So I had a salon. In my living room. Which may be redundant.

Let’s just call it Writers in My Residence.
Bob Dylan came. He liked the samosas. I liked that I knew some people in six degrees of separation ways, but not really. It made for much to talk about. Sculptors and writers talking in the kitchen pleases me. Poets and painters talking in the front hall worries me. What are they plotting??? Here they are. Writers, artists of all stripes. Readers. Mostly readers. Word lovers. The best kinds of persons. Nestled in front of bright blue art by Rhonda Pearl.
Reading and listening. One reading is about Anne Wilkinson, a little known modernist poet who is now being more known through The Porcupine’s Quill ‘Essential Poet’s’ series and the good work of Ingrid Ruthig, editor of the The Essential Anne Wilkinson. Another reading is new fiction by Stuart Ross, followed by poetry from his new book Our Days in Vaudeville (Mansfield Press). Here, the omnipotent poet holds in his hand an errant firefly that had been terrorizing the living room for months. We laughed.
 We were enraptured. (Enrapturized?)
We had food and drink and indoor sunshine.

Such is the power of words in enclosed spaces.

Big thanks to a beautiful bunch of participants for this beautiful night.

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