I woke up to the news that Diane Di Prima died. A blow to my heart. You have to understand that Di Prima was my true introduction to the beats era. Not Kerouac, not Burroughs or Ginsberg. Diane was first for me. I remember the first time I saw the cover of "Memoirs of a Beatnik," her thick hair pulled back, eyes down cast. I inhaled the book, and then read it again. It was the first time I had read a female writing about sex, about curiosity. Her ability to experience and observe struck something in me--it is what I wanted. To live and live and live and write about all of it. I was drawn to her ability to be in a moment, to reflect on said moment, to craft both perspectives at once. It was brand new to me. I was a fairly quiet high school kid who played sports and carried around a hardcover book of my own poems, too shy to share it with anyone. I was trying to figure out where I fit in while simultaneously realized I simply didn't fit. As a teenager this is a devastati