if I knew Reb (I don't). And that Reb was staying overnight at Betsy's apartment. Which used to be my apartment. And did I know where to get a good brunch in Lewisburg?
A glancing near-acquaintance. What if I'd been invited to brunch? Or had run into the two of them on the street? We're a verrrry small town. How nearly did I just avoid an awkward moment?
Today's random tarot card: the Six of Wands. I like this one; it feels very Leonine. Lots of work to do, but if I apply myself, my efforts will be well-received. Or that's what it's saying to me, anyway.
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There'll be no parade, no tv or stage, only me till your dying day.
You don't have to be a star, baby, to be in my show;
Oh, honey, you don't have to be a star, baby, to be in my show.
Don't think your star has to shine for me to find out where you're coming
from.
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