Weekly (or so), update from RM Ullrich, Author, Poet
and Amateur Photographer
Exciting event
this week; I received a copy of 100 Voices Vol. 3 in the mail. (Linked here: https://www.centumpublishing.com/product-page/one-hundred-voices-volume-three
) Remember, I am only one of a hundred authors in this anthology – which makes
it all that more unique. Short stories for almost every genre – fact or
fictional you won’t be disappointed. Now, as to the copy I received – it wasn’t
for me – it was for an autograph for a California friend of mine by the name of
Mary Kathryn. (I refer to her as she of the two names.) It was a pleasant
surprise to see my story in print, and an honor to be asked to sign a copy for
MK. I can’t think of anything of the top of my head I wouldn’t do Mary Kathryn;
nothing. Truth is truth.
A recent event
turned into a spectacular disappointment. I went to my first Poetry Reading
event. I know, right? My lovely wife accompanied me. After introductions by a
very friendly gentleman whose name escapes me, he read a piece he’d written. It
was very humorous; not at all what I was expecting from him.(One of the joys of
poetry – there is no way to judge the content by the cover, so to speak.
At the urging of
my wife, I read second. She selected the poem – a very personal one I wrote to
her years ago. I am proud to say I got thought it without my eyes leaking, as I
call it. The reception was amazing. Remember, I’ve never read in public prior
to this event, at least never my poetry or own work. The single exception was
the reading of “Sunday Conversation” at my mother’s wake.
There were 6 of
us total, out of 8, who had never attended before. (I should note we started at
7:10 as the book store owner had run home to take dinner to her mother whom she
cares for. Flash forward to about 7:35 when in strolls a man of elderly status;
70’s would be my guess. He is dressed like a beatnik hippie. Huge yellow lens
glasses, cargo pants, a flowery semi-Hawaiian shirt and or course – the
obligatory Jesus boots, (sandals to those of you too young to remember the
phrase.)
Without so much
as a “by your leave”, he interrupted the conversation. His opening line, and I
shit you not was, “I don’t mean to be
critical, but…) and the he launched into a diatribe of if he wanted those
gathered for the evening were only welcome to read what they had personally written.
“If I want to
hear Yeats, I’ll go to the damn library and get it. I don’t want to hear it
from you.” Bear in mind, that while speaking he never looked my way – focused
entirely on the 4 women seated at the tables. Three of these ladies, most likely
in their 60’s had never been to a ready. They were excited and scared and
anxious to begin with, and then Captain Buzz Kill nailed them with criticism.
Being what I am,
I glanced at my wife who knew I was about to engage the elderly gentleman in a
bit of a debate. She smiled. I love her for that. She knows me, and still
smiles, so without further ado I interrupted the septuagenarian. You will
understand my approach to elitist snobs who seek to “prove” themselves
intellectually at the expense of others. I began with, “Now, first, let’s be
clear on one thing in particular; I DO mean to be critical and hopefully,
offensive to you as well.” The look on his face was fucking priceless, almost
as priceless as the look of thanks I got from one of the ladies for intervening.
Bottom line, the
diatribe was about rules. The bookstore owner, (who I personally like) came in
during the middle of my endeavor to psychologically castrate the arrogant
asshole in from of me. To my surprise, and disappointment – she defended him. I
stood and my wife with me. I turned to the ladies and thanked them for their
comments on my poem. It had touched one of them deeply. That is a very humbling
thing.
As we walked out
the door, the elderly gent muttered with a snort of derision, “He acts like he
thinks he’s better than me.” I heard him, catching the door before it shut.
“I am”, is all I
said and shut the door behind me.
