Electric Lit Ball

I went with my friend Eveline to a party thrown by Electric Literature. The party was themed "Masque of the Red Death," after an Edgar Allen Poe story. Guests were required to wear red or black. There were masks at the party, free drinks and free books. 

I showed up promptly at eight. There were lots of books available and no one was really taking any--early party shyness. I got a tote bag and filled it with books after seeing one other person do the same, then checked my tote bag and coat, grabbed a mask and a drink and waited for Eveline.

I ran into this guy who I guess is the official photographer for New York literary scene stuff, because I saw him at two PEN events previously. Each time I address him as if he knows who I am and each time he responds as if he knows who I am, but I always have the distinct impression he does not remember me. And also that he knows I know he doesn't remember me?

Literary scene photographer who may or may not recognize me or both at once like Schroedinger's Cat.

Bemasked literary people.

While I waited, a young writer struck up a conversation with me. She worked for a tech company but wrote on the side. Her personal essays sounded really interesting, and I encouraged her to write more of them. 

Eveline arrived, checked her coat, and put on her mask. We stood around talking to the younger writers for awhile, who told us about a networking group for women that they're in called the Valkyries, but how they might have to change the name due to a right-wing nationalist type group also being named the Valkyries.

Then, we hit the dance floor. The music was an enjoyable, pop mix including "Faith" by George Michaels, "Thriller" by Michael Jackson, and "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order. I was impressed by how the DJ seemed cool and calm, and then realized later that he wasn't actually the DJ but the sound and lighting guy, so the reason he was so chill around the music was because he wasn't involved in playing it. I think there's a metaphor for my love life in there somewhere .  

Note to self, expressionless does not equal Zen transcendence.

Party at its height.

Eveline and I stayed on the dance floor for a long time. The last song playing as we left was "Vogue" by Madonna. At this point, I was filled with trepidation about bringing all my books home on the subway, but it actually turned out to be pretty easy. When I woke up it was nice to have a stack of books to look forward to reading to. I'm probably most interested in Olivia Sudijic's Sympathy. It's about a young girl . . . who comes to NYC . . .