Sometime last week there was a performance in California. A bunch of people in an a cappella chorus sang a song that I helped write. Actually, as I just re-played the performance recording in my iPod, I realized that they were singing about some fairly important moments in my life. (I tend to write about things that are excruciatingly true.)

And it turns out that I am pleased with some of my word re-creations. So are some others. One reviewer described the piece as “stark piercing free form poetry” while referring to me as a “writer”. Another review, the one that called me a “poet”, thought that my words “recall the chatterings of a conflicted brain”, and also proved to be “aptly incomprehensible”. (CHECK IT OUT)

I shared both of these reviews with Thom, who then said, “I didn’t know you were a poet.”

And now I sit here wondering if in fact I am, what they said, a “poet”. I usually find it annoying when people call themselves “artists” or “poets”, but right now I feel really proud that someone else said it about me.

I suppose that only time will tell.