Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Is all this necessary?

I've neglected this blog. In it's neglect, however, my project has continued to evolve at a rapid pace. Returning to the US has caused certain hurdles for me, but also, in a beautiful, underhanded way, has given me incredible opportunities. I've moved to Washington DC, my self-proclaimed "home for now". This city is an odd place, filled with transient businessmen in suits, where your job not only defines what you do, but what kind of person you are and most importantly, your level of worth. Being placed in this position, constantly asked by acquaintances and strangers "What do you do?" and having to quickly judge whether I give them my official job title (Youth Outreach), or rather a description of who I am (Artist) has had an incredible impact on my daily life. I feel torn between these two sides of my personality (my mother, asking "you're not planning on doing poetry *forever* are you?"; my international friends begging me to get on stage more often)

Returning to the US has given me great opportunities. I have a lot of "things" now. I have an apartment, two jobs, a boyfriend, a graduate school and (gulp) a sketchy outline of a two-year plan. I have stability. And there's a great sense of contentment that washes over me, and i imagine, most others who have achieved this sort of stability. When I tell people what I have done, they almost invariably make some remark about how "brave" I am. But to me, it is much scarier to be complacent and washed every day with this overwhelming waves of dull happiness. The kind of happiness that comes with routine, security, well-marked paths. The kind of happiness when everything goes to plan. That dull aching happiness, much like eating too much delicious gourmet food, and taking a nap, belly full. This kind of happiness is dangerous to me, because it's addictive, and I think it also calmly coaxes us in soft motherly voice "Don't change. Don't take an adventure. Don't risk losing what you have." I miss the happiness of adventure, of pure reckless abandon. The wild, senseless happiness you feel after realizing you've fallen in love. The gnawing insatiable happiness that nips at your heels in the morning and purrs on your chest at night.

But, these are all just tangents of feelings. Returning to this country has allowed me to reflect on important questions about poetry, adventure, history and life. It's helped me discover not only who I am, but a bit about why we all are the way we are. Piecing together a mountain of stories, as I mentioned in my last post, has been no easy task. It's a desire to make sure that everyone is heard, ever voice validated, ever story fully sung out.

But these stories are more than voices and faces on the screen. These are stories that are still living and breathing, oceans and time differences away. Every so often, they re-surface with a friendly email received at some bizarre time of day, giving me a flood of tactile sensations from places I left long ago (has it really been so long?). Just a few nights ago, I had a great conversation with Renee Liang, a poet from New Zealand, who was interviewing me for this website:

http://www.thebigidea.co.nz/news/blogs/talkwrite/2009/jul/57936-slamtime-video/ (a pretty dope website for the Kiwi arts scene, regardless of the fact I'm in it. Check it out!)

Towards the end of our conversation, Renee asked me an interesting question: Why is poetry needed? You obviously can and should read my answer on that page, but I've been thinking about it the past few days some more. Why IS poetry needed? Why is deep language needed? In a culture like ours (American), it seems we can get by with advertisement copy that hints at sex, text messages instead of phone calls, facebook posts instead of emails, emails instead of letters, and twitter instead of blogs. Why the wordiness? Why the esoteric subjects? What's the point?

I'm not really sure how to answer that. Because whether or not it's "needed", it exists. Without reason, without logic, amidst today's fast paced, yuppy filled, sexy, recession savvy, tweet friendly, disaster of modern society, people still line up around the block every friday night in New York City to see poetry at the Nuyorican. They crowd bars in Sydney. They fill smokey ancient cafes to the brim in Vienna (making a certain scholar wonder fearfully, 'what would happen in case of fire?!'), cafes that were once frequented by philosophers, psuedo-psychologists and yes, poets. In Mexico City, the poets freestyle battle. In Casablanca, poetry hasn't lost it's sacred roots. Poets- dead and alive- still show their faces in Irish pubs.

When I first wrote my proposal for this entire project, way back in 2006, I asked myself the same question. I emailed all the poets I could get in contact with, asking them this important question. A young man, Inua "Phaze05" Ellams (http://www.phaze05.com) wrote back: "...wherever there is language and lungs, it will come." (Sadly, I couldn't stay in England long enough to connect in person with this amazing artist. I guess that gives me an excuse to go back...) He had a point-- we, the artists, like to think we're in control. We like to take credit for the movement we've created. But the fact of the matter is, we are just the vessels. Whether or not we, as individual artists exist, poetry will exist. It always has and always will.