Received this earlier tonight from a longtime local poet and all around cool person.
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Dear poets, hosts, and writing workshop leaders,

My name is Angela DiVeglia, and I am helping to run a poetry and spoken word event called Words 4 Change. We are in need of poets, storytellers, etc. to read at the event, and I was hoping that you could share the announcement (below) at your readings/workshops. Also, as I know most (if not all) of you are writers yourselves, I wanted to invite all of you to perform as well. Thank you for your help!

Words 4 Change is a poetry and spoken word event being held on Saturday, April 30, from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. It is a fundraiser for the Boston Adult Literacy Fund, and will take place at the Boston University College of General Studies, 871 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston. We need poets and spoken word artists to perform at the event! If you are interested in sharing your words for a great cause, or if you have any questions, please email words_4_change@yahoo.com.

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Angela’s good people. Please do your thing.

I’m working on the NEXT paper, but had to pass this along:

At the end of Antiques Roadshow tonight (I played a little hooky) when they were doing the cute lil’ thing about people looking into the camera and talking about what a gas the whole shindig was, one woman held up a pistol (pointing it directly at her friend the whole time) and said,

“I learned all about this antique pistol which belonged to my late husband. He only fired it once.”

I’m numb these days.

It’s not that I feel bad, or that I feel good; it’s that I don’t really feel. It’s Virginia Woolf’s “cotton wool” in full effect: life lived through gauze.

I know it’s keeping me from the spike and the downward spiral, but I’m not sure flat is better.

I seem to be able to write, at least. It’s hard, but it’s doable.

The old myth about psychiatric drugs robbing you of your creativity is thus again disproved. I’ve always held it in contempt, as a creation of those who believe that artists must be miserable in order to create.

See, I’ve always believed that myth was created at least in part to scare people away from creative pursuits. The more you teach people that misery, poverty, and art go together, the less attractive it will seem.

This is not to say that I don’t acknowledge the established link between bipolar illness and literary success. I do. But to suggest that to treat the disorder will eliminate the creative spark? Horseshit.

If the only time you can write is when you’re depressed, you’re not a writer. You’re someone using writing as therapy. Which is fine, but it’s not the same.

And if you aren’t taking your drugs because you’re afraid of losing your edge…
Horseshit. You may have to work harder, but it’ll still be there.

Remember: you can’t write well in a catatonic state. You can’t write coherently in a psychotic state.

And you can’t write at all if you’re dead.

I skipped the Asylum tonight, the first of a long series of nights I’m going to skip.

After all these years, I really feel out of it. It’s not my place anymore.

This is the right move. So why do I feel so guilty?