![]() The next presenter is another poet I know and like: Benjamin Krusling, whose performance would make much less sense on the page. Henry-Smith. For all my skepticism about readings, when a diminutive Roxanne Harris parks a giant laptop on the podium and proceeds to live-code a DJ set that glitches out a sample of Amerie's "1 Thing" into an internet-y bop to a seated and politely attentive audience that begins bopping in their seats, it's hilarious in a good and intentional way. I actually recognize the person leaving the stage, a poet I know and like, S*an D. I think I’m being sneaky, and sure enough, when I arrive, I get a wristband at no cost and slip in. On Thursday evening, in an attempt to cover Ragga, the collective of queer Caribbean artists, and their DJ night, I decide to sit through the event scheduled just before, a reading titled, "Where Have I Heard You Before?" I figure that attendance is probably free, and that I can camp out until the party starts. Someone recently asked me if I would participate in one I relayed all the preceding sentiments, but ultimately replied, "I’ll do it so I don't feel out of the loop."ĭweller, the Black techno festival, began on Wednesday. They seem unfair to judge: All I can feel is sympathy for writers obliged to impose their speech onto their writing, misspeaks and all. ![]() They're the lowest way to experience writing, tragically swaggerless traps designed to humiliate the reader and audience alike.
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