A Poet Roaming Abroad

I`ve been invited to run some poetry workshops at Devon County Council`s HQ, in the fair city of Exeter, on Mon 28th and Tues 29th June, as part of a course entitled Perspectives, which is, as far as I can gather, an event to raise awareness regarding equality and diversity. I have decided to be a roaming poet, with a basket of wares aimed at encouraging other viewpoints, my take on the event being, there`s always more than one way to look at anything, from skinning a cat to cooking a goose, not that I advocate the former, or know much about performing the latter, except it probably involves Delia Smith somehow. Even making your bed and lying on it is open to a myriad of variables, which I now see as such a profoundly complicated series of actions I may have to go and lie down on my bed, which isn`t even made yet, to have a small poetic rest.
I am wondering what a roaming poet wears; something functional like a Ray Mears-ish bushcraft get up? A simple toga, to imply dignity and learning? A grubby frill-laden shirt open to the waist, with equally grubby breeches, and a studied pallor? This last strikes me as far too unhealthy for any serious roaming about. I think gypsy`s the way to go, but I`m not sure if that contravenes any equality and diversity policy regarding stereotyping, and it`s unlikely I`ll be able to find a willing horse anyway... (pause)... Sometimes I feel very old indeed ...

It`s seriously sunny outside. I have a relatively free week ahead, now the Open University exam is done, and my regular work has finished until September. This has allowed me to start reading, for the first time in many months, a book chosen for no useful or instructive purpose. It`s Annie Proulx`s (when and why did she drop the E.?)`Fine Just the Way It Is`, a collection of shorts which my sister very kindly gave me after we`d had a bit of a fiction discussion. I think I thought Annie Proulx was god for a while, but reading these I have found my reverence slipping, though she still does that brutal non-sentimental thing whereby you have to go back and read a page again, to confirm that a main character actually did just die, and you hadn`t imagined/misunderstood it. But because this is so much a trademark of her story-telling, it has started to annoy me. I`m not sure I`ll ever feel the same about her prose as I do Raymond Carver`s ... now I`m scared to read Carver again in case this too has gone off the boil for me. I love/d? Carver because he manages/d to create worlds with such grace and economy of language. And the last time I read the `Ultramarine` poems was maybe 15/16 years ago... (pause) ... I am pretty old, yes ... but still remember the earwiggy cake with awe.

Enjoy the sun!