Cornelius Eady gave a wonderful, brilliant reading last night at the Knickerbocker Theater at Hope College. I particularly enjoyed* the poems from Brutal Imagination (Putnam Adult, 2001), a collection told in the "voice" of the imaginary black man accused by Susan Smith of kidnapping (and subsequently killing) her children in 1994. As you may recall, Smith was later found guilty of having killed her own children by drowning; leaving them strapped into their car seats and driving the car into a South Carolina lake. But I was so tired after the reading, I wandered out of the theater, pulled myself into the car and drove home; without saying goodbye to anyone, without getting any books signed, and without introducing myself to Eady or his wife, though we (nominally) had dinner together––at opposite ends of a long table.
At a certain point in the evening, let's just say I lose my charm. Or perhaps I lose the ability to pretend I have any.
And 4 a.m. until 8 p.m. makes for another long workday.
*This is not the right word..."appreciated"? or "was struck by"?