The other night, I watched my beloved baseball team play another away game here in my new home. I have done this twice and have been lucky enough to see them win both times. It always makes me very nostalgic for Cleveland to see them play. I know that’s something you don’t read often: Nostalgic for Cleveland.
Honestly though, I think both my old and new homes just have tiny (and by tiny I mean small giant sized) self-esteem problems.
As a young girl I always dreamed of living in New York. As an adult, while I still love the vibranacy that I feel when I visit the Big Apple, I feel my talents are more suited to the Midwestern metropoli that I’ve grown up among. It suprises me, actually, to see how regionalist my writing truly is. Personally, I don’t see this as a bad thing. Ohio and Michigan are both much more than the media represents them to be (a.k.a. boring brain-traps from which there is no return) and they both deserve good literature written about them. These areas are most certainly -not- culturally dead.
It makes me feel like a true artist to be here. Because true artists get in on the ground floor.
If only I could separate my poetry about the locales from baseball metaphor. There’s only so many times you can reference League Park and keep it fresh.