So I will be leaving Sydney for about a month, first to go to Melbourne to witness what everyone seems to call "the cultural center of australia". Apparently the art scene there is unbelieveable, and hopefully I'll be arriving in time to catch some performances of a few of the poets I met at the Woodford Folk Festival. I'm a bit anxious about leaving Sydney, since I've primarily used this city as my base and center for the past two months. But I'm getting itchy feet, and it's a sure sign that things need to start moving on. The ride down there should be an adventure, and I'm sure I'll have some great stories/pictures by the end of it all.
I'll then be heading over to New Zealand for about two weeks to examine what's happening along there. I'm pretty excited about going to Auckland, as it seems to have a quietly thriving poetry scene. I'll be meeting up with Renee Liang, and hopefully she'll be able to introduce me to the scene there. After staying in Auckland for a few days, I'd like to somehow figure a way to Christchurch and maybe (hopefully?!?!) get over to Milford Sound before I head back up to Auckland and fly out. Sadly, there is a rush, mainly because I have to get back to Sydney before the Night Words festival begins.
Nightwords boasts to be the first festival in sydney totally devoted to spoken word. It's being run at the Opera house, which should be amazing to see. Some of Australia's best performance artists will be there, including some returning faces from Brisbane. I'm quite excited.
I know I've been in a rut lately, and I'm starting to feel like things are getting back on track. It's hard to explain traveling alone for this long, it's a weird feeling. Somedays I wake up and I just want to hop on a plane and go back home. Actually, that happens most days. And then I start to feel like this whole thing was a mistake, that I didn't deserve this grant and they should've given it to someone stronger, someone who can deal with being alone better than I can. But, as I was folding the pages of a small poetry booklet I've been writing by hand, well, I can only describe it as snapping out of it. It was a physical snap too, like all the noise and commotion and worry that was in my head just switched off, and all I could feel was the paper in my hand and the sound of it folding. I've had that feeling before, often throughout my childhood and as I've gotten older just right after meditation. It's the feeling of being completely in the moment, of realizing that this is my life, not a story I'm reading or a poem I'm writing about my life. And I'm 22 years old and I'm halfway across the world and I'm doing what I love. And I realized that so much of my misery of late had to do with not being around what I love. Sure I've been hanging out in cafes and used bookstores, talking with poets and poetry fans, but I wasn't all there. It was like I was going through the motions without soaking it up.
Now I know why Ginny said I should be careful about burning out.
So I put on my favorite Taylor Mali album that has my favorite poem on it (the poem that, infact, inspired the poem I wrote for the Bristols when applying for this fellowship). And this weight was lifted. I don't know how long it will be lifted for, or even if there's anything I can do about it, but I'm just enjoying this new found relaxation now. I've got a slam happening on Tuesday, and a few interviews to do before I'm off to Melbourne. The feeling of adventure is slowly returning, the embracement of change, perhaps. And the acknowledgement of the endless possibilities in my life: that if I do want to return to any country, I can make it happen, somehow, if it was meant to happen.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Tide lessons
Usually, on a sunny wednesday morning in the summer, the beaches start filling up around 9am. But not this one. The sand, thick and heavy, powdery but still retaining some of the moisture from the night before, showed little signs of footprints or really any kind of human disruption. With the exception of a few surfers trying to catch some of the morning waves, the beach was abandoned. I'm not sure wy. Perhaps people are turned-off by the 45 minute busride required of them to reach this beach, perhaps the history of the town being a "slum" (an image it just can't shake, despite the influx of middle-class elderly residents), perhaps stories of surfer gangs or viscious tides or the allure of beachside shops and restaurants instead of houses and quiet modest cement block buildings that are reminiscent of mexico, with their offensively brightly painted exterirors in pastel blue, teal and green, the signs painted on by hand which hold up fine now but I can already see them in a few years, the paint chipped and worn by salt-water breezes. What then, small town, what will you do then?
But despite its shabby appearance, I've grown fond of the little town by the ocean. The water a striking blue, different than any ocean water I've seen, its tide paced a bit more rough, just like the people of this town, a little worn, a little tired, but tough. After our run up and down the beach, these two french girls and I jumped into the water, immediately pulled into the waves and to the left. Then later, pushed and pulled back to the right. We splashed and rolled around in the water. How strange we must've appeared to those lone surfers, bobbing calmly past the breaking point of the tide.
There's a line from one of my favorite latino movies that says ""La vida es como la espuma, por eso hay que darse como el mar", "Life is like the surf, so give yourself like the sea." It's unpredictable. It comes and goes, and so do we. It's a thought I've just been coming to terms with, what it means to be temporary, versus simply coming and going. Temporary is being here and then being gone. Coming and going implies a chance of return. (Will I always want to return to places I've been?) And I think it also implies that you leave something behind, a presence, or perhaps its just that chance of return again. I've always hated the idea of being temporary, a simple fleeting blip on someone's radar. Maybe it's because I rarely find temporary people in my life. I rarely let them be temporary. There's always a story or a memory, something they've left behind to keep them coming and going in my life. like the tide.
Maybe someday someone will have a story about me too.
But despite its shabby appearance, I've grown fond of the little town by the ocean. The water a striking blue, different than any ocean water I've seen, its tide paced a bit more rough, just like the people of this town, a little worn, a little tired, but tough. After our run up and down the beach, these two french girls and I jumped into the water, immediately pulled into the waves and to the left. Then later, pushed and pulled back to the right. We splashed and rolled around in the water. How strange we must've appeared to those lone surfers, bobbing calmly past the breaking point of the tide.
There's a line from one of my favorite latino movies that says ""La vida es como la espuma, por eso hay que darse como el mar", "Life is like the surf, so give yourself like the sea." It's unpredictable. It comes and goes, and so do we. It's a thought I've just been coming to terms with, what it means to be temporary, versus simply coming and going. Temporary is being here and then being gone. Coming and going implies a chance of return. (Will I always want to return to places I've been?) And I think it also implies that you leave something behind, a presence, or perhaps its just that chance of return again. I've always hated the idea of being temporary, a simple fleeting blip on someone's radar. Maybe it's because I rarely find temporary people in my life. I rarely let them be temporary. There's always a story or a memory, something they've left behind to keep them coming and going in my life. like the tide.
Maybe someday someone will have a story about me too.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Lonesome Traveler
It's pretty obvious that I"ve been scattered as of late. Had a hard time trying to shut down my mind, slow down my heart rate etc. Completely irrational behavior, mind you, because I'm otherwise happy with my situation. But after a conversation with my brother, I was reminded of something I had forgotten along the extended pathway of my travels. I had forgotten to simply do what I know. Poetry is what I know. And moreover, the man who inspired it all, is what I know. Jack Kerouac.
And so I found myself in the dusty corner of a used bookstore in a bohemian college-student side of town, where there are as many cockroaches as beautiful colorful people, and wild musicians and artists splashing the streets and walls with color and light. I found myself huddled in the corner of the K section of contemporary fiction, searching and pleading with my eyes for his name. My dear, dear Jack. Jack Kerouac. And there it was. Three times over, three books of his I'd never read, but only heard about in reference through his other tales or biographies or literary student gatherings amidst clove smoke and coffee and ella fitzgerald. And the one that stood out to me, the one that practically flew off the shelf and into my arms like a great literary hug was the most fitting of all: "Lonesome Traveler". Yes.
For if there's anyone who has ever existed in this world that could completely put voice to the hectic and lonely world of globetrotting, it is Mr. Jack Kerouac. His words encompass the simultaneous yet conflicting desire which I believe lies at the core of every traveling poet's heart: to connect with as many people as possible, to take on their love and their pain and write about it, while at the same time remain independent, uninvolved, and solitary. The cognitive dissonance in the need to connect and distance, that is what plagues every artist, I think. Or at least it is what I think is hurting me- the constant push and pull between stay and go, between ordinary and abnormal, between stable and spontanious.
Reading the first few lines of his book brought me home. I'm at home between his written pages. His words are like great big comfortable arms, large hands smoothing my hair and thick New-England voice comforting, saying "Yes, yes. I know, I know."
And so I found myself in the dusty corner of a used bookstore in a bohemian college-student side of town, where there are as many cockroaches as beautiful colorful people, and wild musicians and artists splashing the streets and walls with color and light. I found myself huddled in the corner of the K section of contemporary fiction, searching and pleading with my eyes for his name. My dear, dear Jack. Jack Kerouac. And there it was. Three times over, three books of his I'd never read, but only heard about in reference through his other tales or biographies or literary student gatherings amidst clove smoke and coffee and ella fitzgerald. And the one that stood out to me, the one that practically flew off the shelf and into my arms like a great literary hug was the most fitting of all: "Lonesome Traveler". Yes.
For if there's anyone who has ever existed in this world that could completely put voice to the hectic and lonely world of globetrotting, it is Mr. Jack Kerouac. His words encompass the simultaneous yet conflicting desire which I believe lies at the core of every traveling poet's heart: to connect with as many people as possible, to take on their love and their pain and write about it, while at the same time remain independent, uninvolved, and solitary. The cognitive dissonance in the need to connect and distance, that is what plagues every artist, I think. Or at least it is what I think is hurting me- the constant push and pull between stay and go, between ordinary and abnormal, between stable and spontanious.
Reading the first few lines of his book brought me home. I'm at home between his written pages. His words are like great big comfortable arms, large hands smoothing my hair and thick New-England voice comforting, saying "Yes, yes. I know, I know."
Friday, January 25, 2008
Australia day and the worlds largest poem
That's me and poet Miles Merril at the Australia day challenge: to break the world record for the world's largest poem. No, not longest (that perhaps goes to some epic poem, like Ulysses). Physically, the largest. An attempt to be about 5meters x 4meters long and erected on large wooden slabs, sharpie provided the pens and we provided the poet-power.
It's an interesting experience, being in a foriegn country for a celebration like this one. It gives me an obvious sense of being a foriegner, especially when the topic of the poem is "what does it mean to you to be australian?" But perhaps it's not the question, but rather the answers that were most interesting from a third-party perspective.
People's answers ranged from your typical "love everyone love the world love the beach" answers, to angry "massive revolution, hate the system rebel rebel!". But we're poets. We like art. We don't edit or censor.
Just like the way i celebrated an alternative thanksgiving with native peoples, I celebrated an alternative australia day, with indigenous and "white" australians alike. It was a little bizzarre for me, especially because I don't understand much of the context of the aboriginal oppression. All I think is, from my ignorant American perspective, it seems that Australia is following in America's footsteps, as far as cultural genocide is concerned.
And for as bizarre the experience, it was also beautiful, even for an person as ignorant as I am about the situation. It was a display of the most diversity I've seen in Australia thus far. And everyone seemed to be getting along just fine.
The answer that stuck with me the most was provided by the most unexpected source. A quiet older woman with a big floppy hat approched me and said "well, I have a line, and you tell me if it's appropriate", and after I agreed she said "We love the sun, we love the sunburnt land, but we have no love for the sunburnt people."
Something to think about.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
If not the points, then...?
"The points are not the point. Poetry is the point."
It's a common saying in slam poetry circles. I've heard it over and over again at the beginning of slams, in articles attempting to explain slams, and in consolation conversations between poets. I've used it multiple times in my description of slams to people outside the poetry scene, but until recently I dont think I ever truly understood what it meant. In order for me to really explain what this all means, I need to rewind to the last week of December. I had just disembarked my train to Woodford, Queensland, and there was news of a cyclone headed our way...
I arrived through the front gates and felt immediately overwhelmed. Not bad, just overwhelmed. People of all shapes, colors and sizes paraded before me- some barefoot, others in costume, many with dreadlocks and feathers braided into their hair. It was a completely pacifying atmosphere... the kind of place I imagine many of my peers back at school predicted me to be. The bright colors of the tents and the people contrasted heavily with the thick grey ominous clouds that lay low above our heads. But hardly anyone took notice. In our minds, it was sunny and bright. The smells of vegetarian cuisine were in the air, that fresh vegetable smell, mixed with curry, saffron, sage and other spices. I followed my ears over a bridge and found myself in a large tent, surrounded by bohemians sipping chai and watching a young woman with a guitar sing love songs. People offered me a cushion and sitting space next to them. Gratefully I accepted, and just in time too because just then the sky opened up, and water cascaded down along the perimeter of the tent where I had been standing.
When the rain stopped, and the woman got off stage, I wandered to a larger tent, advertising spoken word acts. Ah, that was the place I would make my home base. Media pass in hand, I walked into the back of the tent, and watched one of the most theatrical performances of poetry I've seen since Mexico:
It was like spoken word meets hard rock meets rocky horror picture show. I don't even know if that accurately describes it. But it was fun, fresh and certainly different than most of the poetry shows I've seen in Australia, and for all their onstage antics, they did draw a massive crowd.
I've found that there are generally two types of spoken word poets. There's the standard spoken word poet: the guy/girl who can get up there without any props, without any flair and just move the audience with his words. S/he does slams, probably runs a series Then there's the performance poet: the guy/girl/group that gets up on stage and just puts it all out there. Anything goes. Music, theater, dance. You name it.
I've noticed too that there is a lot of tension between these two types of poets, a lot of criticism: one is two dry and "full of himself" and the other is too out there and "pop-culture". It's like a fight to see who can reach the most people the fastest. But really, it's a silly fight. Because underneath all the glitz of performance poetry, there is a standard spoken word artist, and I think deep inside a standard spoken word artist, there is a performer waiting to erupt.
I haven't quite figured out what type I am. Maybe it's silly to even attempt to catagorize "types". I think my style is pretty standard, very bare bones "aw shucks" girl nextdoor. But there's this side to me that is attracted to the performance aspect as well. I just don't quite know if I could pull it off.
Anyway, I decided to compete in the Woodford Slam heat. I did the famous "Nice guy" poem. And would've tied for third except for one small thing: Australia's got a 2 minute time limit, and I wrote the "nice guy" poem for the typical American 3 minute limit. When I timed myself previously, the poem is exactly 2 minutes. But that night, I stumbled, and ended up running over by 10 seconds. Not a big deal, that's how slams go.
Two days later, however, I recieved word that one of the finalists had backed out and that I, being the runner up, was to compete. I panicked. What poem did I have that was strong but would also last 2 minutes? I couldn't risk the "Nice guy" poem again. So I went with a love poem "On the Eve of Your engagement" (which I think I've posted on here in a past entry). I always hesitate before deciding to do this poem, because it carries so much weight both on a poetic level and on a personal level. It's one of the few poems I have that can be tied to real personal events in my life- though most of my poetry is inspired by real events, this poem in particular is simply a recreation of what happened. Hardly a poem at all, just a story told from my perspective. Having your personal story put on display and judged for an audience's entertainment is a toughie. But I decided to go with my gut. and my gut was saing go for it.
I don't know what was up with me that night, maybe the humidity in the tent, or the long list of excellent performers that went before me. Maybe it was because my friends were there in the audience this time (they had driven up from sydney to see me perform). Maybe it was because I had explained to a few people a few days earlier the true significance of that poem (a poem's inner message revealed! ah!) Whatever it was, I got up there and couldn't control my voice. Usually I can slip into performance mode and keep my voice low and level. But not that night. And by the end of the piece my voice shook and broke. There was a silent pause right before I walked off stage, and I think the audience thought I was going to burst into tears. I really don't know what happened that night, I had done that poem so many times before. As I walked off stage the MC told me that he got a little choked up at the last stanza.
Well, for as emotional as I made the audience, I didn't win the slam. I tied for second. Again, not really a big deal in my eyes, it was fun to perform. That's what I always thought the whole "point" mantra was about. But I was wrong. As the audience began to file out of the tent, a man approached me. I thought he was going to stop 3 feet infront of me, but he just walked right up to me and gave me a hug and said "I know exactly what you were talking about. I really felt that. Thank you." And I kind of blushed and laughed in my awkward post-performance manner, thanked him for his kind words and watched him leave. Another man came up to me and shook my hand. "Beautiful. Just Beautiful". Even the man who won the slam congratulated me on an excellent performance. Girls nodded to me knowingly, some patting me on the shoulder as they left.
As I walked back to my table I realized that there's something about that poem in particular that touches people. It's the same poem that gained the response from the little boy in canada, who stood up infront of his whole class after I finished reading and said "that was the truest poem I've ever heard" Maybe it is it's brutal honesty and openness about a personal event in my life, people just know I can't be making that up.
So that's the true point. It's making a connection on *that* level. I think brutal honesty and openness is something people crave. We get it so rarely in this world of x-box and virtual relationships, music videos and ipods. We've built a barrier around ourselves and other people. I think words can really bring us back to ourselves. I think they break through these walls that we set up to protect ourselves from eachother, and let us know that we aren't so different. That maybe that scrawny girl with the funny accent up on stage from all the way across the world has in fact experienced the same things you've experienced. And maybe she can put a voice to those events. Poetry can help us rebuild this lost connection, it can motivate us to be real, to walk up to a random stranger and just hug her because she finally expressed what you've been feeling. It can help us become human again. That's the point.
It's a common saying in slam poetry circles. I've heard it over and over again at the beginning of slams, in articles attempting to explain slams, and in consolation conversations between poets. I've used it multiple times in my description of slams to people outside the poetry scene, but until recently I dont think I ever truly understood what it meant. In order for me to really explain what this all means, I need to rewind to the last week of December. I had just disembarked my train to Woodford, Queensland, and there was news of a cyclone headed our way...
I arrived through the front gates and felt immediately overwhelmed. Not bad, just overwhelmed. People of all shapes, colors and sizes paraded before me- some barefoot, others in costume, many with dreadlocks and feathers braided into their hair. It was a completely pacifying atmosphere... the kind of place I imagine many of my peers back at school predicted me to be. The bright colors of the tents and the people contrasted heavily with the thick grey ominous clouds that lay low above our heads. But hardly anyone took notice. In our minds, it was sunny and bright. The smells of vegetarian cuisine were in the air, that fresh vegetable smell, mixed with curry, saffron, sage and other spices. I followed my ears over a bridge and found myself in a large tent, surrounded by bohemians sipping chai and watching a young woman with a guitar sing love songs. People offered me a cushion and sitting space next to them. Gratefully I accepted, and just in time too because just then the sky opened up, and water cascaded down along the perimeter of the tent where I had been standing.
When the rain stopped, and the woman got off stage, I wandered to a larger tent, advertising spoken word acts. Ah, that was the place I would make my home base. Media pass in hand, I walked into the back of the tent, and watched one of the most theatrical performances of poetry I've seen since Mexico:
It was like spoken word meets hard rock meets rocky horror picture show. I don't even know if that accurately describes it. But it was fun, fresh and certainly different than most of the poetry shows I've seen in Australia, and for all their onstage antics, they did draw a massive crowd.
I've found that there are generally two types of spoken word poets. There's the standard spoken word poet: the guy/girl who can get up there without any props, without any flair and just move the audience with his words. S/he does slams, probably runs a series Then there's the performance poet: the guy/girl/group that gets up on stage and just puts it all out there. Anything goes. Music, theater, dance. You name it.
I've noticed too that there is a lot of tension between these two types of poets, a lot of criticism: one is two dry and "full of himself" and the other is too out there and "pop-culture". It's like a fight to see who can reach the most people the fastest. But really, it's a silly fight. Because underneath all the glitz of performance poetry, there is a standard spoken word artist, and I think deep inside a standard spoken word artist, there is a performer waiting to erupt.
I haven't quite figured out what type I am. Maybe it's silly to even attempt to catagorize "types". I think my style is pretty standard, very bare bones "aw shucks" girl nextdoor. But there's this side to me that is attracted to the performance aspect as well. I just don't quite know if I could pull it off.
Anyway, I decided to compete in the Woodford Slam heat. I did the famous "Nice guy" poem. And would've tied for third except for one small thing: Australia's got a 2 minute time limit, and I wrote the "nice guy" poem for the typical American 3 minute limit. When I timed myself previously, the poem is exactly 2 minutes. But that night, I stumbled, and ended up running over by 10 seconds. Not a big deal, that's how slams go.
Two days later, however, I recieved word that one of the finalists had backed out and that I, being the runner up, was to compete. I panicked. What poem did I have that was strong but would also last 2 minutes? I couldn't risk the "Nice guy" poem again. So I went with a love poem "On the Eve of Your engagement" (which I think I've posted on here in a past entry). I always hesitate before deciding to do this poem, because it carries so much weight both on a poetic level and on a personal level. It's one of the few poems I have that can be tied to real personal events in my life- though most of my poetry is inspired by real events, this poem in particular is simply a recreation of what happened. Hardly a poem at all, just a story told from my perspective. Having your personal story put on display and judged for an audience's entertainment is a toughie. But I decided to go with my gut. and my gut was saing go for it.
I don't know what was up with me that night, maybe the humidity in the tent, or the long list of excellent performers that went before me. Maybe it was because my friends were there in the audience this time (they had driven up from sydney to see me perform). Maybe it was because I had explained to a few people a few days earlier the true significance of that poem (a poem's inner message revealed! ah!) Whatever it was, I got up there and couldn't control my voice. Usually I can slip into performance mode and keep my voice low and level. But not that night. And by the end of the piece my voice shook and broke. There was a silent pause right before I walked off stage, and I think the audience thought I was going to burst into tears. I really don't know what happened that night, I had done that poem so many times before. As I walked off stage the MC told me that he got a little choked up at the last stanza.
Well, for as emotional as I made the audience, I didn't win the slam. I tied for second. Again, not really a big deal in my eyes, it was fun to perform. That's what I always thought the whole "point" mantra was about. But I was wrong. As the audience began to file out of the tent, a man approached me. I thought he was going to stop 3 feet infront of me, but he just walked right up to me and gave me a hug and said "I know exactly what you were talking about. I really felt that. Thank you." And I kind of blushed and laughed in my awkward post-performance manner, thanked him for his kind words and watched him leave. Another man came up to me and shook my hand. "Beautiful. Just Beautiful". Even the man who won the slam congratulated me on an excellent performance. Girls nodded to me knowingly, some patting me on the shoulder as they left.
As I walked back to my table I realized that there's something about that poem in particular that touches people. It's the same poem that gained the response from the little boy in canada, who stood up infront of his whole class after I finished reading and said "that was the truest poem I've ever heard" Maybe it is it's brutal honesty and openness about a personal event in my life, people just know I can't be making that up.
So that's the true point. It's making a connection on *that* level. I think brutal honesty and openness is something people crave. We get it so rarely in this world of x-box and virtual relationships, music videos and ipods. We've built a barrier around ourselves and other people. I think words can really bring us back to ourselves. I think they break through these walls that we set up to protect ourselves from eachother, and let us know that we aren't so different. That maybe that scrawny girl with the funny accent up on stage from all the way across the world has in fact experienced the same things you've experienced. And maybe she can put a voice to those events. Poetry can help us rebuild this lost connection, it can motivate us to be real, to walk up to a random stranger and just hug her because she finally expressed what you've been feeling. It can help us become human again. That's the point.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The problem with traveling alone and the solution's plan
It occured to me today the weird pace of life I've been living for the past 6 months, and the effect that it has on my emotions and psychology. There are two speeds at which I generally move while on this fellowship: very slow or very fast. And when things are moving fast, all I want is for them to slow down. And when things are slow, all I want is for them to speed up. I've been in a sort of rut lately, slowly feeling like I'm going to emerge out of it soon though, thank goodness. At first I thought it was just the anxiety of being stagnant for so long (I've been in sydney for 3 weeks now). But upon examining the true nature of my emotions, and their timeliness, I think I've uncovered an interesting hurdle in my trip. A few weeks ago, my twin brother came to sydney to visit me. It was a great visit, and wonderful to see him, especially since I hadn't really seen him for almost 7 months. While he was here, I had such a great time; I had someone to talk to, someone to share my experiences with. But now that he's gone, the empty space he left is daunting. I know it was always there, and the feeling of loneliness was always in the back of my mind previously. But now, I'm afraid, it's been brought to the forefront and the silence in my small newtown room when I wake is louder than the morning busses rumbling past. It's a silence that has been staying in my head for days now, turning me into a dull pendulum swinging between anxiousness and sadness. It wasn't really even my brother in particular that triggered this spell, mostly I think it's homesickness in a disguise of nervousness. His presence reminded me of stability, of home, of calling a place home and being around people I know and places that are familiar and comfortable. It reminded me of how incredibly unstable it is to be traveling the world this way, always unsure of the next step. And that instability, though I often crave it, frightens me more than most things.
Although I'm pretty much living my dream right now, traveling, spending time with poets and artists, and of course finishing my book, I've been exploring certain shadowy feelings that seem to follow me. Mostly that I seem to meet such wonderful people in my life, and then suddenly, our once beautiful relationship is reduced to an occasional facebook message or instant message conversation. I often look with a bit of envy on those who have sustained long-lasting proximal relationships with people, and wonder if I simply am not capable of doing such a thing, or if it's just my lifestyle that prohibits me from doing so. I feel lucky, but often unworthy of such a great trip that I am on, because some days all I want is an apartment and a big dog and a boyfriend and a car and a job. Somedays the idea of working in a cafe for the rest of my life sounds pretty good, and I want to just give up this nomadic pursuit. That's the problem about traveling alone. It forces you to look inward and compare who you think you are and what you think you want to who you really are and what you've got.
Perhaps the luxuries that come along with stability will come to me later in life, and I will look back on my time on the road fondly, envious of my former self and her innocence "I didn't know how good I had it". I knew this trip would be a challenge for me from the start. It was something I had anticipated. Maybe that's why these fellowships are so difficult to obtain- they need to be sure that in times like these the fellows don't chicken out.
Times like these, when you're forced to face your irrational emotions head on, are not the times when I want to back out or go home. This is the time to dive in head first. It's similar to what a friend told me shortly after arriving in spain- if you're going to be culture shocked, you might as well really go all the way.
So that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm moving to Maroubra tomorrow, a small suburb of Sydney that lies along the coast. It boasts a beautiful beach and some of the best surfing waves around. A change of scene will be good. It'll be a good place for me to get my poetry in order. The new season is beginning this saturday, with a challenge to break a world record for the world's largest poem. Then, a slam in glebe. Next I'll be off to Melbourne for two poetry readings and hopefully at least three interviews. Immediately afterwards, I'll hop on a plane to New Zealand, attend a slam and a featured poetry reading, and perhaps an open mic or two, explore the mountains etc. Then back to Sydney for the first Sydney Spoken Word Poetry Festival. Then after that, I'm still sort of figuring it out. There might be a trip to Adelaide in the cards, and another trip back up to Brisbane (since I now know where to find the poets).
I have a strange belief that the universe has a plan for us. I'm not really keen on the whole fate idea or the predestination bit, but I do think there is a natural flow and order to things, and if we choose to listen to the right signs, things tend to work themselves out. I think I've been doubting myself a lot, and that doubt is throwing myself back into my head. It echoes so much so that I can't hear the signs. I get so caught up in the drama I create for myself that I can't see what's unfolding right infront of me. I keep fearing that I'm makng the wrong decisions when instead I should just go with it because there are very few truly wrong decisions in life. Moving out of my apartment? It's an adventure. Sure, it's going to be a pain to find a new place, but if that's the situation I'm in, that's where I am. It can't be the wrong path, because it just is. I think it's very rare to hit a brick wall in life, a dead end. There's always a door. If there's no door, there's a window. If there's no window there's always a shovel. Always.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the shovel makes for the best stories anyway.
Although I'm pretty much living my dream right now, traveling, spending time with poets and artists, and of course finishing my book, I've been exploring certain shadowy feelings that seem to follow me. Mostly that I seem to meet such wonderful people in my life, and then suddenly, our once beautiful relationship is reduced to an occasional facebook message or instant message conversation. I often look with a bit of envy on those who have sustained long-lasting proximal relationships with people, and wonder if I simply am not capable of doing such a thing, or if it's just my lifestyle that prohibits me from doing so. I feel lucky, but often unworthy of such a great trip that I am on, because some days all I want is an apartment and a big dog and a boyfriend and a car and a job. Somedays the idea of working in a cafe for the rest of my life sounds pretty good, and I want to just give up this nomadic pursuit. That's the problem about traveling alone. It forces you to look inward and compare who you think you are and what you think you want to who you really are and what you've got.
Perhaps the luxuries that come along with stability will come to me later in life, and I will look back on my time on the road fondly, envious of my former self and her innocence "I didn't know how good I had it". I knew this trip would be a challenge for me from the start. It was something I had anticipated. Maybe that's why these fellowships are so difficult to obtain- they need to be sure that in times like these the fellows don't chicken out.
Times like these, when you're forced to face your irrational emotions head on, are not the times when I want to back out or go home. This is the time to dive in head first. It's similar to what a friend told me shortly after arriving in spain- if you're going to be culture shocked, you might as well really go all the way.
So that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm moving to Maroubra tomorrow, a small suburb of Sydney that lies along the coast. It boasts a beautiful beach and some of the best surfing waves around. A change of scene will be good. It'll be a good place for me to get my poetry in order. The new season is beginning this saturday, with a challenge to break a world record for the world's largest poem. Then, a slam in glebe. Next I'll be off to Melbourne for two poetry readings and hopefully at least three interviews. Immediately afterwards, I'll hop on a plane to New Zealand, attend a slam and a featured poetry reading, and perhaps an open mic or two, explore the mountains etc. Then back to Sydney for the first Sydney Spoken Word Poetry Festival. Then after that, I'm still sort of figuring it out. There might be a trip to Adelaide in the cards, and another trip back up to Brisbane (since I now know where to find the poets).
I have a strange belief that the universe has a plan for us. I'm not really keen on the whole fate idea or the predestination bit, but I do think there is a natural flow and order to things, and if we choose to listen to the right signs, things tend to work themselves out. I think I've been doubting myself a lot, and that doubt is throwing myself back into my head. It echoes so much so that I can't hear the signs. I get so caught up in the drama I create for myself that I can't see what's unfolding right infront of me. I keep fearing that I'm makng the wrong decisions when instead I should just go with it because there are very few truly wrong decisions in life. Moving out of my apartment? It's an adventure. Sure, it's going to be a pain to find a new place, but if that's the situation I'm in, that's where I am. It can't be the wrong path, because it just is. I think it's very rare to hit a brick wall in life, a dead end. There's always a door. If there's no door, there's a window. If there's no window there's always a shovel. Always.
Maybe it's just me, but I think the shovel makes for the best stories anyway.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Oh no,
I know, I know. I'd like to acknowledge that I've been pretty horrible at updating this blog.
There comes a point, while traveling, that a person begins to feel the need to decide between documenting her journey, or living her journey. As I've been traveling a lot, I can verifiably say that this choice is completely unneccesary- that one can both document and live at the same time. But it just takes a lot more effort, time and energy.
As noted in my previous few posts, I am still in australia. Technically, I should be getting ready to leave. But something pulled me here. Something is pulling me here. Whether it's the allure of beaches, of hot sunny days in january, of strange accents or simply the wonderful friends I've made since i've been here, I don't know. But just as therew as something telling me to leave mexico early, there is something telling me to stay here. And a bit more- to come back.
I know it's really easy for a traveler to fall in love with a place, to attach memories or feelings to the land itself and to attribute these things to the place, instead of the people. It happens often, even to the study abroad student who travels for six months and then returns home to find himself a bit changed. Home no longer means the same thing. And so he thinks about the country he left, looks at photographs, writes emails, listens to music... anything to keep that memory alive and tangible. The silent promise repeating "i'll return someday" and the even more silent knowledge that upon return he will be disappointed: buildings will be in different places, faces will be unfamiliar, streets forgotten or gentrified.
I've been that study abroad student. I won't be so arrogant as to state that I've changed so much over the past two years. But what has happened is this constant search for home. At first I thought it was because I was one of those nomadic people. But then I realized that I was in fact just like everyone else. Except I wasn't ready for home to be familiar. By living in Granada, I think a little magic was kindled inside me. I originally attributed it to the city itself, of course, and not to the real source. I know now that magic can be anywhere, and that any city or country or people has the ability to charm my heart, as long as I leave myself open to the experience.
I will tell you about where I'm living now in Sydney. A charmingly grungy suburb, bustling with people and cars till all hours of the night, reminiscent of mangier parts of the east village in new york city. Vintage and Bric a Brac shops line the streets near my house, and the air smells a mix between thai food, insense and petrol. Artful graffiti cover most spare walls, splashing the town with color and vibrancy and a twinge of artfullness that may be lacking in its somewhat shabby exterior. Farther down the road, closer to the city, trendy clothing stores, tatoo parlors, indian/ african/ spanish/ mexican/ italian/ chinese restuarants crowd the buildings, and the sidewalks are spotted with outdoor seating for small delicately named cafes. The cafes serve breakfast till 3pm eggs and spinach and mushrooms and grilled tomato on thick wheat toast. The town plaza is filled with shops, and boasts a grocery store, although I've never been inside. On top of the town plaza there is a bold looking analog clock. It's not that the clock doesn't work, it works perfectly. It's just set to the exact wrong time. I pass that clock every day in the morning on my way to breakfast, and have looked at it many times. It's not even on the correct minute. It's completely off by 6.25 hours... or something. My apartment rests above a pizzeria, owned by an italian immigrant from Naples, with bitingly ethno-centric statements like "I came to this country and learned 45 adjectives to describe my pizzas. The fucking chinese come in and they put up one picture! No english!" Infront of my doorway stands a woman holding a lotus flower. Every few weeks a few artists stop by and fix her up, spraying paint onto the exposed brick parts, adding more color and depth to her features. My room has sunlight all day. Light yellow walls, the paint peeling away in some cornersand one single solitary photograph, framed and hung next to my door of a little boy climbing on a fountain infront of a stone building facade. And hand written underneath the photograph in blue scrawl states the date and location of this memory: "Granada, Spain, April 1991"
And so now that you have the backdrop for my stories, I promise I'll be writing more often. That's part of the challenge of this whole trip, and recently I've been notified of the lack of storytelling on my part. So I'll be pushing myself a bit more, and I hope you keep reading.
There comes a point, while traveling, that a person begins to feel the need to decide between documenting her journey, or living her journey. As I've been traveling a lot, I can verifiably say that this choice is completely unneccesary- that one can both document and live at the same time. But it just takes a lot more effort, time and energy.
As noted in my previous few posts, I am still in australia. Technically, I should be getting ready to leave. But something pulled me here. Something is pulling me here. Whether it's the allure of beaches, of hot sunny days in january, of strange accents or simply the wonderful friends I've made since i've been here, I don't know. But just as therew as something telling me to leave mexico early, there is something telling me to stay here. And a bit more- to come back.
I know it's really easy for a traveler to fall in love with a place, to attach memories or feelings to the land itself and to attribute these things to the place, instead of the people. It happens often, even to the study abroad student who travels for six months and then returns home to find himself a bit changed. Home no longer means the same thing. And so he thinks about the country he left, looks at photographs, writes emails, listens to music... anything to keep that memory alive and tangible. The silent promise repeating "i'll return someday" and the even more silent knowledge that upon return he will be disappointed: buildings will be in different places, faces will be unfamiliar, streets forgotten or gentrified.
I've been that study abroad student. I won't be so arrogant as to state that I've changed so much over the past two years. But what has happened is this constant search for home. At first I thought it was because I was one of those nomadic people. But then I realized that I was in fact just like everyone else. Except I wasn't ready for home to be familiar. By living in Granada, I think a little magic was kindled inside me. I originally attributed it to the city itself, of course, and not to the real source. I know now that magic can be anywhere, and that any city or country or people has the ability to charm my heart, as long as I leave myself open to the experience.
I will tell you about where I'm living now in Sydney. A charmingly grungy suburb, bustling with people and cars till all hours of the night, reminiscent of mangier parts of the east village in new york city. Vintage and Bric a Brac shops line the streets near my house, and the air smells a mix between thai food, insense and petrol. Artful graffiti cover most spare walls, splashing the town with color and vibrancy and a twinge of artfullness that may be lacking in its somewhat shabby exterior. Farther down the road, closer to the city, trendy clothing stores, tatoo parlors, indian/ african/ spanish/ mexican/ italian/ chinese restuarants crowd the buildings, and the sidewalks are spotted with outdoor seating for small delicately named cafes. The cafes serve breakfast till 3pm eggs and spinach and mushrooms and grilled tomato on thick wheat toast. The town plaza is filled with shops, and boasts a grocery store, although I've never been inside. On top of the town plaza there is a bold looking analog clock. It's not that the clock doesn't work, it works perfectly. It's just set to the exact wrong time. I pass that clock every day in the morning on my way to breakfast, and have looked at it many times. It's not even on the correct minute. It's completely off by 6.25 hours... or something. My apartment rests above a pizzeria, owned by an italian immigrant from Naples, with bitingly ethno-centric statements like "I came to this country and learned 45 adjectives to describe my pizzas. The fucking chinese come in and they put up one picture! No english!" Infront of my doorway stands a woman holding a lotus flower. Every few weeks a few artists stop by and fix her up, spraying paint onto the exposed brick parts, adding more color and depth to her features. My room has sunlight all day. Light yellow walls, the paint peeling away in some cornersand one single solitary photograph, framed and hung next to my door of a little boy climbing on a fountain infront of a stone building facade. And hand written underneath the photograph in blue scrawl states the date and location of this memory: "Granada, Spain, April 1991"
And so now that you have the backdrop for my stories, I promise I'll be writing more often. That's part of the challenge of this whole trip, and recently I've been notified of the lack of storytelling on my part. So I'll be pushing myself a bit more, and I hope you keep reading.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Random acts of poetry: a brief explanation
He called it a step in the right direction.
We had just gotten back from a three day roadtrip from north of Brisbane at the Woodford folk festival, where we rang in the new year with poets, artists, musicians, hippies, university kids, fire dancers and bohemians. Over a cup of coffee, I explained to him the importance of a poet spreading her word. And how much I wanted to get my word out there in the world, to inspire people, to make them smile, or make them think. Mostly to help change consciousness.
He leaned in and said
"Maybe this is a step in the right direction"
And explained to me the plan.
Some people go about their lives, working hard, keeping on schedule, organizing and planning, and they forget to take a deep breath and just think about the moment. They're productive, certainly, and their strength is admirable. But the constant wear and tear of life under high pressure becomes more and more evident in such people. They've stopped smiling. They don't make eye contact. They walk quickly with their hands in their pockets and eyes cast downward. And then there are some people that cause a slight ripple in the lives of others. They make eye contact with their waiters, they smile at strangers, they remember people's names and greet them later on the street, they wave to children, talk to beggers, and sing to themselves as they walk down the street.These people may once have been the former, hard working, dilligent etc. But something happened. A random act of poetry. A smile from a stranger, an anonymous note of kindness. And suddenly, like flicking on a light switch, they become illuminated, and illuminate others just by being themselves.
It was there, in that cafe, where it became our mission to illuminate as many people as possible. Not only with a greeting or a smile, but with poetry. A small reminder that for better or worse, we are blessed to be alive. A small note and a silly picture, and hidden inside a work of poetry. Perfect.
I don't think it's going to change the world. I don't think it's even going to make a real dent. You never know who you'll inspire, or who will just throw it away without looking at it.
But maybe it is a step in the right direction.
We had just gotten back from a three day roadtrip from north of Brisbane at the Woodford folk festival, where we rang in the new year with poets, artists, musicians, hippies, university kids, fire dancers and bohemians. Over a cup of coffee, I explained to him the importance of a poet spreading her word. And how much I wanted to get my word out there in the world, to inspire people, to make them smile, or make them think. Mostly to help change consciousness.
He leaned in and said
"Maybe this is a step in the right direction"
And explained to me the plan.
Some people go about their lives, working hard, keeping on schedule, organizing and planning, and they forget to take a deep breath and just think about the moment. They're productive, certainly, and their strength is admirable. But the constant wear and tear of life under high pressure becomes more and more evident in such people. They've stopped smiling. They don't make eye contact. They walk quickly with their hands in their pockets and eyes cast downward. And then there are some people that cause a slight ripple in the lives of others. They make eye contact with their waiters, they smile at strangers, they remember people's names and greet them later on the street, they wave to children, talk to beggers, and sing to themselves as they walk down the street.These people may once have been the former, hard working, dilligent etc. But something happened. A random act of poetry. A smile from a stranger, an anonymous note of kindness. And suddenly, like flicking on a light switch, they become illuminated, and illuminate others just by being themselves.
It was there, in that cafe, where it became our mission to illuminate as many people as possible. Not only with a greeting or a smile, but with poetry. A small reminder that for better or worse, we are blessed to be alive. A small note and a silly picture, and hidden inside a work of poetry. Perfect.
I don't think it's going to change the world. I don't think it's even going to make a real dent. You never know who you'll inspire, or who will just throw it away without looking at it.
But maybe it is a step in the right direction.
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