This photo, taken in the hotel room before last night’s party, represents my evening well. Black dress, red tights, relaxed. I had fun at the Writers’ Trust Gala.
There shouldn’t be buts when at a party where one is happy, surrounded by friendly faces, wearing a medal (all of the writers wear medals, which does give one an odd feeling of having won something), enjoying smart conversation, and singing happy birthday to Margaret Atwood. It’s lovely. We were even entertained by a “ukulele orchestra” of young people, near the ages of my older kids.
Is there a but?
There isn’t, in terms of the evening itself. But there is, in terms of the larger concerns of the larger world outside of this sheltered glittering large and fancy and exclusive room. I am thinking of Ferguson, MO, most immediately. I am thinking of a conversation in which I feel strongly that I should be listening, not talking. Here’s an article I read this evening on Salon. Listening, not talking.
This is short post. I’m off to teach the last class of the term. It’s a fine evening, chilly, frosty, flecks of sharp snow falling.
P.S. A friend pointed out this afternoon that I’ve been to very few parties in the last year, in my own neighbourhood; parties to which I’ve been invited, I mean. This is true, and the truth makes me a bit sad. I’m not sure why I’ve failed to find myself in party mode when among friends, yet I can lift myself to party mode when among colleagues and strangers. This is for thinking on, I think.