Finding my tribe

Blake had singular taste in movies...one New Year's Eve back when he and I and Charlie Sherman were spending New Year's Eves together, he forced us to watch Eraserhead, pausing the VCR if one of us escaped for a smoke so we wouldn't miss anything because we had to talk about it later--a  pleasure neither of us would deny him. He got agitated when we rode the Red Line to catch a segment of the Tartovsky Film Fest at the Harvard Film Archive because the train was SRO and he was convinced that everyone on board was going to the Tartovsky Film Fest (and not the Hong Kong Restaurant for giant scorpion bowls) and we wouldn't get in.  For him, half the fun of seeing movies at the Harvard Film Archive was talking to other members of the audience--cinema buffs or snobs depending on how much you like to laugh in movies.  Like all enthusiasms, movies accrue meaning and pleasure in the rehash. Like concerts.  Or sports.  Egads, sports.  They have entire staffs devoted to reconstructing sporting events. The pre-game show. The post-game wrap-up. It's like going to church.  Like-minded people hanging around talking about something they are all desperately interested in--living forever, the Patriots. Tartovsky. Writing. I like to talk about writing.  Not necessarily things that people have written, although sometimes, but the how of writing.  Tricks of the trade.  How other people do it. Did it. The pre-writing warm-up. The post-writing wrap up. That's my clan, the how-to-write tribe.  And the drums are beating.  Moravian Writer's Conference.