when the west was won, & paved

in 2003, when i was perhaps a little too optimistic about the power of a sharpie pen to change the world, i wrote the words “you’re beautiful” on the inside of the door of the 3rd bathroom stall on the left in the ILC on the UA campus, theoretically to address issues of body image and self-esteem among college women. i found out on saturday that it’s still there, accompanied by 2 “thanks!” in response, and 1 “i know!” this is the only grafitti in this bathroom.
after trying to find a ride through craigslist and facebook, failing (all of NAU seemed to be taking the shuttle to phx, negating that option as well; stupid spring break), giving up on my chance to attend the 1st tucson book festival, and moping around my parents’ house, i came to tucson on friday with todd and ben, who drove here to bike up mt. lemmon on saturday, and fortunately saw fit to announce their plans to do so on facebook before leaving flag, giving me the chance to beg for space in the car. seeing the city through their eyes, as a new and interesting place, reawakened my lost affection for the old pueblo: the downtown skyline’s 3 buildings taller than 2 stories welcoming you in from I-10, old adobe houses and welded bike racks on 4th ave, the scent of orange blossoms filling the night air. as we left la indita, a hobo holding 2 styrofoam boxes, one in each hand, said “hey, can you guys spare some change so i don’t have to eat all this food?” “i like your style,” todd said. the hobo shrugged.
i spent most of the weekend at the book festival, listening to readings and reconnecting with my writer-self, as well as making sure my former professors remember me well enough to write recommendation letters (they do), should the occasion arise (what?). caught up with alison at the poetry center reception saturday evening, and she gave me important names of important people, said not to get married and agreed that it’s not worth leaving the west, even for the iowa writer’s workshop (i’d said, “i’m not going to iowa, so don’t suggest that”). i showed her how i hadn’t written anything in my journal since arshinder’s address the day we left india until her reading saturday morning and she said we’ve got to do something about that, and what i’d written was a line from her poem “salt”: “can everything sacred be described by things and their emergence?”
had dinner at jessie’s friend susan’s house, a potluck full of beautiful and delicious food and the old tucson communist crowd, people i haven’t seen or thought about for years. i said something inarticulate about alaskan unions (i don’t know anything, i just have a t-shirt), and ate a lot of hummus. susan’s house is filled with paintings by the last man she loved, who died in prison 2 months before the end of his 10 year sentence. she later learned from his mother that everything she’d known about him was a lie, and at 54 she said she’s done with men for good. my favorite painting was of a pay phone on a brick wall outside a diner advertising beer and burgers, and cloudless blue sky.
maya joined me for readings yesterday by jimmy santiago baca, steve orlen, and jane miller (steve is writing lyrical poetry now). then we wandered to congress for drinks and to grill for tater tots and grilled cheese (but as many of you know, it’s all about the tater tots). she’ll be in DC working for the government soon, and i tried to sell her on the idea of first coming to AK to see the northern lights. she’s stubborn as hell, but i think it’ll happen.
and now, on anna’s futon where i spent the night, sharing a room with her roommate’s giant house bunny. i miss cute little tucson houses. i told alison i’d consider coming back here if it meant i could work with her but it would also be for the houses and the food.