Double Double Toil and Trouble Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

Lorrie Moore is a writer. No doubt about it. Writers are a special breed of human. They know how to use words. Some people say writers are just born with the ability to use words to create the "spells" that I call stories. Some say that writers are born when humans get bitten by a radioactive spider or dabble in witchcraft. However the breed of human called the "writer" came to be, they are forever remembered as the humans who entrance with words. They are known as the humans whose words are written and when are read, garner attention and evoke emotion. Writers are the ones who understand the magic of words and at 7:35 pm on March 2nd on the second floor of the LBC Center above a Panda Express, I realized I had listened to Lori Moore read her words out loud for half an hour straight without getting distracted.

Instead of siting in an auditorium daydreaming about all the pets I could own when I have a steady job and an apartment off campus, my thoughts were nestled exactly where Ms. Moore wanted them to be: in her story. I sat with her in the kitchen listening to a song to commemorate Michael Jackson's death about a rat while the chicken she was cooking became "unclean." I was there when she suppressed the urge to torment strangers in the buffet line at a wedding for fun. I laughed at her musical choices for her funeral and the motivation behind them only being "to fuck with people." I learned that a threesome of squirrels is menacing, rain can smell like old silver jewelry, and you're practically harmless if you're too stoned (especially even if you're in a biker gang). She used details wonderfully. There was something about each detail she said, and how she said it, made you realize its significance. She made the details significant to me.

It wasn't only her details that swept me in, but her voice. Her voice was like that of a person who knows. They know the ignorant confidence of youth. They know the complexities and predictability of heart break. They know the foolishness of the hurting pride. She read her words slowly when she wanted me to pay attention and quickly when she wanted me to laugh. Her voice mirrored the exasperated, yet slightly whimsical, tone of her daughter's voice when she talked about wanting a reality t.v. show so people could see the kind of mother the daughter had to deal with. There were times when she spoke that made me feel as if my head rested on her lap while she told me about her cheetah print shawl and love for the natural camouflage animals use. There even were moments where I felt she was drinking wine and was jokingly telling me that a man would rather look constantly petrified than 56 years old. Her voice and tone made it feel like she was talking to me. It was so personal. Her voice entranced me and cast a spell. It replicated the feeling of when I read a book alone in my room and loose myself in the story. I am a reader who has lived many lives and tonight, I lived a snippet of Lori Moore's. I have to admit, it's one of the best lives I've ever lived.


P.s. How do biker gangs even still exist?