Into the World

Is all this necessary?

2009-06-30T10:03:00.001-07:00

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 acquaintences 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 stablity. 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 loosing 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, wayy 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 aritsts exist, poetry will exist. It always has and always will.

I will be updating the youtube page very soon. And I will begin to post those updates (with funny backstories, of course!) on this blog. I'm back in it for real now.

Puzzle Pieces

2009-03-04T08:13:00.001-08:00

I sit amongst the mountains of footage I collected over my year of travel. The tapes pile up, forming what looks like a jagged little city inside the box, along with various release forms, fliers, notes, business cards and train ticket stubs. I see pictures of friends from what seems like another world, or a dream. But it's a dream that affects my every day life-- I turn a corner and am reminded of Vienna. I hear a song, and am drawn back to Australia. I hear the smooth trill and flow of spanish and am taken to Mexico. And so on. I breathe it in, write it out.

I often liken the experience of traveling to cutting yourself open. The return and piecing back together the shattered bits is the hardest yet most interesting part. I had a similar experience when returning from Granada, Spain. Just as I did then, I shut myself away for a while, staring at my hands to remember the feeling of someplace far away. This time, however, it was my poetic voice that was shattered.

Being surrounded by so many amazing artists who were speaking of so many incredible things made me realize that we (as poets) have an incredible power. There's a reason that poetry is considered sacred-- it truly is a spiritual work. We are putting people in contact with each other and with themselves, and it's an art form that is desperately needed in Western society. So when I came home, I looked at myself, my writing, my film and my pictures and put them away. My voice was undergoing a transformation, and to regenerate itself. I needed time to absorb everything I had experienced.

No more than a month ago, I took that box back off the shelf, and dove into my memories. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that it hurt. It was painful, feeling pulled and tugged back into the nomadic instinct. Very often, I daydream of packing up whatever I can and go on my next adventure, perhaps to South America or Africa this time. I'd like to leave this little life I've created behind again, ditching the crappy economy, harsh American culture and the two jobs I work to pay my ever increasing DC rent.

But at the same time, there's work to be done. And I can do it here just as well as anywhere else. Poets need to start talking to each other. We're on to something very big and very important. And so I started talking about it. I started writing about it and now, finally, I dug deep into the recorded memories and started cutting together a film about it. I'll be airing it in episodes, but for now, you'll be able to access the preview/trailor and individual performances at www.youtube.com/speakfilm.

10 taxi cab rides

2008-06-01T03:20:00.000-07:00

I sit in an empty living room, surrounded by my backpack, my trusty orange suitcase and my purse. Anxiously, I peer out the window behind me every five minutes. There's nothing worse than waiting for a cab at 6am to take you to the airport. Well, almost nothing. The bittersweet time has finally come, and this is the last leg of my journey around the world.

Last night, while conversing with a poet, I confessed that I was nervous about returning home. When he inquired why, I was unable to give him an answer. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. I'm excited too. It's funny, when I began this trip, I felt the same way. And a poet told me that excitement and nervousness were the same emotion with two different names.

I guess it's the knowledge that I'm starting, yet again, a new chapter in my life. I don't know where I'm going or when, or if I'll settle down someplace. My plans last until next sunday. Planning 1 week in advance: yeah, that sounds about right.

This trip ended much earlier than I anticipated, and that aspect makes me a bit sad. There were so many more places I wanted to see: more people, more poetry. But things never work out like we plan them to, and that's always meant to happen.

I have so many memories, and have met so many incredible people. Not a day went by this year when I didn't at least once reflect on the privilege of this journey. Even through the rough times: the fact that I felt stranded and isolated in a foreign country was a gift in itself.

I've learned so much about myself, too. No offense to previous Bristol fellows, or the fellowship itself, but I'm starting to think that's the real point of this whole journey. To find the world, but really to find yourself. It's so trite, in a way, but at the same time, so necessary. In a world full of video games, high speed internet, 24/7 in demand entertainment, it's necessary to pick up passionate and brave people and plop them in an uncomfortable situation. How passionate and brave are you now, eh?

I didn't know how this project would shape up, or if it would turn into something bigger. I know now, for sure, that it will. Over drinks on thursday night, during a heated discussion about page vs stage poetry, a poet referred to me as "possibly the most knowledgeable person of spoken word in the world". What a weird thought. But then again, no one *has* ever done what I've done, the way I've done it. And suddenly, I no longer feel like an outsider, observing the spoken word scene from a stand-off, third party standpoint. Suddenly, not only am I qualified to speak about my opinions on the scene, I have a responsibility to do so. So much can come out of what I've learned, who I've met. I owe the global spoken word community so much.

10 taxi cabs. I have taken 10 taxi cab rides to the airport. And every time, without fail, they always ask me if I'm going home.
Today, finally, I can say yes.

woes of international travel with my kind of passport

2008-05-29T23:50:00.000-07:00

I'm tired of feeling like, as an american, I alone am responsible for the whole world's problems.
I'm tired of having to make excuses for the ignorant face the media paints on my country.
I'm tired of feeling like I must know every single detail of american politics, or else I am just another ignorant american.
I'm tired of having people whose own countries have committed the same or far worse atrocities criticize me for being american.
I'm tired of feeling like I need all the answers
I'm tired of having to pretend I am different than the rest of america so I don't get treated poorly
I'm tired of feeling ashamed of my country.
I'm tired of people constantly asking me "Obama or Clinton" as if it were a given that I am a member of the Democratic party

I don't know everything about my government, nor do I know everything about its previous international relations strategies, war policies and health care industry. I don't know everything about the elections or campaigning or super delegates.

I can't even tell you how many times I've sat down at a table of strangers, and once they hear my accent, or get wind of my nationality, I can actually see their faces change. They challenge me. They think it's fun, like it's a game. They make me feel like I have to represent an entire country- a country so much bigger than their own, and so much more complicated. They don't care that we're all different, that it's impossible to generalize a country as big as mine. They don't care that some of us are ashamed, some of us are angry, and some of us are proud. All they care about is making a point to sound more educated than the american. Most of the times it makes me so angry that I can't even say anything. I can feel my throat tense and I've got so many words to say to them, but I don't. Out of fear of being seen as that "belligerent american"who can't participate in civilized debate.

It's not that I don't enjoy a little political discussion. I'm always interested in the views of others, even if I disagree, because I know I can learn from them. It's just those times where it gets personal, when I can feel everyone in the room looking at me like I'm somehow personally responsible for all the evil things in this world. There isn't even a word for how I feel when that happens.

The truth is, much to the dismay of the rest of the world, being american feels just the same as being canadian or british or australian. In the end, we're all just trying to get by as best we can. Nationality has nothing to do with it.

Back in North America. Back to drama land

2008-05-29T17:27:00.000-07:00

As I dragged my beat orange suitcase up on to David Silverberg's porch in Toronto, I had a little moment of reflection. I started here. I will finish here. Strange.

I have always regarded Canada as having one of the most hectic yet successful performance poetry scenes that I have witnessed, and now that I have finished my trip, I can officially say so. Scenes in Canada are organized, efficient, in touch with each other and cooperative. It runs like a finely oiled machine... all because of a mutual love of poetry and community.

That being said, there is something to say for smaller performance poetry scenes. I've been asked a lot lately about which scene was "the best" or "the most alive", and it's a hard question to answer. Vienna had enthusiasm like what I imagined the Green Mill was like during the adolescent years of the poetry slam- a crowded bar,simply packed with people smoking cigarettes and drinking large pints of beer, the audience mouthing off to the MCs, booing the judges and cheering the poets. And, as I said before, Canada certainly was the most efficient scene I've witnessed (efficient to the point where I have to stop and wonder if it is possible for performance poetry to get *too* big, *too* mainstream that it might end up killing itself- like Rock n Roll?) Each country I went to had it's own idiosyncratic style, it's own networking abilities and it's own issues. And I realized, there- while standing on David's porch- that there was one poetry scene that made me really excited about performance poetry; one place where the events were commercial, but not too commercial, where the poets worked together even though they competed against one another. There was a place, a very small and quiet city that I almost skipped over entirely, where the poetry actually touched me, the way it used to when I first began this trip. Auckland, NZ takes the prize for my favorite. Small, polite Auckland that seemed to buzz and teem with energy and creativity. It was organized and advertised enough to pull a strong following for the weekly events, yet still managed to maintain a renegade, sub-cultural vibe. Its places like Auckland that remind me why I got into poetry in the first place- to make a connection with people through poetry who normally wouldn't read poetry.

Alas, I'm back in North America, welcomed so graciously into Silverberg's home. Over dinner last night, David mentioned a recent blog entry that has turned the Toronto Poetry scene into a tizzy. I decided to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. You can check it out too, here:

http://paulvermeersch.blogspot.com/2008/05/rant-why-i-hate-spoken-word-poetry.html

Reading this blog entry made me want to puke. Not necessarily because I disagree (he's got a valid point), but because it's such a pointless, empty and tired argument. The "page vs. stage" battle (oh yes, it's so common that they've made up a clever rhyming name for it) has been going on.... forever. You could trace it back to the Beat generation: how many critics scoffed at Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac for their writing styles, for the way they mixed music with poetry. And as we all know, those who prefer "classic" art styles often clash with those who prefer "contemporary" art styles. I even recall one Harold Bloom saying "spoken word is the death of art" which raised quite the scuffle in the USA poetry scene in the mid 90's.

But here's how I really feel about it. My honest opinion: (and since I've spent the whole year traveling around the world studying this "art form", I think I'm pretty qualified to voice my opinion now).

It doesn't really matter.

Wake up guys. Put it in perspective and stop being so serious. It's poetry. Or not. It's art. Or not. The fact is, it exists, it survives and it's drawing huge crowds. It has the power to bring people from all sorts of backgrounds and countries together. I've seen first hand how it can cause a productive dialogue between sexes, races and nationalities. It is an outlet for a kid whose parents ignore him, or for the one who gets beat up in school. It's a way for people to remember stories, or tell someone in the audience that they love them, or tell the whole audience that they love them. It's a way to bring people together- to get people to turn off the television, laptop, ipod or whatever their brains are permanently hooked up to and listen to other people. For no other reason than the simple fact that they want to listen and be listened to.

I'm tired of poets or spoken word artists or whatever you want to call them (us), getting so defensive about what people want to call them (us). Because in the end, it doesn't matter if some guy named Paul or Harold or my uncle george thinks it's "real art". Whatever it is, it's out there, it's beautiful and it's growing like mad.

And I think we should just be happy with that.

Hugs to the land

2008-05-27T12:14:00.001-07:00

Goodbye Europe.
You're beautiful, and you'll always be my favorite. Don't forget.

Return

2008-05-25T03:31:00.000-07:00

I'm finding myself headed towards another waterfall in my life. That's how it feels anyway.

There are these moments where it would just make sense for life to pause, for time to stay suspended till we catch our breath. I'd like that to be right now.

This trip has been so strange for me, I can't quite explain it. Part of me wants to keep doing this forever. And part of me wants to go home. But I don't really have a choice in the matter. It's time now, and I'm coming home.

I feel a bit guilty, in a way, though I'm not sure why. I guess I wish I could've travelled longer, seen all the places I proposed to see, and visit all the festivals I had read about. But life on the road comes with it's bumps and unexpected twists, and so I suppose I should've known it wouldn't work out as planned.

I purchased a book the other day, called "The Kindness of Strangers". It's a collection of travel stories. And it made me realize what traveling does to us. It pulls us out of our comfort zone and it sticks us in awkward situations. If we do it long enough, we will all eventually find ourselves stuck in the mud, absolutely lost and broke, in some foreign land where we don't speak the language. And just like clockwork, just when we've figured all is absolutely lost, just when we least expect it- some stranger will enter our lives and save us. And then disappear.

It's happened to me on this trip more times than I can count. In New Zealand I got off at the wrong bus stop and was lost in a "bad neighborhood". The first person I stopped and asked for directions took it upon himself to not only escort me to the poetry reading, he actually stayed for the reading and then showed me around Wellington for the rest of my time there. In Brisbane, I was lonely and depressed around Christmas because I had no one to share it with, when this french student invited me to the beach with her friends and then took me out to the movies on christmas day. Her reason was simple "Someone did it for me when I first got here. I know how awful it is to be alone on Christmas." In Vienna, the kindness of strangers went nuts in my life, and I was given free accommodation plus was invited to give a workshop on poetry in a school. In Ireland, two students took me in and let me stay with them in their dorm room during their exam week; and later as fate would have it, I met a musician over a cup of coffee who had more in common with me than anyone I had ever met. In Woodford, I had missed the last train to Brisbane, and was stranded ankle deep in mud at the folk festival, when a poet and his wife allowed me to stay in their super huge tent for the night. In Melbourne, a girl I had met once invited me to stay with her and became one of my closed female friends. In Belfast, after scrambling and failing to find accommodation, a poet gave up his hotel room for me, and then offered to take me on a tour of Scotland.

The stories just continue. I was not totally "down and out". I wasn't begging or even asking for help. It just happened and worked out. But the kindness of strangers is one of those phenomena that really change a person's view of humanity.

As the book says:

"Kindness is really, so to speak, all of a piece- an absolute, which cannot be graded; but its most symbolical expression is the sudden, unpremeditated act of sympathy, offered without hope or reward to an unknown and perhaps unappealing soul in distresss- to a foreigner, a truculent vagrant, an unwashed backpacker or a cat."

The point is, I've had so many wonderful encounters on this trip, that I know things will be different when I get back home. It won't be like Granada, where my heart was broken after leaving Spain. No, it'll be a bit slower, a bit heavier, I imagine. The slow transformation from being an adventurer back into a normal person. Just a girl with lots of stories. And that idea hurts, a lot. I've come to identify myself by my stories. But that's wrong too. I'm more than just what happened this year. I just have to learn to integrate it into the bigger picture. And that'll happen, eventually. It's soon going to be time to pay it forward. I owe the universe a lot. I'm going to have to become one of those strangers.

Scotland whirlwind

2008-05-25T01:02:00.000-07:00

The drive up to the highlands was epic. One minute we were in Edinburgh- beautiful fairytale city, grey stones and narrow winding streets; and then we were in the country. Like a big Pow! of green and blue. A different kind of green than pennsylvania or Ireland. A thick rugged green. And then brown mountains rising up out of nowhere and no cars or houses. And castles and ruins. I felt like I was drawn into a picture book, or maybe part of a post card.

Once we hit Forress, we were welcomed into a beautiful venue on a farm. The owner- a slightly abrasive man with a thick accent and a disinclination for americans. So obviously I needed o become friends with him. Andy played to a small audience that night, and the owner lamented about lack of community support. Seems the same problems exist everywhere- people would rather go to the big cities to hear music than support the same acts in the local venues.

The next day we drove for an hour to the nearby town of Cormarty. A small artistic community set by the waterside. I don't think they even have a corner store, but they do have great art and music. The streets were narrow and the only word I could think to describe the town was "cute". Small houses like cottages, and such artistic, vibrant people all in one community. It was gorgeous.

Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, but when doing the art thing, I took the advice and stuck to the West End. Good choice. I met up with some local film makers, got some drinks, went out to dinner. Fabulous.

While in Glasgow I got a last minute message from a poet in Edinburgh. So I packed my bags and off I went.

Once in Edinburgh, I met up with Ant, a "I guess I'm a poet kinda" poet- which of course means he's a great poet. My first evening in Edinburgh I performed at a Ladyfest Open Mic in a dive cafe. It was cafe-love at first sight.

I talked PJ into coming to visit me, and I'm so glad he did. It made the Edinburgh trip that much better. We climbed Arthur's Seat, and explored the castle. We ate weird vegetarian food and gawked at the beauty of the city. Travelling is so much more fun with another person there to enjoy it with you.

Definitions

2008-05-19T08:23:00.000-07:00

I know I should've wrote this post earlier, but I think I needed time away from Dublin in order to form my thoughts about this topic. While in Dublin, I took a friend of mine to a poetry event called "Love Poetry Hate Racism".

I asked my friend, after we left, which poet he enjoyed the most. His answer surprised me a bit. He described a soft spoken poet, whose poetry was dark and described hardship and poverty in a city. He said that this poet stood out in particular because he was attempting to define what life was like in a particular neighborhood in Dublin.

It's a strange time for the Irish people. Now, as never before, they are faced with the task of identifying themselves. In the past, people left Ireland. But now, due to the echoing booms of the Celtic Tiger, immigrants from all over the world are flocking to Irish cities- Dublin in particular. And as great as it is to introduce people to diversity and tolerance, it's interesting to watch how the Irish are dealing with this "identity crisis". What does it mean, exactly, to be Irish? In the past it was easier: things like family heritage and religion were markers of one's Irish-ness. But now there are Irish-Arabs, Irish-Czechs, Irish-Asians. A friend drove me past a mosque and pointed it out as if it were evidence of aliens.

Just like any city experiencing the effects of a booming economy, there are prices to pay. The irish are quite proud of their history, and often define themselves by it. How, then, will they be able to open themselves up to people who do not share that history of hardship? When we think of Ireland, we don't think of intolerance or racism. But it would be naive to say it doesn't exist just because we haven't heard of it. True, it exists in a different form than racism in the US, but it is still there, and it still causes tension.

I'd be interested to see where this takes Ireland. How will parents, teachers and the media approach this incoming wave of globalization? It's an interesting time to be in Ireland. It's a more interesting time, I think, to be Irish.

Borderlines

2008-05-19T07:54:00.000-07:00

I don't know if its because of travel or because I'm just getting older. Probably a bit of both. I find myself remaining neutral on issues that I previously would've intensely researched, formed an opinion, and argued that opinion ad nauseum. It's not that I don't research things anymore- I certainly do my fair share of research on issues. It's just that I've found myself hesitating before engaging in intense political or social debate with anyone.

I've been told that traveling makes a person more liberal. And I've seen these effects first hand: students returning from foreign countries, swinging fists at american based corproations which are ruining the lives of those abroad, or complaining about our lack of healthcare or governmental services which are geared to helping the people etc etc. It's only natural to compare your home country to the outside world. I've seen the opposite happen as well, though, where Americans are so uncomfortable with their surroundings that they refuse to even partially assimilate and instead spout slight untruths about how superior the US or Canada is to the rest of the world. Being around people like that makes me feel a bit ashamed, but I know how they feel as well. I can't even count how many times this year I have been faced with a tough situation and though "oh man, we would handle this much better where I come from".

Yet this trip has picked me up and landed me right smack in the middle. I still hold my values, my opinions and alliances; however I must admit that I am far more hesitant in flaunting these as "truths" or "facts" or "the right ways of being". I've suddenly found myself of having developed a new ability to see both sides of the situation. Even a painful and political one.

I know, I'm surprised too. I'm still anti-war (I don't think anything could change that ) but now not only can I understand why an American (or anyone else whose country is involved in this war- an aspect that many people forget!) would be pro-war, I respect their opinion. Who am I to judge someone for their worldview. Because, remember, someone's world view is more than a reflection of their personal character. It's a reflection of so many different aspects of their world: socioeconomic status and interests, education, familial upbringing and involvement in the war. There are so many variables that go into a person's opinion and political persuasion that I just can't bring myself to write off someone as "an ignorant jerk" for disagreeing with me anymore.

So what? That's just a part of growing up. Well it just snuck up on me, I guess. I went to countries where I was well aware of conflict, and I went with premeditated opinions on that conflict, only to have them pulled apart and re examined once I got there. In Australia, I began to understand why it was so difficult for the native people to achieve reparations and equal treatment. In Northern Ireland I was faced with the fact that during the troubles life was scary as hell regardless of what "side" you were on.

It's easy, attractive and exciting for people to take radical sides. The independence movement is more interesting when there are guns and car bombs and violence and it *looks* like a revolution. But revolution like that hardly works nowadays. People just want to live their lives without having to worry about carbombs or propaganda.

I guess all these thoughts are coming out now because I've been in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland and I've talked to people about their experiences during the Troubles and I've learned that effective revolution looks like compromise, equal representation in government and forgiveness. And there's nothing small, easy or weak about such acts- they take bravery and strength of character. I've been to Scotland where an independence referendum is being proposed, patiently, it seems because there is very little talk of "revolution" and more talk about "referendum".

No, perhaps my generation won't have as much fun as our hippy forefathers and foremothers. But perhaps this was always the way to go, dissent through discussion, small compromises making big changes.

Am I becoming moderate in my age?

I know, I couldn't believe it at first either. But upon further reflection, I think I've always believed all this. I think I always knew discussion and diplomacy were the best ways to achieve a goal. But I think the difference is, for the first time, I'm not disappointed with this method. In fact, I'm excited by it.

Because what does this mean for America's future?

I left last August feeling guilty and a bit hopeless about my country's future. But I've seen a candidate who is so well spoken, I get chills after almost every speech. I want to know more, not less, about this candidate's platform. Mainly because the idea of a charismatic candidate who can speak well gives me hope.

I was told by a recent visitor to the US that if aliens invaded the US today, they'd think one of the candidate's names was "Hope".

Gosh, I like that.

There were Roses

2008-05-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together

Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-

There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.

Belfast

2008-05-12T05:12:00.000-07:00

I had heard a lot of things about Belfast before I got there. The old man at the Bed and Breakfast in that small town, the girls in Dublin, the students in Cork. They all had their own stories about Belfast, their own versions and rumors of the strange city that was “lost”.

I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.

Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.

It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.

“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”

English?

2008-05-11T05:27:00.000-07:00

"Farkin hell that's a rightauolrant!"

"What?"

"A rightauol rant!"

"a rhino rant?"

"No a right auol rant!"

"What's that middle word?"

"auol"

"how do you spell it?"

"A-U-O-L"

"what does that mean?"

" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"

Ugh.

Cross-Ireland adventure part 3

2008-05-08T09:56:00.002-07:00

When we drove through the mountain crossing, I had a flashback to lord of the rings. You know, the part where they climb that steep mountan ridge and go into the cave where they find gollum. Yeah, that’s where we were.

But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.

Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.

After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.

We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.

The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.

After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.

But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.

It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.

Cross-Ireland adventure part 2

2008-05-08T09:56:00.001-07:00

When we arrived in Blarney, the crowds were absurd. After driving around in circles, PJ pulled out of the parkinglot and began driving to the next town. In response to my protests he replied cooly “Do you really want to spend 3 hours waiting in line to see a rock?”

Good point.

But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.

“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”

I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.

After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.

“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.

And so we did.

Cross-Ireland Adventure Part 1

2008-05-08T09:55:00.000-07:00

I didn’t think he’d agree to it. But for some reason, he did. And I was happy. So we piled into the car with all our things: 2 small backpacks, and my orange rolly suitcase and hit the road to Cork.

The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.

I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.

We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.

The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.

After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.

I vote that we instate this in the US.

The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.

I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.

Another reason to love Ireland

2008-05-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

Today I found out that all artists, musicians and writers living in Ireland are exempt from taxes.

This is a wonderful land.

:)

Balance

2008-04-23T08:27:00.000-07:00

It came as no surprise to him that I was traveling around the world, conducting research on poetry as a reflection of society. I just remember the look on his face when I told him; this calm happy look, almost proud, but not giving it away too quickly. It was the look of a teacher remembering that one quirky student (with her nose constantly in a book, slides obscure references to Thoreau and Whitman into every day conversations to see if anyone would notice).

"None of this surprises me."

And here I am, further down the line, a daunting 8 months later, having traversed the width of the world, I find myself in Dublin, Ireland, wandering through the campus of Trinity College. And I laugh at myself as I stand infront of the statue of Oscar Wilde; the image of my dear teacher's face flashes into my mind- again, with that not surprised expression on his fae. Of course I would end up here, on this campus on a rare beautiful blue skied day in April, rubbing shoulders with the ghostly likes of Mr. Wilde, Mr. Beckett, and Mr. Joyce. Of course, right? But it still hits me in these moments, how close I came to being a barista at some Starbucks in a small Pennsylvania town. And I feel immensely lucky and grateful.

When I received this fellowship, it came with a small biography about Mr. William Bristol, the man who made all this possible. And beneath his name and picture and the title "The Bristol Fellowship" was a mission statement in italics:

Discovery of the self and the world

In a conversation with my mother a few weeks ago, while sipping coffee in a Viennese cafe, I disclosed to her my doubts about half of that mission statement. It seemed to me that I had certainly discovered the world, but that in doing so, I had lost myself numerous times. At that time, I believed I had already found myself two years prior, while traversing the Iberian Peninsula (aka Spain and Portugal). I told her, in a slightly disappointed tone, that I didn't feel any different than the girl who began this journey 7 months ago.

Of course, that sentiment isn't even remotely true. I know that now, as I near the end of my journey.

The funny thing about searching for yourself is that its a mission always doomed to fail. What I mean is, while we're out there, looking for ways to define ourselves, filling in online social networking sites, joining clubs and fraternities or whatever, we're just adding more dust, mud and earth to bury our true selves. Underneath all those layers of labels, underneath religion and nationality and egotistical labels we like to slap on ourselves to make ourselves feel better, is our true self- already there, just being. You are not what you write in your facebook profile. You are not what your passport says, or your drivers license. No, sorry, you are not your Greek Society or your fifteen minutes of fame or your honors society or your glowing transcript. You are not that story you tell yourself. As soon as we spend some time and stop trying to become what we are and just be what we are, its like wiping dust off the mirror. No hidden treasure, just what was already there all along.

While wandering in an old monastery in Lower Austria, I stumbled across this sign on a wall. All around me were beautiful books, reaching from floor to fresco painted ceiling, but all I could do was stand there and read this sign. Maybe I'm slightly nuts, but I just think its beautiful.

I guess what I mean to say is, I've spent a lot of this year waiting for some incredible realization to take hold of me. I've been waiting to find a place in the world, or someone or something to make me feel at home. But as a dear friend in Melbourne once told me, "Home is in your head."

It really is. And it still surprises me every time.

Vienna Pictures

2008-04-22T15:59:00.001-07:00

So it's been a bit since I've written, sorry for that. Much has happened! After arriving back in Dublin safe and sound from an amazing Moroccan adventure (See below posts), I received a beautiful email from my hosts back in Vienna, complete with pictures! So here they are, little memory snapshots from my time in Vienna.
Enjoy!

Fes

2008-04-14T05:52:00.000-07:00

The medina of Fes is a bustling little world of color, sound and smell. As we stepped through the old wall which divides the old city from the new city, I was immediately swept away into a parallel universe, narrated only by my thoughts and syncopated by the sounds of a language, however beautiful, impossible for me to decipher. We walked briskly with the flow of people, through narrow streets lined with stalls selling identical silver jewelery, knock off designer clothing, bootleg dvds, drums, silk pieces of cloth, intricate dresses and tunics and the like. It all seemed so famililar, in fact. The whole city seemed something from a dream I had once; the way dreams take things from reality and spin them into alternate webs of beautiful fantasy. Its so easy to get lost here, and often I feel like I'm floating five inches behind myself enjoying what I can, even if in a dream like state.

I always said there was no place like Andalucia. But walking through those narrow streets scented with spice, rainwater and humanity, I realized that I felt like I was walking through an old familiar neighborhood in my beloved city in andalucia. And of course, however much we talked about the arabic influence on cities in southern spain, it’s true resemblence cannot be fully understood until it is seen first hand. Al-Andaluz, the last stronghold of the arab empire in europe, and the Alhambra, the red fortress, which stood majestically on the hill behind the whitewashed labyrinth neighborhood where we would sit on rooftops and watch the sunset, singing in spanish and playing guitar....

It all seemed so familiar, walking though that old neighborhood in Fes, and yet contained elements so foreign, a simultaneous struggle between comfort and discomfort that I have felt so often during this trip around the world.

Poetry update

2008-04-13T05:30:00.000-07:00

Ive been writing a lot lately. for some reason, i've been reminiscing of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry. Perhaps its because she was a strong woman from NYC and I'm about as far away from there as possible right now.

Morocco is beautiful, but so strange for someone like me. All around me is a completely new kind of culture, a culture where women are treated with highest respect, and I am left unsure whether or not it offends me. My travel partner is a boy (the other bristol fellow- oh world wide adventurers unite!), and I wear a ring on my finger (because we are seen so much together, it might be assumed we are married, and it would be in our best interest, i think, not to deny that notion). And as much as I enjoy embracing new cultures, certain things will always rub me the wrong way. Like if I pay for dinner, the waiter returns the change to the man at the table, even if he saw that it was coming out of my wallet. Its expected that Jesse orders my food, and as we walk down the street, some men shout "take care of her!" and we smile and I look down because I dont want to give anyone any death stares, nor do I want to take count of how many people are staring at me with my freckled skin and western clothes.

Everyone wants to know what I think of the head scarf "issue" that seems to be plaguing places like france and turkey, but I'll get into that in another entry when I have more time.

There's so much wonder about this country that I absolutely adore, despite my feminist grumblings. Like sipping the best mint tea on the planet while listening to the call to prayer every afternoon. And the way the women here smile at each other knowingly and everyone seems much more light hearted than people in New York or Europe. The way outdoor spice markets smell, and the colors of the head scarves match the long flowing robes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me to be here.

Enough rambling. Here's some poetry.

Desert Sonnet

I fled to the desert, far from my love
To seek answers in solitary sands
To questions we were so unaware of
and to return warmth to my small cold hands.

His image lingers on my horizon
Like an unreachable sun-induced dream
So tempting to keep my lonely eyes on
And forget about fate’s bewitching scheme

I wish to return to my beloved soon
And long once more to gaze into his eyes
The song of him echoes over the dunes
And evokes from my breast a tearful cry

-Oh cruel fate, why should I even bother?
For that song he sings is for another!

Response to Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sor Joana Ines de la Cruz

They talk of the ways of a woman’s heart
As if it were a maze
That captures and tears a poor man apart
And leaves him in a foggy daze

But if she should feel for a man deeply
And get her heart broken
They’ll say she acted emotionally
For his love was never spoken

And so I am left hinking to myself
If I’m under a spell
Because what am I if not a woman
Who has loved both wisely and well?

Morocco

2008-04-10T07:04:00.000-07:00

It truly is a shame I wasn't able to conduct more research in Arab countries. On the one hand, I'll be the first to admit that, as an American woman, I feel really out of place here. But on the other hand, as I've always said, great poetry comes out of discomfort, struggle and the unknown. And this country is a beautiful country. In every way- the buildings, the landscape, the food, the people. And there is poetry. Oh man, is there poetry.

"Kifa, nabki, min zikra habibin oua manzili, ala sikkat el'liqua" (My friends, let's stop here and weep, in remembrance of my beloved, on her traces, here at the edge of the dune).
- Prince Imru' al Qays-

I was just told recently about an epic love story that is famous in the Arab world. It sounds like the original Romeo and Juliet. It's the story of Majnun and Layla.

The story, according to our anonymous friends at wikipedia goes something like this:

Qays ibn al-Mulawwah ibn Muzahim, a Bedouin poet, was from the Bani Aamir tribe of Arabia. He fell in love with Layla bint Mahdi ibn Sa'd from the same tribe, better known as Layla Al-Aamiriya. He soon began creating poems about his love for her, mentioning her name often. When he asked for her hand in marriage her father refused as this would mean a scandal for Layla according to Arab traditions. Soon after, Layla married another man.

When Qays heard of her marriage, he fled the tribe camp and began wandering the surrounding desert. His family eventually gave up on his return and left food for him in the wilderness. He could sometimes be seen reciting poetry to himself or writing in the sand with a stick.

Layla moved to Iraq with her husband, where she became ill and eventually died. Qays was later found dead in the wilderness in 688 A.D. near an unknown woman's grave. He had carved three verses of poetry on a rock near the grave, which are the last three verses attributed to him.

Many other minor incidents happened between his madness and his death. Most of his recorded poetry was composed before his descent into madness.

Among the poems attributed to Qays ibn al-Mulawwah, regarding Layla:

"I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla
And I kiss this wall and that wall
It's not Love of the houses that has taken my heart
But of the One who dwells in those houses
--

Poetry was his refuge, the only way he could escape his love-stricken madness was to put it into words.

The name Majnun means "possessed by a jinn" or "love stricken". Leila means "sweetheart".

Then of course, there's the popular poet, Kahil Gibran, who is much loved all over the world. Originally hailing from Lebanon (I believe), he's most famous for his work, "The Prophet". Everyone I've met who has read this book has a favorite section or chapter. Mine is actually a tie between "Joy and Sorrow" and "Love" Here's the excerpt on Joy and Sorrow:

"Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow." And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall."

And here is "Love":

"Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love." And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."

First Impressions of Ireland

2008-04-09T03:41:00.000-07:00

Cab drivers always want to know when I'm going home.
They're always surprised to hear my answer.

The cab driver who took me to DCU (where I was to stay) was an elderly man, with big light eyes and a silly smile. And when I told him I studied poetry, he gave me a short poem that he wrote a bit ago. It was only one stanza long, and simple in rhyme but so so strong with imagery of friends slowly fading away. He blushed slightly as he recited it, and then demanded I read him one of mine. I did, but only half of one of my sonnets. He looked in the mirror expectantly, waiting for me to finish. I'm not sure why I stopped.

But as I learned that day, wandering through Dublin's zoo-like streets, this country is full of poetry and poetics. The Gaelic language itself is poetic. See, I'm starting to think poetry and poetic-ness (word? hmm..) is more of a view on the world than something you can just study or appreciate (meaning look at from a distance). It just exists or it doesn't. But the thing is, I think it has the possiblity to exist for everyone, if they were willing to change the way they see the world. Things like struggle, poverty, civil war, religious oppression, religions fundamentalism, suffering, heartbreak, death; these are the things that make good poetry. They make a sad sad life, but beautiful art.

But why? During my Bristol interview, I was asked if it was true that the only good poetry out there has some image of death in it. Of course, I laughed because I sincerely hope not. But now that I think of it, it does involve death of some kind. Death of innocence, death of love, infatution, in a change there is always dying. It's a change of emotion, of world view. Caused by a cathartic tragedy of some kind. And what seems so great about the irish culture (from my very limited exposure to it thus far) is that they not only have a strong tradition of struggle, but they are proud of it, they define themselves by it. And out of that struggle for identity, independence and words is birthed a mastery of literary tradition.

Maybe I'm just saying this because I have an infatuation with James Joyce (I read Ulysses way back in High School, and will proudly admit that I didn't understand much of it.... it reminds me of that introductory bit in Kerouac's "Lonesome Traveler" (I believe) where he says that his Aunt wanted him to define what a writer was, and he said that it was someone who talked a lot about things like James Joyce's Ulysses, but when asked to further expound on the details of the work, quickly changed the subject.) But there's got to be a reason why whenever I traveled through all the other countries of the world, whenever I mentioned Ireland people quickly added "of course."

My cab driver recited poetry to me in the first 5 minutes of landing in this place.
I think I'm going to like it here very much.

Slowly but with meaning

2008-04-08T21:00:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I was afraid to eat alone. Just a silly phobia that haunted me. I told my mother that I don't think I could ever travel alone, for business or otherwise, because I was afraid to eat alone. How awkward, sad and lonely those business men look when they enter cafes with their newspaper, and sip their coffee while watching wistfully the display of people walking by on street sidewalks outside. I didn't want to be one of them.
Now, 8 months in, it's a rarity that I don't eat alone. Silence has become my strange travel buddy, often leaving me to my thoughts and memories. Quite a dangerous partner for a poet. And she's caused me lots of trouble, for sure, but more than anything she's forced me to cope with my true fear, a fear that has always followed me throughout my life; exposed just for a moment when I was 10 and my uncle said to me -You entered this world with another. You've never liked being alone, not even in the womb.

A few weeks ago I was at sitting at a bar in Prague, watching this girl socialize with everyone. She was a friend of mine, and the life of the bar, mingling around starting random conversation with whoever was willing to talk. I remember sitting there and wishing I could do that, that I could be that character. A student of Public Relations, this girl could spin anything. And it never occured to me that perhaps wishing to be like her was silly because I already was like her. It never occured to me until one night in a basement dive bar in Vienna (the walls streaked with black sharpie marker graffiti and flyers painted with brilliant colors duck taped to the walls with writing in half german and half english). I was talking to a girl about her dreadlocks, and the various ways one can acquire such cranial decoration. I was with an acquaintence from Hamilton (how I love to meet with study abroad students! So new to life outside the states, outside the strict confines of college society, where no one gives a care whether you were a part of what fraternity because no one knows what a fraternity is). And as we walked away from our dreadlocked conversation, he turned to me and said

-Well, that's where we differ
And I, completely clueless said
-Oh no, I don't want dreadlocks either. They're too much work.
And he said
-No, I mean, you started a conversation with a complete stranger about her hair. That's where we differ.
And I immediately thought of the girl in Prague, and smiled to myself. Surprised and somewhat embarassed by my ignorance to my own social tendencies, I realized that I, despite how awkward and strange I often felt, had the capability to cause random conversation.

So we sat in that bar, and listened to bands play. A sweet singer songwriter from Scotland played love songs on the guitar and I thought about everywhere I've been, and everyone I've met. But then, oh then tricky little miss silence moved in. Apparently the next band was running late, and they needed a time filler.
-Anyone know how to play guitar?
the MC shouted.
-Any stand up comedians?
Nothing.
-Hey! She's a poet!
Crap. I had been outed. Maybe if I held real still, and acted like I was in an intense but enjoyable conversation, he'd leave me along.
-No wait, you! The one in the green sweater!
I turned slowly to the stage
-I don't know you're name. But you're a poet. Come up here!

So I got up on the stage. Because let's face it, I love it. And I poured my poor little poet heart out to a mob of strangers, as usual. And when I paused between poems, I noticed the bar had gone silent. Completely silent. As I stepped off the stage, awkwardly after my five minutes of talking to bright lights and blurry silohuettes, I thought about how life really is about making connections. Whether through music or conversation or poetry. It's all about breaking down those walls we put up between each other, to protect ourselves from "getting hurt". Because things are temporary, and attachment is natural so why even get involved with all that? But to me, I just love that connection too much. The feeling of looking out into the bright lighted, blurry abyss and *feel* something looking back at you. And it hurts because after making that connection, Loneliness and Silence seem to win. But really, all it does is motivate me to make more connections. Maybe I'm just masochistic. But, as trite and silly and emo as it all sounds, getting your heart broken is the best way of knowing it still works. And I'd rather have a broken heart than a lonely one.

Poetry in Schools (pictures on their way)

2008-04-04T01:54:00.000-07:00

- Ok so who here likes poetry?

My question was reflected right back at me through the quizzical looks on their faces. Typical response, really, the one I was actually going for. A few shy hands in the back row made their way through the air, but half heartedly, and they suddenly fell as quickly as they rose.

-Hm. Ok. How about Eminem?

I'll stop there for a moment. I know it might seem like I just did something a little nuts (calling Eminem a poet). But hey, I had to get their attention and I had a point to make. The class erupted

-Kanye West? Taleb Kwali?

Even louder yays.

-Cool, well the type of poetry I do is called Spoken Word or Performance Poetry. Its a miz between the poetry you read in books for school and the music you listen to on the radio.

They looked at me expectantly, growing silent. Like I had three heads. The strange notion that there could be some demonic love child mixture between The Roots and Shakespeare was a little strange to them.

People have a really short attention span these days. Particularly people between the ages of 11 and 16. Even more so when those people are learning English as a second or third language, like these kids were. It wasn't the time for one of my longer, awk shucks, hands in pockets, girl next door poems. It was time for a fast, punchy poem. One that sounds good.

So I broke into my Drop Beats Not Bombs poem. Vaguely political, an explanation of the uses of modern poetry with simple words and a strong beat to keep them awake. It lasts about 30 seconds.

First I did it quickly, then again, a bit slower. They picked out words and phrases they recognized and then tried to analyze the poem. I was really shocked to see how quickly they picked up on themes and symbolism.

They wanted to hear another poem. A slower one, called out the boy from the back. So I did that same old love poem I do everywhere. And at first the kids giggled a bit when I finished, until one girl in the front row with big melted chocolate eyes asked if it was a true story. And when I said yes, she turned around to the rest of the class and said in fast german what I can only imagine resembled "shut up! it's true!" and caused all the girls looked at me sadly and let out a big unison "aw"

After class, a girl who had stayed quite most of the lesson approached me. She told me she wanted to be a singer and wanted to know if I could tell her where she could start. I gave her information about a few open mics that I knew about. I told her to look in the newspaper and in cafes that had advertisements for open mics, and that once she started performing there she would meet people who know more about the music scene than I do.

I went down to the teacher's lounge (oh how cool! so long during my academic career I had dreamt of hanging out in the teachers lounge with cool teachers, sipping on strong coffee and talking about the lessons). The teachers from the two classes I had just visited seemed really pleased with the students' reaction. The idea of spoken word poetry itself, let alone using it as a tool in the classroom was new for them. They were enthusiastic about attempting to integrate spoken word into their English as a foreign language classes. I was excited for them.

Back in Canada, someone once told me that he enjoyed performing for lots of different crowds, particularly for younger people because you never know who you will inspire. I remember I was inspired when I was 14 and just happened to catch a spoken word performance at summer camp. But unfortunately, most kids don't get the opportunity to be exposed to such alternative art, especially when dealing with public schools that aren't funded well, or when they come from limited financial backgrounds. But those are the kids with the most amazing stories. Those are the ones that need to hear it the most. Why deny them the opportunity to create an escape for themselves?

And that's how I felt about these kids. The "rough" kids. The ones whose parents are too busy integrating into Austrian society. The ones who didn't have the opportunity to learn English until now. These kids came from all over central and eastern Europe. Who knows what they've seen, or what they've experienced.

At the end of the second lesson, one of the teachers asked her students if they felt like they could write a poem now, after meeting a "real poet" (a title which still causes me to giggle, even after this whole year). The entire class raised their hands.

Oh, satisfaction

Inside the enemy bunker

2008-04-02T15:16:00.001-07:00

--Wait, youre not seriously going down there, are you?
He looked at me with a childish grin and began to lower himself down a hole, no wider than the width of his body
-- But, but WHY?
He paused, rolled his eyes and gestured for me to follow him
-- Pero, Por QUE!!!?
I shouted after him as he completely disappeared down the hole.
-- Porque es la puta madre. Vamos
He called back up to me in musical argentinian spanish. There I was in Lower Austria, crawling into an abandoned world war two antiaircraft bunker. Who wouldve guessed Id be speaking spanish. But it was not the time to muse over cross cultural ironies. I needed to figure out whether or not I would squeeze myself down that hole. And, perhaps more importanly, how Id convince myself it wasnt a bad idea.

We were at least twenty feet undeground. At least. The floor of the bunker was covered in sand. I half expected to stumble upon a magic carpet and a genie bottle which housed a large blue man with Robin William´s voice. My lighthearted musings were put to a dead stop when I looked at the wall of the bunker. In front of me, in red spraypaint was a swatstika, about 10 feet tall. Next to it was a peace sign that was crossed out. The two austrian boys infront of me, who were until now chattering in dialect german, fell silent.

I always hesitate when I talk about things like ´energy´ and ´vibrations´. Im not some super new age thinker or anything. But walking in that bunker, you could feel the energy being sucked out of you. The worst part was not seeing the racist graffiti on the walls. The worst part was seeing the date next to the graffiti, which indicated its recent creation.

We wandered through the gigantic caverns of the bunker for hours,with the light of a small lantern to guide us. And with each step, the pace slowed, the mood darkened and the air got colder. We were all afraid- but of what? It was the feeling that we shouldnt be there tha was scaring us. Not that it was private property or that we should be somewhere else. It was the simple, gut wrenching feeling of being on the wrong side. Your heart races for no reason. You are out of breath but not tired. Your eyes and ears play tricks on you and you see figures in the dark shadowy crevaces of the caves. We shouldnt be here, yet its just so interesting. Just 5 minutes more.

Finally, when I couldnt take it anymore (and I could tell the boys wanted to leave as well, yet said nothing perhaps due to some ridculous macho mentality that escapes me) we turned around and climbed towards the exit. One at a time, we squeezed ourselves through the tiny rabbit hole entry to the bunker.

Outside the air was fresh. The trees were dark and radiant. The stars were glowing. I know I wasnt the only one who felt the energy shift. We three sat on gigantic rocks for a moment, awkwardly taking large gulping breaths and not talking. Only looking at the dark night sky spotted with branches of pine trees covered in snow.

Textstrom Rocks!

2008-03-31T04:02:00.000-07:00

The bar was located in an underground archway. I was momentarily transported back to New York... the roar of the train passing overhead, the smoke filled room, the sound of beer glasses clinking and loud laughter.

The woman on stage (Diana) spotted me immediately (I was the girl with the "What the hell is going on?!" look on her face, so I must've been easy to pick out). She waved me over excitedly and pulled aside a waitress and ordered me a beer. She introduced me to her co-host, MiezeMedusa (stage name... obviously). They both spoke beautiful lilting english, and were so excited and dynamic I was immediately hooked. They showed me where I could set up my camera and as I turned to leave the stage, they started giggleing nervously and said they had a present for me. Out of her bag, Diana pulled a t-shirt with the logo of the poetry collective on it. It was so cool! I thanked them and set up my camera.

Seeing as we were in Vienna, the slam was in German. But it was such a cool experience, sitting there in the corner watching a poetry slam in a language I can't even remotely understand. The most interesting aspect was, of course, that even though it was in German, and even though I coulnd't understand the words, much of the sentiment (from the poet and the audience) was easily understood from gestures and intonation.

I had the priviledge of catching up with MiezeMedusa and Diana again last night at a book launch. We got to talking about the rarity of women in poetry slams, an issue which seems to be pretty universal around the globe. For whatever reason, women are aways in the minority when it comes to competing in poetry slams, although their presence in the audience is evenly split with men. It was really interesting talking to MiezeMedusa about it, because in addition to being a poet (Diana is just a slammistress, not a poet), she is also an MC in a hip-hop group. As rare as female slam poets are, female MCs are even more rare. We theorized about it for a good hour or so, and just couldn't come up with a reason for this gender divide.

Afterwards, I wandered to a nearby cafe and encountered a friend from Hamilton (who was visiting Vienna with her boyfriend), He introduced me to a group of university students, one of whom lives with a collective of MCs, and another who knows the slammaster of the other spoken word collective in Vienna. I took down numbers, tried my first bit of Schnapps (not my favorite) and then wandered home. It was on this walk home, accompanied by my friend and her partner, that I realized how fast my year has gone by. And yet, when I think about how things were when I was just starting in Canada, I laugh to myself. I truly had no idea. And although this trip has been full of its ups and downs, it's been an experience for sure- one I will never ever forget.

Vienna in the Springtime

2008-03-29T03:39:00.000-07:00

I had stumbled off the bus from Prague to Vienna into a live snowglobe.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.

I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67

Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?

I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.

Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.

My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.

Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.

Czech me out!

2008-03-27T00:44:00.000-07:00

It took all my energy not to purchase every single beer mug, shot glass and tshirt which sported that corny pun. But I needed to maintain my image as a serious poet, right?

After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.

Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.

We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.

Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.

He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.

I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`

I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.

Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!

Verona Sonnets

2008-03-21T03:17:00.000-07:00

Verona is the perfect city to sit at a cafe and write sonnets.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.

I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.

There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:

ABAB CDCD EFEF GG

Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).

The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.

Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)

There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.

Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.

Break up sonnet

So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before

The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.

I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice

If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!

Secret Sonnet

When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar

In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.

Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen

But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.

Venetian Glass

2008-03-20T14:10:00.000-07:00

If Rome shouts, Venice whispers.

At least when it isn't high tourist season.

I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.

We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.

There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.

While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.

It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.

The Roots

2008-03-19T00:03:00.000-07:00

"Everything you need to know about Italian culture, you can find out about in our architecture. Anglo houses are built with brick and wood. They are moveable. Italian houses are made of heavy stone, with deep foundations. We remain."

Kiwis and Ozzies

2008-03-18T00:10:00.000-07:00

Some poetry antics and goodbye shots from the southern hemisphere:

Kiwi Poets

I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington

The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.

Maori dedication

Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.

Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug

Post-Night Words festival poet love.

They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)

Goodbye Australia, Hello Europe

2008-03-14T06:42:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, I had to leave australia or else I'd just stay there forever. I *had* to leave. My body was freaking out, my nerves were at their wits end. I couldn't look people in the eye during conversations because I was daydreaming about other places. I had to leave.

I hate saying goodbye, and the few hours i spent in the Sydney International Airport were filled with quick rushes to the bathroom where i would splash my face with water and tell myself to snap out of it. Because there's so much world to see. And besides, I had to leave. It was obvious.

In sum, Australia was an interesting time for me. More than anything, I think it was spent more on personal growth than on the actual "poetry" aspect, if you want to look at it from a strictly research standpoint. But I think the personal aspect of this project shouldn't be overlooked. As Ginny once told me, the fellowship picks the person, not just the project. And besides, pain, suffering, heartbreak, homesickness, weakness, loneliness- these are all tools of a poet. We love having our hearts smashed, our brains twisted, our capacity of seeing the world and faith in humanity altered immensely. It makes for good poetry. Right?

I had lunch in Sydney. Dinner in Singapore. Best of all, I got to see the stars over Afghanistan. OK, I'm not 100% sure we were exactly over Afghanistan, but according to that map thing on the plane, the stars came out right when we crossed into Afghanistan. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of something I thought about when I was first bitten by the travel bug: people are incredible because they can survive even the worst situations. I felt so much love and sadness for those people below, whose lives were being ruined by the wrecklessness of men in power. I wanted to send a big note down to all of them "The stars are the same in my country too." I don't know why, but I always thought the night sky would be different there. Ignorant me.

We arrived in Rome from the East, with the rising sun. Literally. As the plane touched down on familiar Mediterrainian territory, the sun peaked over the jagged skyline a burning orange. I stepped off the plane and shivered, unaccustomed to typical european weather patterns after being in the southern hemisphere for so long.

I've been to Rome before, and I have to admit, I've never been a fan. I preferred southern coastal cities, I told myself, away from the touristy crowded streets. But this morning, I got to see a side to Rome that few get to experience. I think travelling to a city by oneself really changes the way one sees the city. Particularly true in Rome's case, especially when I arrived before Rome was awake.

Wandering around Rome at 10am is like being handed a key to someone else's dream. Except you get to stay awake during the experience. Narrow winding streets, the only sound is my shoes on the cobblestones, the sun still babyish and soft, just lightly touching the city as if she were saying "Ok, sleep for just 10 more minutes." Getting lost in the labyrinth like streets in those early morning hours was an experience in itself. Rome is just familiar enough that as soon as I feel lost, I turn a corner and a memory is brought back to life. I had gelato there once. I bought a pair of shoes at that store. We drank a bottle of wine and danced in the middle of the alleyway, right there. And then, poof! again, I am back here- an outsider, alone and slightly lost.

I sat down at a cafe at the pantheon, something I never would have done had it been mid-day. But the tables were set and the waiters looked bored and I was famished. So I had breakfast in Rome. I sipped my cappuccino, and watched Rome stir awake. Gradually, the Piazza grew more and more crowded, the streets became louder, singing italian and churchbells. The sound of vespas whizzing past and cars honking angrily with a beautiful frantic mess of languages strewn in.

It's funny, I thought, as I picked and poked my way through those streets, in an obvious memory-induced/jet lagged haze, how can I feel so at home in a city where I've never lived, particularly when I don't speak the language?

But it's true. Coming to Europe was like coming back home. But not Pennsylvania home. Southern Europe home.

And so I plan to use this week to regroup, to adjust to the completely mind-boggling time change (it's 3pm right now, and i'm exhausted... i couldn't even tell you WHAT time it is in my brain.) and of course, to finally record those tracks I've been talking about recording for the past two months. I really would like to write up a CD to sell at poetry readings. It would be good for extra pocket cash, not to mention publicity.

As I wandered back to the hotel (well ok, i got really REALLY lost and eventually called a cab... but hey, I tried...) I came across an entire museum dedicated to Byron and Shelly. You know, the poets. And it makes sense really, that I would choose a country like Italy as my entry into Europe, especially on a trip like this one. Because how can you walk through the incredibly diverse towns of this land, and not be inspired? The story of land, this one in particular, haunts the streets and the people. It seeps into the window panes, gets tangled in telephone wires, mixes with the wine. And you can't help but take it in.

sometimes i obsess over things i don't say

2008-03-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

Maybe I didn’t listen hard enough when they warned me about free time. There’s so much free time on this trip. No matter how many contacts you make, emails you write, poems you revise, tapes you review, there are still these moments when you find yourself all alone, in dead silence. I am sitting in an empty room at a friend’s house in Glebe, a suburb of Sydney. My bags are packed, my phone is charged, all my flight information is written in my notepad. And I am sad to leave sydney (we’ll get to that in a bit) but I can’t help but think about a conversation I had a few nights ago at a bar.

I hate goodbyes, particularly dramatic ones. I prefer to escape a country in the early hours of the morning, when I don’t have time to wallow and say goodbye. Like it’s all part of dream and when I wake I’ll be somewhere new, maybe where the cars will drive on the other side of the road and the people talk quickly and emphatically in a language I don’t speak.

But not this time, and I knew that. My flight leaves in the afternoon. Giving me all morning to reflect. But as I said before, I hate dramatic goodbyes, and so I decided to throw a party in honor of Jack Kerouac’s birthday (March 11) and sllightly mention my own departure (March 13). I invited some of the people I’ve met while I’ve been here, and like I always seem to do, I got myself involved in a deep, somewhat inebriated (I wasn’t, they were) discussion about feminism.

I bit my tongue that night. And now, looking back on it, it angers me a little that I was afraid to stand up for my beliefs. And in the solitude of this morning, questions seem to come back to haunt me, challenging my “friendly neighborhood feminist” position that I so often take in the presence of men, so as to not scare or offend them.

But why is it that I tiptoe around an issue that affects the majority of people on this planet? Yes, that’s right, the majority of people on this planet are women. Why must we act like a minority? Why is it, then, that talk of issues that affect the majority are kept to a minimum, and I must explain myself, “No, I’m not that kind of feminist. I don’t hate men”

Don’t hate men? Well, that’s a generalization. I do hate certain men. So do most women. I hate the kind of men that sit at a bar table, next to their girlfriends, checking out the waitress and saying “She’s pretty hot, isn’t she? Could use to lose a few pounds though” etc etc. I hate the kind of men that say “I hate it how women always ‘cry rape’ because it gives them too much power.” Yes, those kinds of men, I do certainly hate.

And what do I mean exactly when I say I’m “not that kind of feminist”. What kind of feminist am I? It’s true, I hate using the term because it has been bastardized over the years by popular culture. Feminists have always been considered fat, ugly, militant women that become lesbians soley because they “can’t land a guy” and other ridiculous stereotypes that are so far from the truth it’s inconcievable how they even were created. But that’s not why I hesitate to use the label. I hesitate because to me, it’s redundant to being a woman.

It’s logical, really. Why wouldn’t I be concerned for the health and safety of women when so many female university students are assaulted and/or raped? Why wouldn’t I be at least a little angered by the way we are expected to prance around and act stupid so we don’t “intimidate” men by being too smart? Why wouldn’t I be upset when I see dolls made for little girls that have unrealistic proportions, or when I see teenagers idolizing film stars and pop stars who are obviously coked out, anorexic and depressed.

Even from the “might equals right” standpoint (which I loathe) the feminist argument holds up. Why is it that the majority is obeying laws not only created by the minority, but also laws that actively hurt and danger the rigths of the majority? And why is it that when the majority tries to speak out against such blatant injustice, the minority brushes it off with a “oh don’t be such a man-hating feminazi”. Why is it that we judge the majority based off of the standards set by the minority (ie women are too sensitve… well why isn’t it that men have emotional issues? Women have boundary issues… why isn’t it that men have commitment issues? Women are irrational… why isn’t it that men can’t think outside the box? Each are equally as offensive, but we always act as if the women are the abnormality. But even from a scientific perspective, an abnormality is something that strays from the norm… and the norm is set by the average behavior, usually influenced by the majority. Therefore, if women (the majority) are acting a certain way, it should be men (the minority) who are criticized and analyzed for being different)

But most of all, why is it that I, a university educated woman with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, who can speak two languages fluently, and is brave enough to travel the world alone is too afraid to be intellegent and logical around a few guys who are being offensive to her sex over a few beers?

To be honest, I’m tired of hiding behind this “friendly feminist” exterior. Something I’ve noticed while traveling is that you have to give cultural differences some space, even if they are offensive. I may be completely off here, but I think feminism is a bit behind here in australia. I’ve mentioned it before, and previously wrote it off as a “well, sucks for them but who am I to say they’re wrong”. Kind of like the same way I just accepted the fact that australians don’t like to think about the “american” perspective when listening to poetry ( I was pushing it enough by even getting up there with ny yankee accent, so it’s best to avoid topics about the US altogether). But I think a place like australia, particularly sydney could use a wake up call when it comes to issues that make them uncomfortable. It’s such a culture based off of being comfortable, of not extending oneself or pushing oneself. Its about knocking eachother down to size, not because they are competative, but simply because they are afraid of competition. In that way it is so incredibly different than the states. Complacency is something I’ve never been good at. If there’s a button to be pressed I press it. And so I wonder if I have done myself an injustice by altering my personality to suit the comforts of others. Where do you draw the line? Should I have defended more ferverently a woman’s right to say no? Should I have stuck up for that waitress, told that guy to shut the hell up and that he could use to lose a few pounds too? Should I have quoted the feminist philosoophers of the past ( a term which tends to make boys giggle- feminist philosophy? How ridiculous, we all know women aren’t rational creatures… etc etc) Should I have cited Susan B Anthony “Men want equality and nothing more. Women want equality and nothing less.” Should I have told them to put that in their pipe and smoke it? It was the fear of sounding not only too feminist, but too american, that stopped me from interjecting. A fear that is ridiculous, at its core, of course because those are two things about myself which I did not choose. I did not choose to be a woman (and therefore a feminist) and I certainly did not choose to be american.

But strangely, after being away from home for so long, I’ve realized that I’m glad I am both those things. There is so much anti-americanism in this world. The criticisms are always the same- apparently we’re all dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, fat, lazy, competative, pro-war, pro-guns, pro-violence, nationalistic, money obsessed, self absorbed, assholes. But the irony, of course, is that these statements are usualy coming from people who exhibit at least half of those aforementioned qualities. Because to say “all people from country X are this way”, especially when country X is as massive and diverse as the US, is a dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, nationalistic, self absorbed thing to say.

These are also usually the people who say they hate all feminists, and check out other women in front of their girlfriends.

And for as frustrated as it makes me, I feel like maybe it is my obligation as an educated, non-violent American woman with broad horizons, and few explicit prejudices, it could be my responsibility to disprove such notions about my country. Certainly, bad people exist, but it’s not restricted to americans. I’ve met more prejudiced, racist, sexist, homophobic australians in Sydney alone than in New York City. But I’ve also met some wonderful people here, and I’ve met wonderful people in the states. So maybe it’s not restricted to nationality- maybe there are some ignorant people in every country (duh). I don’t want to be, by any means, a spokesperson or an embassador or some sort for all americans. Because I don’t represent all americans. America is a contradictory nation. And that’s what I love about it. The fact that a place so diverse with so many contradicting laws, views and people can still somehow magically stay together is amazing ( I say it’s superglue). But I could never represent all that. I can only represent myself and when someone says in that ridiculously patronizing tone “Oh we’ve met a smart american” I can only say “You should actually go to the states sometime. You might be surprised how many smart americans you’d find..”

Clues

2008-03-09T19:15:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like a dectective, collecting clues left by underground poetry scenes.

Signs

2008-03-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

I like seeing airplanes cast tiny shadows over the sun.
Even for just a moment.
it reminds me of all the places I've seen.

Slam-ily?

2008-03-08T18:00:00.001-08:00

Maybe it’s because I’ve been in Sydney too long. You know you’ve been in a city too long when the beautiful attractions become mundane. The food no longer interests you. You stop being able to distinguish between your accent and the accent of the people. You become cynical, spoilt. Yes, that is what I’ve become. The opera house, once strange, alien, artistic has become nothing more than a pretentious eyesore, the harbor bridge might as well be the brooklyn bridge, the surfers lost their sun-bleached blonde appeal, the poets lost their novel originality. I'm spoilt, I'm cyincal, bitter. I'm looking to the west once more. I'm looking for narrow ancient streets with no side walks, mediterranian sunlight, men in tight pants racing down the wrong way through a one way street on Vespas. I'm tired of English for a bit. I need to be immersed in the foriegn. I need to be overwhelmed, lost, in the best way possible. In a way that only southern European countries can.

It's not that i haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I haven't learned a lot. Australia was probably the country where I've experienced the most "personal growth" than any other place. I hit my wall here, and I came out alive and kicking. It's probably one of the most beautiful countries I've been to, with some of the most bizzarre personalities.

The concept of a slam-ily has crossed my mind mulitple times throughout this trip, and I often wonder if it is even possible to have a functional slam-ily. Spoken word artists are a strange cross-breed, a mix between entertainer (read: egotistical diva) and poet (read: introverted loner). So the idea of a functional slamily might exist, if only the entertainer part was less powerful. Oftentimes, especially in the case of poetry slams, because of the competition that exists (although, in theory slam poets “know” the competition doesn’t matter) poets begin to compare themselves to eachother. In certain places, places like Sydney, you just feel it. They size up their opponenets, whisper comments about stage presence and snicker at the useage of trite phrases. Healthy competition is great, it keeps poets original, keeps the audience interested, keeps the MCs on their toes. But I'm not convinced that's what's really going on here.

But the danger is, of course, that any sense of “family” will be eventually lost to the competition. Poets will eventually stop backing eachother up, and instead attempt to backhandidly sabatoge the other’s work, reputation, or both. Gatherings of poets will cease to be about getting feedback, sharing contacts, networking will be more of a preditorial activity, poets will sleep with event organizers and fabricate stories about other peots sleeping with event organzers in order to secure a gig. It will stop being about the poetry, it’ll start being about the ego.

I know this development is inevitable in the arts. In some countries and cultures, it’s a development that won’t occur for many years. In others, it is almost inherent within the scene.

Driving home from my last poetry event in Australia, I looked out my window and sighed. After being around so many performers in a group with a dynamic like this, I often walk away feeling drained but also thankful. Thankful for my third party status in the scene. Tired of the drama, the ego, the glitz and glam (an extention of hollywood theater, with fake plastic girls, fake plastic smiles). Not all poetry in australia is like this. I’ve seen amazing performances, met amazing people, been completely blown away by diversity, generosity and sincerity. But it was an interesting way to sum up my trip.

I know I try to be as polite as possible, after all, this isn’t my poetry scene, and so I don’t even have the right to comment or criticize. But at the same time, it is my job to examine. And after examining the australian scene for 3 months, I can honestly say that though there is a potential for a great big sydney slamily, it’s creation is doubtful at best.

Here’s the thing. At the night words festival, the phrase “modern day poetic campfire” was used in describing the festival. I can say fully, that nothing could’ve been farther than the truth. At a campfire, there is no diva. There is no host. It’s just people sharing their stories for no other reason than because it is what they love to do. It’s for the word. It’s for the poetry. It’s for the people.

It’s almost like the only thing important in a good poetry show is the poetry and the audience. The poet is simply a transport system for the spoken word to reach the ears of the audience. The poet is nothing.

But we are artists! We proclaim We have art! High art! Sophisticated art! Art that is more high and sophistcated than our peers! Sit back, audience, shut up and be amazed at MY art.

After the festival, I had the most bizzarre urge to take my notebook and a pen, find a secluded spot by the harbor and wrie something. Not just anything. Something sincere. Something honest. Not for me and my own enjoyment or fulfillment. Something for the sake of poetry and the sake of people and the sake of laughter and not taking it so goddamn seriously anymore. Something childish and innocent and true. Something that will hold attention not with on-stage shenanegins, but because it’s true. Not high art. Just words.

Things I love, things I hate

2008-03-05T20:30:00.000-08:00

about this fellowship go hand in hand.

I love travelling. I love meeting new people.
I hate leaving. I hate goodbyes.

Let's back up. I left auckland after an amazing night. I had the absolute priviledge to perform a feature set (about 30 min) to the most polite crowd I've ever seen. I mean, I almost stopped halfway through because they were so quiet, I thought I was boring them. But they urged me to keep going, which was so great.

It's funny how things seem to just fall into place on this trip. I mean, I originally was going to New Zealand just to take a break from Australia, to renew my ETA so I could stay for the Night Words Festival. But I was so incredibly blessed to meet such incredible people there: Renee Liang, Christian Jenson, Murray and all the other poets in Auckland seemed to welcome me with such gracious and open arms; Jade who was initially pressured into hanging out with me courtesy of Chandra, but then became inspired by the poetry and I think he's now one of us too; the Marks family who were kind enough to let a perfect stranger stay in their house for almost 2 weeks, Nate who directed a lost little poet through the streets of Newtown and Wellington and taught her about Maori culture and all the wonderful people who I'm forgetting to mention at the moment, you know who you are. It hurt to leave all these gracious people behind, it hurt so much that I still haven't really thought about it until right now.

So now I'm back in Australia. I'm not going to lie, I was initially really hesitant about ocming back. Melbourne and New Zealand put me in such an improved mood and state of mind, I was afraid that by returning to the scene of my somewhat existential crisis, I'd be sucked back into the vortex of despair etc etc. But it hasn't been the case thus far. I stepped off the plane and thought about something Renee said to me before I left. She said I'd be fine once I was in the CBD of Sydney, and everything would be cool again. And that's when it hit me: while I was staying here, I really only hung out with people in certain areas of sydney... there is an entire other part of this city that I haven't seen! and if I am strong enough to just show up in 3 cities (Wellington, Auckland and Melbourne) for a few days and so quickly meet so many amazing people, heck, why couldn't that happen in Sydney? And so as I rode in the cab on the way back to Bondi, a wave of revitalized "Jess"-ness washed over me. Let's do this again. The proper way. Let's try to find the real Sydney. And stop being so freaking nice all the time. At which point the cab driver made a snarky comment about my ability to give directions and I pretty much dished it back to him. What can I say, he was being rude and he caught me in a pensive moment. Bad luck.

And thus far it's working. I spent all day yesterday in a completely new part of town with some new people. It's also helped that some of the poets from Melbourne are up for the Night Words festival this weekend, so it's like all the best things I loved about Australia in one place!

I'm really looking forwards to the festival (which starts tonight and goes for 3 days). And on Sunday I have tickets to Cat Power (love her!) in Newtown. I'm super excited for that too.

It's weird though, to think this time next week I'll be in Europe. It's weird and sad. As much as I know I need to move on, and as much as my instincts are pushing me to leave (and trust me, I'm ready to leave) I'll always have a little tug in my heart for Australia. And I'll always want to come back to New Zealand too, because really 2 weeks is long enough to start to love a place, but not really know it.

And in that way, I feel like I'm really lucky too. Because most people would spend 2 weeks at touristy places, museums, taking ferry rides and hitting all the traps. I don't have time for that stuff. I spend my 2 weeks in tiny bars or cafes, talking to real people (or poets). I feel like I get a crash course in culture, society and poetry all rolled into one package. Poets see the world so differently than most people, so I feel like I get to experience a part of the country that most people never get to see, unless they live there for a long period of time. It's like there are no formalities, I just jump right under the skin of the city and somewhat messily try to figure it out.

I get to see the dirty, raw, dramatic aspects of the culture. I get to hear about the poetic gossip of the city. It's incredible stuff. It's also what makes the goodbye so much harder.

Memory

2008-03-03T21:23:00.000-08:00

In a state of what can only be described as quasi- boredom, (which, I can proudly say, has been a rarity for the past few weeks) I was flipping through my old pictures in iphoto: “senior spring!” “Honduras Spring Break” “Summer Road trip 07” and of course “Study Abroad Sights”. Those of you who know me well, or those of you who read my blogs but don’t know me (which I think is equally awesome), you know how I felt about my semester in Granada. And as I was looking over those photos, I braced myself for the sadness I usually experience, the tug in my heart, the pull back to spain, and the frantic rearrangement of plans to see when the enxt possible date of return could be. But it never came. What came instead was a grin across my lips, and a giggle. My heart, instead of pulled was lifted, my spirit brightened and the uncontrolled thought that rushed into my mind was “My god, that was the happiest time of my life.”

While I was living in Spain, I knew this day would come. I dreaded it. I hated the thought of being somewhere else (anywhere not spain) and thinking “those were the happiest days of my life”. But now I see that it was asilly thing to fear. I think back on those days now, after so many months of pushing the memories to the back of my mind out of fear, and I smile. They make me happy because I know I lived every day to its fullest. I was completely in touch with the universe, as I like to say, meaning I followed my intuition, I took risks, I dove in head first. And the sadness I long feared never came. And the desire to return, yes that’s still there. But I know that when the time is right, things will fall into place.

I love this about traveling the most. I love working through the struggles, and coming out stronger, looking in the mirror and not quite recognizing who this person is staring back at me. Where did that child go? That nervous college graduate? Who is this girl who talks to taxi drivers in spanish, asks strangers for directions, competes in international poetry slams, makes strangers cry? Who is this? And what does she want?

After looking at those photos, my memories of spain seem to have given me new fuel to continue. I dove in head first once, why not again? Complete reckless abandon- why not embrace it?

I’m looking at my european schedule with a feeling of complete excitement and overwhelming anxiety. But in the best way possible. So many places to go. So many poets to meet. I can honestly say that in a month from now, I have NO idea where I will be located. I’ve got a list of 5 potential countries, and I’m scattering them to the wind. How can I decide where I want to be when I’m on the other side of the planet? I’ll make my decision when I get there. If I’m going out early (thank you crappy American economy), I’ll go out with a bang.

A reinstatement of the primary mission: Meet as many poets and get inspired in uncharted territory. Culture shock and shoestring travel for 5 more months. Or until the money runs out. Let’s do this.

Halfway? Already?

2008-03-02T11:41:00.000-08:00

So about (gasp) a week ago, I realized it was my six month "anniversary" of being on this fellowship.

I'd like to thank the Bristol family for funding my travels, Ginny for responding to my emails so quickly, Jesse for his emotional support and my mother for answering the phone at 3am whenever I have a stupid question or an irrational freak out.

Project wise, it's been really really incredible. I've met poets from all over the world, recorded them and created friendships with them. I love this aspect of my fellowship because it encompasses both work and social life. I meet a poet, and it's like we're already friends. The bad part is, of course, that departing is doubly difficult. My countries have changed since my initial project, and I have no doubt that they will keep changing. Poets have contacts all over the world- this makes touring easier. So when I got to australia, they insisted I go to New Zealand, France and England. And when I got to New Zealand they insisted I go to Northern Ireland, Scotland and Germany. etc etc etc. So I'm not really sure what's going on, or where I'll be or when... but it's kind of fun that way.

As far as luggage goes, I'm still convinced I'm carrying too much stuff. This is due to the dual nature of my personality, where I want to have my nice small wheeled suitcase so when I introduce myself to poets at the airport/train station/whatever, I don't look like some crazy backpacker. But at the same time, I don't want to get rid of my backpack because, well, it's just so handy. I keep sending home boxes of clothes/things I don't need and I don't know why I took them in the first place. I've given away lots of clothes too, which makes everything lighter and easier to handle.

Financially, things could be better. The depressing state of the US dollar impacts those of us that are traveling the most, especially when we're traveling to countries that should have a good exchange rate. This essentially means I'm paying 5 dollars for a cup of coffee when I should be paying 3. I know I shouldn't think of it like that, but it's hard not to. I've been couchsurfing a lot, which is great because poets are such wonderful hosts and it saves me money too! But I am visiting mostly first world countries, and let's face it, lots of money is necessary. So I'm considering cutting down on a few countries and living off of fruit. Just kidding about that last part.

So how's it been? In short, it's been different. After the initial 3 month honey moon stage wore off, I think I really began to see what kind of trip it was I was actually embarking on. Sure the documentary is important, but there's this whole other level of things going on internally that weren't being recorded. A friend of mine suggested I start turning the camera on myself as well, to capture some of this struggle. Struggle? yeah, I know. I could be working a desk job in Boston right now. But believe it or not, traveling alone causes some struggle. There's no way to know if you're making the right call on future plans. There's no one to bounce your ideas off of. There's no one to remind you what hemisphere you're in when you wake up all disoriented at 3pm on someone's couch. There's no one there to guard your stuff while you pee. It's just you and the open road/sea/airways. It's exactly what I've always wanted.

Some one recently asked me "what makes you so brave?"
I laughed real hard and almost choked on some lettuce.
Is this bravery we're talking about? Or is it luck? Is it just simply feeding my quasi-insane mentality where I go a little nuts whenever I stay in one place for too long?

Maybe it's a little of everything.

About 2 years before he died, I had the pleasure of meeting Beat poet, Robert Creeley. We chatted for a bit, and he signed my book. I've always liked his poetry, for the influence that travel and love and memory play in his work. Years later, after his death, I found that book again, and re-read what he wrote to me. A single word above his name that catches the complete beat poet mentality to life. "Onward!"

Onward I go.

Yay

2008-03-02T02:32:00.000-08:00

uh oh

2008-03-02T02:25:00.000-08:00

I left Wellington in a rush. I was due back in Auckland for a guerrilla poetry chalking.
That's when things started getting messy.
It was raining in Auckland when I arrived.
Apparently, my cell phone knew this, and opted to stay in bed. In Wellington. Without me.

And being without my cell phone for one day has made me realize that I am one of those sad people who has an intense relationship with her phone. And suddenly, I feel half empty, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm lost...

Thank god for priority shipping. Sheesh.

Rainy Days

2008-03-01T15:36:00.000-08:00

When it rains in New Zealand, it's like that hazy thin white cloud that hovers above the island descends rapidly gaining density. In wellington, it creates a gusty fog over the water, making the mountains in the horizon blend with the water so you can't see where the water ends and the sky begins. I've been told by many writers that New Zealand is a literary country, but I never quite understood why until that day when I woke up to a view of haze anover the dark green capital city. Its one of those days where you want to stay in bed or go to a cafe, curl up on a comfy sofa, sip some chai (or a ristretto,in my case) and read a good book. For some, this is an excuse to get away from the "real world" of work and deadlines. How lucky I am, then, that reading a goo dbook is actually part of my work. I scanned bookshelf after bookshelf, pulling out books that interested me and carried them to the cafe where I sat for hours and hours reading.

I find that the key to writing well is to read good books- to fill one's mind with true art and craftful words. Just as a Jazz musician puts on records of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Bird Parker, so must a writer revert to her roots- Shakespearian sonnets, Whalt Whitman's leaves of Grass, James Joyce's Ulysses etc etc. But more than big names is the ability to identify authors that sing true to you and your personal quest: paulo Coelho, Jack Kerouac and any recommendations by dear frieds who understand me and my perspective, sometimes better than I do- these are the authors that light the spark in my mind.

And so I spend those rainy days the perfect way. Warm, dry and in the artful embrace between the pages of a very good book.

Strangers as guides

2008-03-01T15:25:00.000-08:00

It was only a few days ago I picked up Paulo Coelho's book at a bookstore, and randomly flipped open to a page to read what was in store for me. For me, Coelho's like that- a sort of guid who knows just what to say to push me back into the directive flow of the universe. And so, that day Coelho's travel advice was as follows: Avoid Museums. Go to Bars. Find real People. If you need a guide ask someone on the street. It may not work at first but by the end of the day, you'll have a devoted and loyal friend and guide.

These words flashed into my heas as I got off the bus. It was very clear I had overshot my destination - the Newtown Community and Culture Centre- but which direction did I need to go? So I took Coelho's advice and asked the first person I saw. To my surprise, he began to give me detailed directions, finally telling me to hop on the bus across the street. I dashed across the street, showed thank you, dodged two cars and got on the bus. The bus driver asked "where to?" and before I could reply (with a bunch of ums and uhhs) the young man followed me onto the bus and told the driver for me. He sat down on the seat next to me, smiled sheepishly and explained that it was not the nicest neighborhood and he just wanted to make sure I got there alright.

And we got there alright. An hour before the reading started. I saw a small pub across the street and insisted that I buy him a beer. Ofer a drink we chatted, I talked about my project and he asked me questions about the states. At the end of the hour we walked over to the poetry reading. THe audience was a small collection of locals, and I felt a bit strange and out of place. It's probably the most uncomfortable I've ever felt at a poetry reading so far. I'm not sure why. Thee people who got up and spoke were definitely portraying the community accurately. People from various backgrounds read and although I read too and received warm applause, I still couldn't help but feel like an intruder.

My guide, however, left the performance seemingly invigorated. "so what'd ya think?" he asked. I told him I thought it was interesting but the more important question was- what did HE think?
We parted ways at the end of the night, and I caught the bus back to my hotel, crawled into bed poised to write something, then gave up- suddenly exhausted- and fell asleep.

Poetry Live Slam!

2008-02-26T12:24:00.000-08:00

After climbing Mount Rangitoto, I was sunburnt and exhausted. But also inspired.

I had just enough time to hop on a bus and get home, take a quick shower, scarf down dinner and return to the downtown district. When I arrived, I was greeted by Christian, his girlfriend Emily and Renee, all of whom gave me big hugs and smiles. I love poets.

I signed up on the slam list with some hesitation. Although I had been exposed to some spoken word two days prior to the slam, I knew very well there was a difference between “spoken word” and “slam”. Although the spoken word poets were political and articulate, I didn’t know what to expect from the slam poets. They could’ve been political and articulate too, or brash and drunk, or academic and boring. I was pleasantly placated when, poet after poet, took the stage with incredible confidence and stature. It was great for the documentary… very not great for my nerves, for these people I was admiring were also my competition (in the very silly non-competative aspect of a poetry slam). How would I measure up? Would they be able to understand my accent? Would they think my poetry style was weird (because although they were all quite talented, I still felt like my style stood out a bit… It could’ve just been paranoia though). I’ve gotten used to the hushed silence the audience gives after my name is announced at a poetry slam, the shuffling and craning of necks to see “who is this new person, and why haven’t we seen her before?” It used to unnerve me. But I’ve grown kind of fond of it. And it seemed like Auckland grew fond of me as well, because as the night wore on, with each round the polite applause after my name grew louder and louder. It was a good feeling, knowing I could connect with complete strangers.

One thing that I found quite distinguishing about the poetry slam in Auckland was the sheer diversity of the poets and the crowd, as well as the poetry itself. I hate to compare poetry scenes, but I really did feel a bit like I was in new york- the poets ranged in ages from 22 (I was no doubt the youngest), to late 50’s. Different ethnicities, different genders, different nationalities, topics and styles filled the room with their words. I loved every moment of it. Yes, there was some bad poetry. But the bad poetry is equally valid and almost more valuable, in my opinion, because it inspires the audience members to write. A friend I was sitting with (it was his first exposure to spoken word) talked to me about it during the ride home. I could see the gears turning in his mind, the very familiar thoughts of “I could do that” or “I could beat those guys” that always hits people, even just for a brief moment, during a poetry slam. I encouraged him to start writing poetry. That’s how all slam poets got started: they went to a slam, wrote a poem, went to the next slam and just put it out there.

So the night ended well. My friend was inspired (and apparently so were the boys at the table behind us. One of them recited a poem he had written on a napkin to my camera during one of the breaks). Poetry slam had done it’s job, and done it well. And as for me, I had the pleasure of competing one on one with a very talented poet from Auckland. As the last round is audience vote, I was surprised to find the majority voted for me. But as always with a slam, who won didn’t really make that much of a difference in the relationships between us poets, and he and I had a great interview afterwards.

I won 15 bucks. Which I promptly spent on food.

But it was my first win, and I was happy to see the balance in my life beginning to return. I love auckland poetry, and auckland poetry loves me.

I perform again next Tuesday, as a feature poet for Poetry Live. It’s my first time featuring. I’ve come a long way from that shy camera girl in Canada who wouldn’t call herself a poet, let alone compete in a slam.

At the top of Mount Rangitoto

2008-02-25T21:34:00.000-08:00

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, it began to rain.

I didnt mind, I was already soaked. I read a book when I was younger, called "Writers on Writing" and one of the chapters was about in order to be inspired, you must move your feet. So many writers are active (I know the stereotype about us artistic types being pathetically unathletic, so laugh all you want...).

It began to rain. Hard. But the incredible thing was, I watched the rain move in from over the city and mainland of Auckland, and slowly make its way toward us. I ran into the shelter, followed by a handful of other people. As we waited for the rain to pass, I struck up a conversation with a local university professor about the oral tradition of the Maori people (the people native to New Zealand). With a few quick strokes of his phone's keypad, he gave me the name and contact number of a professor at the university who would be able to help me get in contact with some Maori poets... or at least people who know about the Maori oral tradition. Beautiful

They always called New Zealand the land of the long white cloud. But now I understand why.

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I saw New Zealand's colors.

It's not a big mountain. It only took be about an hour to hike to the summit. But it's a volcano, really, and that's what's incredible about it. It just rises out of nowhere in the sea. A large black mountain, covered in mysterious ferns that love the volcanic soil. The colors of this country are muted. Shades of shades. Contrasting beautifully with the bright boldness of australia, this land is darker, mysterious, softer. Covered almost constantly by clouds, it rises out of the water, a thin dark stretch of land. Almost every mountain and hill in this country is a volcano. In some cities, the ground erupts in hot angry bursts. The rain comes without warning. The sun is hotter than in the northern hemisphere.

At the top of Mount Rangitoto, I realized where I am. And how lucky I am to be here.

Breathless. I want to share it with someone. But I've only got my camera, and my memory. And I suppose that's good enough.

After climbing down, I slept for an hour on the beach, waiting for the ferry.
I am sunburnt, sandy and salty. Muted and exhausted.

I am competing in a poetry slam in 1 hour. My mind is a muddled mess. Where am I going? What is the point of all this? It's just too beautiful for words.

Funky Oriental Beats: My first poetry experience in Auckland

2008-02-24T15:06:00.000-08:00

My first poetry reading in Auckland was the Funky Oriental beats, a forum for asian-kiwi poets to express themselves in a free and safe space through hip hop culture. And they completely blew me away. I try not to enter poetry readings with a preconception, but I think at this point, after going to so many, it’s hard not to guess what to expect.

But let’s start at the beginning. I was exhausted when I arrived at the Whammy Bar. I don’t know what hit me, maybe I met Renee Liang finally, who greet me with a HUGE smile. She struck me as a charming, friendly woman, and she was my height, which made me like her even more. A Medical Intern by day, a poet by night. And man, her poetry is fantastic.

In fact, all of the poetry I heard that night was fantastic.

As I set up my camera, a woman with long braided hair and dressed in a beautiful orange dress approached me with a smile and greeted me with a hug. I recognized her instantly. Ishle Park, one of the top poets to come out of the New York scene, the first woman to be named Poet Laureate of Brooklyn. When she spoke, my heart tugged a bit at the familiar sound of her accent. I have spent the last 6 months avoiding anyone who sounds like me, but man, hearing her sounded so deliciously wonderful. She wanted to know the details of my fellowship, and I told her the whole story. At the end of my explanation, she told me I was lucky. I said that I knew it, and that I felt very blessed, then realizing who I was talking to, added quietly “I don’t know why they gave it to me, though, really.” I looked away

“Because you deserve it” I heard her say

I giggled, slightly embarassed. I expected her to laugh with me. But she was quiet. When I looked back at her, she was completely serious. She put her hand on my arm. “You do deserve it.” She repeated, and gave my arm a squeeze.

Later that night, as I saw each poet get up on stage and tell me their stories, I realized that I had for some reason downplayed the weight of my work in my own mind. As I saw Renee performing her iconic poem “Chinglish” about balancing two somewhat opposing cultures in her life while living in Auckland, and Ishle performing a poem about coming to terms with her heritage while growing up in New York, I felt reinvigorated. I remembered why I love spoken word so much. I was no longer an alien in their space. They were sharing their stories with me, and I was able to become a part of it. I was able to understand, just for a moment, their perspective- their every day encounters with innocent prejudice ( strange woman on the street: “oh you speak english very well” poet’s response “I grew up here. You speak english very well also.”) and not so innocent prejudice ( poet’s ex-girlfriend: “we’re breaking up because you’re too asian”). I was honored to be there, and so incredibly happy to be exposed to such honest and inspiring talent.

Later that night, during the drive home, a friend asked me “So were you the only white person there?” Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it. I laughed a bit and said “well, we’re all the same on the inside. On the inside, I could be Asian-Kiwi, I suppose.”

What? I could be.

Kia ora to Kiwi Land!

2008-02-22T14:55:00.000-08:00

Before coming to New Zealand, there were a lot of things I thought of when I thought of New Zealand. Lots of things I’d heard and seen- The All Blacks Rugby team, for example. Maori people with beautiful markings tatooed on their faces. Dense forests. Volcanos. Soft spoken people. But knowing a place in theory is different than knowing a place in reality. And so when my plane began to make its decent onto this strange country covered by a long white cloud, it suddenly dawned on me where I was. Six months away from home, and exactly on the other side of the world. As we flew closer, the water turned from bright blue to light mossy sea green. You know the crayola cran color “Seafoam Grean”? Well I think the person who came up with that title had been to New Zealand. Because that’s the only way I can describe it. The earth was dark, the water sea foam green, the sky an omniscent grey, offset by the lush trees that grew everywhere, with dark brown branches and leaves that were various shades of green- like a gradient on an artist’s palate, growing lighter and lighter as they reached the tips of the dark branches. Hills sprang up from nowhere. Later I was told these out of place clifflike hills were actually dead volcanos, after years and years of dormancy they became accustomed to the surrounding environment. Grass, trees, flowers and houses cover these earthy scabs, and have become only a shadow of their potentially dangerous past.
Its funny how much the earth shares human characteristics.

I was greeted at the airport by a wonderful older woman, with wild red hair and a big big smile. She was a writer, as I would learn in the car, and a poet too. She told me all about her involvement in the Auckland literary scene, and her tumoltuous past fleeing Johannesburg 12 years ago. She explained to me her view of the difference between New Zealand (aka Kiwi) interests and South African interests. Apparently, she had found similar results with poets and audiences in New Zealand as I did in Australia: a general distaste for anything addressing uncomfortable or gruesome realities of others.

As we drove along the coast to her daughter’s house, she pointed out key neighborhoods and streets. At one point I looked out the car window and was astonished to see a dark looming figure rising out of the sea.

It’s form was stereotypically volcanic- black dark soil, strange mossy colored plantlife. Mount Rangitoto- she pointed out to me. Last erupted 600 years ago. It’s been dormant since then.

How did I meet this woman, who generously picked me up to the airport and drove me to her daughter’s house? She was the mother of a friend of a mother of a friend of mine. Yeah, I know. Crazy. And that’s what always gets me: the unbelievable hospitality and generosity I’ve been shown in the past six months. Perhaps its because of the distrustful american mentality I was exposed to as a child, but I never EVER expected people to be this welcoming and caring to me, a strange girl far from home.

I dreamt of goodbye

2008-02-20T20:39:00.000-08:00

It's funny how you can accomplish things in your dreams, things that don't make much sense, and still have a feeling of resolution when you wake. It's like you had some sort of intense conflict going on in your mind, and you just refused to acknowledge it for so long that it's got to come out some way. So it comes out in a crazy dream, and you and your many selves just battle it out. And you wake up suddenly because a weight has been lifted.

We were on top of a mountain. I had climbed up the mountain via a tiny rickety wooden bridge, so unstable I had to crawl on my hands and knees the whole way. I had my camera strapped to my back. It was windy, and when the wind blew the whole bridge swayed back and forth. And at the top of this bridge and mountain were all my friends. People I've met on this journey, but mostly friends from Hamilton or The Hill School. And so once at the top of the mountain, we were celebrating graduation. One of my friends grabbed my camera and almost threw it off the mountain. I tackled him and stood on his arms. I yelled at him. I revealed every insecurity he had. I told him I was tired of him trying to ruin everything, and that he needed to stop trying to outsmart me because it would never work. I held a mirror in his face and he began to cry. Then he disappeared. Two more of my friends approached me. One took a 20 dollar bill out of his wallet. It was American. The other friend said "Does that make you homesick? It's been nearly 6 months" I took the bill in my hand and looked at it. I felt homesick. I turned to the second friend and said "I need to go to Verona. I have to get my things together" we hugged and I walked down the bridge, this time standing up.

Then I woke up. And when I woke up, I had a poem stuck in my head.

Don't ask me what it means. I don't have a clue. I think it has to do with my acknowledgement that it's time to move on to the next stop on my list. So I leave for Auckland on the 22nd, and i'll return to sydney just briefly for the Night Words Festival and then, as i said in my dream, I'll take a break in Italy for a few days before my crazy european schedule starts.

So it was a strong dream to have and I've spent all day thinking about it. But whatever was resolved, I'm happy it was resolved. Such a strange journey I'm on!

Last night
I dreamt of goodbye
suddenly deciding it was time
to write you out of my life.
Goodbye, perhaps I'll
send you a postcard while
watching the fireflies in
springtime Verona. I'm
sorry because it won't say
I wish you were here.

Kangaroos, Wallabies and Wombats- Oh my! (pictures coming soon)

2008-02-20T17:29:00.003-08:00

So after being in Australia for nearly two months, my lovely Melbourne guides were appalled to find that I haven't seen or done many "Aussie" things (other than trying vegemite.... an experience of it's own degree). So Saturday night, after a long day of filming, we drove to Frankston, a suburb of Melbourne. Once in Frankston, my mission of experiencing the real Australia came in the form of a Mars bar. Let's clarify: a deep fried Mars bar. As someone who loathes anything ridiculously sugary and tries to steer clear of anything deep fried, this sounded like a disaster in a greasy paper bag. And, honestly, it was. But I had already given Vegemite a go, so I figured nothing could be worse than that. And so I took a bite. And in a weird way, I was transported, momentarily, back to mexico. And now I can tell you with full honesty that a deep fried Mars bar tastes a bit like what a churro (a fried stick of dough sprinkled with sugar and dipped in chocolate) would taste like if it were somehow inverted and mixed with caramel. And it was surprisingly delicious.

The next day we woke up early and drove to Phillip Island, a nature reserve a small trek away from Frankston. We arrived at a nature park that has it's share of cute and fuzzy australian wildlife (think koalas, kangaroos, wallabies and wombats) and not so fuzzy australian wildlife (think king brown snakes, pythons and other deadly creatures). But the cute and cuddly ones were let loose about the park, and we were permitted to feed anything that hopped, waddled or crawled it's way towards us.

We took a lunch break in town, and had the classic "fish and chips" which later I learned that we weren't eating fish at all, but rather shark. We got the family packet of fish and chips, which was supposidly for a family of 4 but it could've fed many many more... and of course the three of us managed to eat it all.

We wandered to the beach for a bit, before heading back to a nature park where we lined up to see the world famous "Penguin Parade" (Yeah, I didn't know Australia had penguins either...).

All in all, it was a day of cute cuddliness and deep fried food. I slept the entire way back to Melbourne.

No Love for Love

2008-02-14T18:06:00.000-08:00

So it's Valentines Day here in Melbourne. I've always considered Valentines day to be manufactured by the chocolate companies, feeding off of the romantic impulses of couples in westernized socieites, but maybe it's because I'm single. :)

Here is a Wikapedia version of the Golden Legend of St. Valentine:

The Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragine, compiled about 1260 and one of the most-read books of the High Middle Ages, gives sufficient details of the saints for each day of the liturgical year to inspire a homily on each occasion. The very brief vita of St Valentine has him refusing to deny Christ before the "Emperor Claudius"[18] in the year 280. Before his head was cut off, this Valentine restored sight and hearing to the daughter of his jailer. Jacobus makes a play with the etymology of "Valentine", "as containing valour"

So it seems that all this love-stuffs that are marketed towards the masses on this day, are actually the wrong kind of love. Maybe it should be more about loving our enemies, loving humanity and loving life more than buying our boyfriends and girlfriends some chocolate.

Although, I have to admit, my favorite part of Valentine's day is the day after: massive sales on chocolate.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Raw and New Piece

2008-02-13T16:23:00.000-08:00

Inspired by a girl I never met, but heard a lot about. It's still a bit raw, seeing as I wrote it on the train this morning.

"Wake up, Pretty Girl"

The last time you looked at the night sky
You wished you were a falling star
And never told anyone.
You were seven.

Now thirteen years later
The only type of astrological reading you get
Is from a magazine.

Last night you had dinner bought and paid for by that friendly waiter you flirt with.
You know, the one with the blue eyes.
Perhaps it was that new perfume you bought
Or your new dress
No it was your shoes, definitely the shoes.
Had to be, the shoes.

There are more than 200 things an intellegent girl can do with her free time
Read a book, write an essay, learn a language,
Paint a picture, volunteer at a hospital, tutor children.
But you like to converse with your stuffed animals
Straighten your hair, ponder the complexity of Justin Timberlake’s dance moves.
I mean, how does he do it and sing at the same time?

Maybe its because you’ve always gotten what you wanted with a smile.
And the only time you spend by yourself is before you’ve got your lipstick on.
But this morning you walked back to your apartment
After a long night of partying and
The only sound you heard was the click click clicking of your shoes
On the abandoned pre-dawn pavement.
And it gave you time to think
Just for a moment
What it’s like to be alone.

You push you push
You push these thoughts out of your head.
Like anything that causes you to question
Is poison and anything that causes introspection
Is an inaccurate reflection of your beaming exterior

Wake up, pretty girl.
We both know there’s been more that you’ve been concealing than freckles.
They’ve bought and sold your body
As real estate to the master race
Because who needs genocide when you’ll pay them for it.
Beneath your designer dress beats the heart of a vacant woman
who has yet to fill herself full with purpose.
And within your shoes are feet that have forgotten the feeling
Of soles pressed up against the earth.
Time’s running out,
And no amount of wide pouting or flirting will buy you these years back.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll write a letter to your future self
In purple sparkly ink and explain
What happened to the past 13 years.
And what you hope will happen between now and when you open this letter
In 13 more years.
You’ll dot the i's with hearts to cover the shake in your script.
You’ll sign it with a smilie face and splash with perfume.
Sealed with a kiss.

Maybe tomorrow night, you’ll open your magazine
And your astrological reading will only say:
"Go outside.
Look up."

Fall in Melbourne

2008-02-13T16:15:00.000-08:00

I stepped out the door of my friend’s suburban Melbourne home and was filled with a sense of familiarity and excitement. “It smells like fall!” I exclaimed as I stumbled down the steps. She turned and looked at me strangely.

“Fall? Oh you mean autumn.”

But I wasn’t listening; I was on a long rant about halloween, pumpkin pie and upstate new york leaves. “They turn every shade of orange imaginable! And they cover the ground and the sky and it seems like you’re walking through small mountains of crunchy flames. Ohhh and the pumpkin pie- have you ever had pumpkin pie?….”

Its strange to think I’ve gone a whole year without experiencing fall or winter. Had you asked me a year ago, I would’ve been excited about it, especially missing winter. I’ve never been a fan of cold weather, and up until now I had always imagined myself living in some tropical climate, as far away from the snowy land scapes of New England as possible. But small things now, like the smell of crisp cold air in the morning, bring me home.

I spent the day wandering around the artsy east-melbourne district of Fitzroy. I headed there in the early afternoon to a radio station, to meet a personality who runs a show devoted totally to spoken word. I was ushered into the green room, and struck up a conversation with a few people there. They were all poets too. I busily wrote down names, numbers, emails, gig dates, venues and addresses. This will be a busy week!

A few people from New Zealand who I met at the radio station and I went out for pizza at an artsy restaurant with an amazing deal! An entire personal pizza for 4 dollars! The restaurant was filled with large cushiony couches from a variety of styles. The walls were painted a golden yellow. There were high contrast pictures of H.H. The Dalai Lama and and peace flags hanging from the ceiling. Rugs were draped from the roof, and shoes superglued up the wall. My kind of place.

I wandered for the rest of the day up and down Brunswick street, weaving in and out of bookstores, cafes, used clothing stores, artsy boutique shoe stores and record shops. Later that night, I met up with Joey (Crazy Elf) and Li and we headed over to a small bar for my first exposure to Melbourne poetry.

It was exactly as I thought it would be. Though I could only stay for a few hours, the poetry I witnessed was incredible. But perhaps the most delicious and unexpected work was by a poet from Auckland, NZ, who I had lunch with earier that day. Not only was his poetry superior to most that I've heard in recent months, his delivery and performance style was engaging and entertaining- despite reading off the page! Typically, after 3 minutes of even the most beautiful poetry, my mind begins to wander. But not with this poet. Most of his poems were 3 minutes or longer, and I was engaged and awestruck for the entire piece, eating up every word and wanting more. So, not only am I absolutely thrilled to be in Melbourne, I'm really looking forward to exploring the Auckland scene, starting late next week!

travel addictions

2008-02-11T17:43:00.000-08:00

It was then, when I climbed aboard a tiny plane at 9:15pm in Sydney, that everything began to melt away. There's something really comforting about airplanes. All the stresses and anxieties, all the conversations from the night before, everything begins to get turned down. The white noise of the cabin drowns out the noise in my head. And all those people I met, all the stories I've lived, all the encounters and conversations, are all transformed into sparkling lights below and behind me. They're turned into what they are meant to be, I suppose: memories. Things to look back on that seem so real so tangible right now, but every day become more storybook than reality. Situations begin to get blurry, and the contrast turned up really high, like a hand drawn cartoon from the 1970s, inexact, shakey but entertaining.

So with these thoughts and more, I departed Sydney, the location of my blatanly painful impermanence for the past two months. It's a city now full of memories for me, and they are bittersweet memories at that. Fragile and beautiful moment shared with people who, if things were only different, could be fixed personalities in my life. It's always sad to say goodbye. But the plane ride is a bandaid for those wounds, and the scars are always a good story.

When I arrived in Melbourne, I was greeted almost immediately by Li and Joey (aka Crazy Elf). Li was arguing with him about something and I had to stand there waving at them to get their attention for about 2 minutes. The car ride into the city was full of goofy 80's music and laughter, and a ridiculous story about the dangerous creatures called "Drop Bears" which, according to Li, fall out of trees and kill people. "that's why you have to wear a helmet when you're walking in the forest." She explained.

They don't actually exist, of course.

So within the first 5 minutes of my arrival to Melbourne, it was already clear to me that this is going to be one heck of a city. I spent the morning wandering around the CBD, weaving in and out of used bookstores, vintage clothing shops and making note of the locations of stereotypical tourist spots (note: must visit the art museum and cathedral). The streets are filled with college-y types reminiscent of beloved east coast american cities (guys with spikey hair and crazy oversized sunglasses, girls with brightly colored bags and shoes), businesspeople bustling about, old women weighted down with bags asking me (moi?!) for directions to shopping malls, young people chattering away in languages I don't understand, with the occasional english slang word thrown in.

This ain't no disco. It ain't Sydney either. I'm embracing the change. As Allan Watts would say, I'm joining the dance. And man, it's been a long time coming.

Oh that's why....

2008-02-09T02:22:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it's divine retribution, universal interferance or simply just good luck. But lately I recall something my uncle told me some years back, over breakfast in some deliciously New York cafe. He said that when we want something enough, and send clear enough signals to the universe, the universe will respond by not only pushing you down the right path, but opening the doors for you along the way. It's by no means a direct quotation, but it's certainly something that's stuck with me thus far. I think there's a mistake I keep making (if you can even make mistakes on a trip like this... which I'm not sure you can), and it's that I'm waiting for some kind of sign or feeling to push me along that path, you know, that path i'm *supposed* to take. But it doesn't really work like that. I think it's almost like, in order for things to fall into place, you need to plan first.
And so I booked a flight to Melbourne. It's time, sadly to say goodbye to Sydney. I ignored the itchy feeling long enough for it to turn into panic episodes. Enough's enough. I will go to Melbourne. And then I booked a flight to Auckland, and started my research once more into global spoken word groups.The response emails came back pretty rapidly, and I'm happy to report that in both cases, although the dates were chosen completely at random, they are the perfect dates to go to each city.
And so, the familiar bittersweet feeling of leaving a beautiful place with beautiful people is now upon me, and although it's a bit painful (like scratching a mosquito bite) at this point, anything is better than those anxiety episodes I was dealing with before. And hopefully this is not the end of my Sydney experience. Unless I get a marriage proposal from some prince or fall into a bottomless hole, or some amazing undeniable opportunity is thrust in my direction, I will be back in Sydney once more for The Night Words Festival at the Sydney Opera House Studio. I've been interning with Word Travels, sending out emails, press releases and helping put together programs and whatever else needs to be done but would take too much time for a normal person with- you know- a life to do.

As I've mentioned in the previous post, it's been great fun hanging out with Miles and seeing the inner-workings of this project, and it's really made me think again about the path I'm on. I am glad that I didn't apply to graduate school just yet. I love psychology and I could see myself doing that for the rest of my life, but there's another side to me, a side that is somewhat related but in a different capacity than a PhD could get me. That side loves to organize cultural and artistic events. Especially ones with social and even political implications. Using the arts to bring people together, people who normally would rather shoot eachother than be in the same room with one another, that's a worthwhile job. In one email I recently sent out, I was told to bring up the "importance of events like the Public's Poem and The Night Words Festival". So I did a little research. Australia Day, though celebrated mostly like our 4th of July in the states, is a day wrapped in a bit of contraversy. Often days that preach "patriotism" tend to end up forums for hateful racist thoughts, words or actions. Just last year, for example, there were race related riots in Cronulla, a suburb in South Sydney. This year I had the pleasure of working at a station of the Public's Poem at a "Survival Day" concert in Victoria Park. And earlier this week, I had the interesting, yet somewhat tedious task of going through over 400 lines of poetry, each one written by a different person about "what it means to be australian", And though at first it just looked like an incoherent jumble of phrases, it later melted into a really huge poem that not only spoke of being australian, but literally *showed* what being australian really means. So there we were, one year after violent race related riots, and people from different races and perspectives were using poetry as a tool to unite themselves.

But I'm off on a tangent now. Where once it just seemed like a chance encounter to work with Miles and Word Travels on these events, now I'm noticing the impact they are having on me and my vision of myself and the future. I'm not saying every experience I have is a world-altering, eye-opening amazing experience. That's just being naive. But I will say that every experience most certainly is a life-changing one. Because every small decision and movement is a ripple, and it gets bigger and bigger and bigger. And I guess I was just afraid of causing the wrong kind of ripples, or maybe too many. But I'm starting to realize that there is no wrong kind of ripple, and really, if there's one thing I love doing, it's making waves.

The FAE and roller coasters

2008-02-07T19:55:00.000-08:00

So after a few weeks of a vacation of sorts, my spoken word adventure is back in action, and things are, dare I say, back on track. After a few emotional set backs which have yet to prove themselves more useful (because, hey, as Taylor Mali says, "if it ain't broke, it don't need fiction!") than painful and depressing, I think things are finally starting to look up. By sticking it out and fighting off my instincts to just pack up and run away from my problems, I think I"m growing a lot. After all, hearts are muscles too, and when they've been over worked or stretched to a limit, they ache. But that's always a sign of building strength. And maybe I could use a more inner strength, who knows. Then again, dropping everything and flying to spain sounds absolutely delicious right now... hmm....

Anyway, I’ve had the unique and great opportunity to be spending a lot of time with poet Miles Merrill the past few days, and assisting him in the somewhat daunting task of planning australia’s first festival dedicated soley to spoken word. But for those of you who know me, and possibly those who don’t, there is no event organizational task too daunting for me. Give me a mountain of press releases and by god I will get through them all. Which is a great attitude to have at the moment, considering I do have a mountain of emails and press releases to send. But it’s a great cause and also really interesting work for me to be doing. I’ve been craving some activity like this, to help out organizing something in a fundamental way, even if it is basic intern stuff. Because from my own past in events organizing, I’ve realized that without people to help do the crappy intern work, nothing would get done.

After a hard days work staring at a computer screen all day, we went out to an pub. Its really great hanging out with another american, especially another american with a global sense of self like mine (an american but-“well, not really”- american, just like me), because I can explain to him my questions and concerns about understanding poetry in this new culture. Because don’t think for a second australia is like anything I’ve seen before. And it’s vast differences had been, perhaps, for the first time most blatantly revealed to me at the slam last Tuesday.

Traveling around the world as an American in these times is a strange experience. You’d think it wouldn’t be so much of an issue, hoping that people are both educated and mature enough not to judge someone based off of an accent or a passport. But as we all know, sadly, this is not true. I’ve met people here who have refused to talk to me once they hear my accent. I’ve had people act differently or misinterpret my behavior, just because of where I’m from. Even amongst friends, in just the past few weeks, I’ve had the “fact” brought up to me numerous times about how “all americans are fat, lazy and stupid”. Putting the simple asinine nature of this comment aside (ie: I don’t think someone like, oh, Thomas Jefferson or Malcom X or Emma Goldman would appreciate those comments), to make such a sweeping generalization of a culture that one has only known through news media and movies is both disgusting and sad. But as quick as everyone seems to be to point out all the “fat lazy americans” no one wants to turn the mirror on themselves (I am referring to the fact that australia is right in a close second place for the most obeise population). And so, it is the fundamental attribution error at work, the error that almost every human suffers from on a daily basis- the mistake in pointing out the faults in others and attributing them to a personality flaw, and refusing to see the own faults in ourselves.

I guess it would be best to start with the events of the night of the slam. And no, this is not a “woe is me, I got an average of 5.5 score or whatever” story. Because, as I previously noted, I really don’t care about scores. I had the pleasure of being interviewed for some radio program here in sydney. The reporter wanted to know all about my trip around the world, and what I’ve found so far. What are the differences between spoken word scenes? And so I emphasized my findings between Mexico and Canada- sure there are differences, but there are similarities too. Like who would’ve thought that a country like Mexico and a country like Canada would have such similar thematic elements? But the reporter, of course, wanted to know what I thought of the Australian poetry scene, and how that fit in with my pattern (it doesn’t). It’s difficult, you see, to really examine a scene while you’re immersed in it. And of course, it’s almost impossible to generalize. But to do exactly that, I’ve noted some amazing poetry, amazing theatrical elements with bits of comedy or a great love story thrown in, and –unlike canada or mexico- a general aversion to anything political.

Is that a reflection of Australian society? To be honest, I have no idea. I will be the first to admit that I have not worked hard enough to understand this culture to make a statement like that. Working that hard would involve years and years of field experience. But what I will tell you is a story about my experience as an outsider in this society, an experience that followed this interview on Tuesday night that made me think long and hard about who I am and where I come from, and how that’s shaped the type of person I am.

We were walking along a dark street corner in a working class neighborhood, just after the slam. The people in front of me brushed past a woman with darker skin, obviously drunk, and she fell to the ground. Everyone I was with kept walking, without even looking back. But I looked back. I don’t know why I stopped, she didn’t cry out. But there she was, back flat on the street, arms flung out on the wet ground. So I helped her up. It took about 3 minutes for me to even help her get into a seated position (she was that inebriated) but after seeing her all sprawled out like that, I couldn’t just leave her. And so I helped her get her bearings, told her to be careful and have a good night, and caught up to the 4 other people, all staring at me like I was a lunatic. “People like that can’t be helped” said one of them. “She was perfectly capable of helping herself back up.” Said another. “she has no self respect” Comment after comment, attributing her alcoholism to a personality defect instead of, what seems obvious to me to be a reaction to being a marginalized character in society. Of course she has no self respect- she’s been raised in a culture that hates her, has taught her to hate herself and she wants to die. But it doesn’t mean that she is a bad person and that she deserves to be treated like a dog. But all that aside, even if you’re a white full blooded australian male, don’t you get drunk sometimes and fall over? And if I saw a white full blooded australiam male sprawled out on the street , or even in a bar or even anywhere where he needed help, I’d help him. Because that’s the human thing to do. And I’ll tell you one thing for sure, if that woman who fell was white, people would’ve raced to help her. But because she was a stereotype, because she was marginalized and “typical” for someone “like her”, it somehow becomes acceptable for people to just roll their eyes and walk away.

I guess it just really bothered me, it’s been bothering me until I spoke to Miles about it. It’s good to have another american here who has been here way longer and can explain things like this to me. Why do people just stereotype and move on, saying “oh no there’s no problem, except for THOSE people. If it weren’t for THOSE people things would be fine. But there’s nothing we can do about THOSE people”? Even though we all know that’s not true, that there are many current social issues that effect all people in this country, including the social issue of aboriginal rights and cultural genocide. I can ask miles these questions and he can throw them back at me. It helps me put it in perspective, so I myself don’t commit the FAE. And so I’ve thought about it and come to the conclusion that those people I was with aren’t bad people just because they didn’t help her. Perhaps they too are just a product of what they’ve been exposed to. It’s all about society. It’s all about what they’ve been taught in schools, what they see on tv and their own personal experiences. And of course, there are the exceptions. The lovely beloved exceptions to every observation. The exceptions that I hope aren’t actually exceptions but the rule, that perhaps I’ve just been exposed to a slightly embittered side of sydney culture, and that maybe there are more people who are aware than those I’ve met thus far. I do not know, but I hope this is true.

So what’s this all got to do with poetry? I’ve been spending a lot of time with miles, typing up the “People’s poem” , the world’s largest poem written by random people of australia. And man, the FAE is silly. It’s really silly. There are a lot of silly, light hearted, somewhat ridiculous lines in that People’s Poem. There are also so many burdened and painful lines (mostly the ones written at the Australia/Survival day concert… written by aboriginal peoples or their allies). But most of all, there are some lines that haunt me. The ones about tolerance, and not just stereotypical “love everyone” hippy-dippy stuff. I’m talking about lines that put up a fight with words, lines that aren’t angry or embittered or loving, just educated and aware. Lines that are well thought out and beautifully carved like a big bold sign “thou shalt not kill” (because we all know there’s more than one way to kill a person). Yes, a line of poetry can do a lot of things. Just one line can change the whole tone of the piece, and open a “fat lazy stupid” american girl’s eyes to the deeper issues plaguing this society, issues so deep that no one will talk about them, and no one wants to hear about them. Issues so deep that they’re allowed to be flung out on dark wet streets, back flat against wet pavement. Yes, I’ve learned that just one line of poetry can push back.

Prema: Love

2008-02-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

Here's a poem I did at the Woodford Folk festival:

I was exhausted and it was rainy. But man, guerrilla poetry readings are great.

Back on track!!!

2008-01-31T17:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Tide lessons

2008-01-29T18:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Lonesome Traveler

2008-01-27T16:32:00.000-08:00

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."

Australia day and the worlds largest poem

2008-01-25T21:54:00.000-08:00

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.

If not the points, then...?

2008-01-24T18:02:00.000-08:00

"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.

The problem with traveling alone and the solution's plan

2008-01-23T03:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Oh no,

2008-01-20T03:43:00.000-08:00

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.

Random acts of poetry: a brief explanation

2008-01-06T16:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Spoken Word Instrument

2007-12-22T15:54:00.000-08:00

We showed up 10 minutes late. He was already on stage, images of australian landscaping projected above his head, playing the didgeridoo. I knew it was a tourist trap the moment I stepped in there, but when he stopped playing he said something that really made me think. He said that the didgeridoo is the world's only Spoken Word Instrument. That's because every sound that comes out of the instrument is formulated like a word.

A spoken word instrument. I like that.

(From Wikipedia):
"The didgeridoo (or didjeridu) is a wind instrument of the Indigenous Australians of northern Australia. It is sometimes described as a natural wooden trumpet or "drone pipe". Musicologists classify it as an aerophone.
A didgeridoo is usually cylindrical or conical in shape and can measure anywhere from 1,2 and 3 metres in length with most instruments measuring around 1.2 metres. Generally, the longer the instrument, the lower the pitch or key of the instrument. Keys from D to F♯ are the preferred pitch of traditional Aboriginal players.
There are no reliable sources stating the didgeridoo's exact age, though it is commonly claimed to be the world's oldest wind instrument. Archaeological studies of rock art in Northern Australia suggests that the Aboriginal people of the Kakadu region of the Northern Territory have been using the didgeridoo for about 1500 years, based on the dating of paintings on cave walls and shelters from this period. A clear rock painting in Ginga Wardelirrhmeng from the freshwater period (1500 years ago until the present) shows a didjeridu player and two songmen (source: Journey in Time, George Chaloupka, p. 189).

The didgeridoo is sometimes played as a solo instrument for recreational purposes, though more usually it accompanies dancing and singing in ceremonial rituals. For Aboriginal groups of northern Australia, the didgeridoo is an integral part of ceremonial life, as it accompanies singers and dancers in religious rituals. Pair sticks, sometimes called clapsticks or bilma, establish the beat for the songs during ceremonies. The rhythm of the didgeridoo and the beat of the clapsticks are precise, and these patterns have been handed down for generations upon generations. Only men play the didgeridoo and sing during ceremonial occasions, whilst both men and women may dance. The taboo against women playing the instrument is not absolute; female Aboriginal didgeridoo players did exist, although their playing generally took place in an informal context[citation needed]and was not specifically encouraged. Linda Barwick, an ethnomusicologist says that traditionally women have not played the didgeridoo in ceremony, but in informal situations is no prohibition in the Dreaming Law. [2] Some sources state that the didgeridoo had other uses in ancient times. The instrument made a decent weapon because of its length and light weight and it was used for war calls to intimidate the opposing side (much like the bagpipes of Scotland). It is also suggested that the instrument was used as a large smoking pipe, where local, hallucinogenic cacti were crushed and placed in the larger opening and smoked through the smaller end by the local elders after ceremonies. The didgeridoo was also used as a means of communication across far distances. Some of the soundwaves from the instrument's infrabasses can be perceived through the ground or simply echo. Each player usually has his own base rhythm which enables others to identify the source of the message. These secondary uses of the instrument have ceased in modern times as there is no more warring between tribes, and the illegalization of drugs in Australia.[3]
There are sacred and even secret versions of the didgeridoo in Aboriginal communities in parts of Arnhem Land, Northern Territory, and the surrounding areas. These sorts of instruments have specific names and functions and some of these are played like typical didgeridoos whereas others are not."

Angels at the last minute!

2007-12-21T22:59:00.000-08:00

I wanted to go back to Sydney. I boarded the train heading towards Central Brisbane with thoughts flooding my mind: Find a travel agent and book a cheap flight back to sydney. What had I been thinking? Why did I even leave in the first place? There is no poetry here, it’s too wet for poetry. Sunshine state? Lies I tell you. It’s rained every day here. I want to go back to my new friends. I’m not finished there. Not at all.

I took a seat next to a girl in a long purple skirt. She looked up at me when I had boarded the train, and moved over to make room. I took out a book and began to read. She began to read too. Then, in a typical Jess manner, I dropped all the contents of my purse on the floor of the train. Notebook, scrap paper, pens, plastic kangaroo, street map, wallet. I scrambled to put it all back in my purse and she watched, amused. “Going to work today?” she asked, and gave me a genuine smile. She smelled like sage and lavendar, and it reminded me of Arizona. I explained to her that I didn’t have a “normal” job. I told her I had no plans for today (Except for escaping this isolated rain-desert! Shouted my brain.) She took out a flyer for a yoga studio and suggested I check out some classes there, as everyone knows yoga is a great way to meet people. I examined the flyer eagerly, and she showed me the address on my map. “I can take you there if you’d like, I’m actually going there right now.”

And that is how I met Angela. A name suitable, for not only did she take me to the yoga studio, she showed me the public library and showed me a tiny hole in the wall vegetarian restaurant where she worked. As I walked in, a red banner reading “Hare Krishna” stared back at me from the far wall. Having spent a substantial amount of time in New York City, I was well aware of who the Hare Krishnas were, and entered the room with a bit of anxiety. They were nice enough people, I knew, but at first I felt unsure of Angela’s motives. Was she trying to recruit me? Was she trying to get me to buy their book? But something told me to enter and embrace this new person in my life. I pushed aside my silly fears and joined her in a meal. And man, what a meal it was. Quite possibly the best vegetarian food I’ve ever had. And such great company! I realized in an instant that I shouldn’t have judged this girl based on her religion, and more importantly, it was beconing clear that she was a nice person by nature, not by her religious beliefs. We talked about vegetarianism, and she looked at me shocked and sad when I told her I accept anything that is given to me, meat or otherwise. “Better not to waste” I said. “True” she replied “But better not to kill the animal in the first place. It’s just that they suffer so much.”

After the most wonderous meal I’ve had in a long time, we walked about for a bit more. She introduced me to some of her friends. Over the next few days I met more and more of her friends, both devotees and yoga practitioners alike. All welcoming, all at peace. No one asked me about my religion. No one tried to sell me anything. No one criticized me or made me feel like an outsider. All I felt was acceptance and peace. The man who owned the vegetarian restaurant recognized my face and gave me a discount “a friend of Angela’s get’s a discount” he said the first time. The second time he just smiled and gave me too much change. I thanked him whole heartidly. What a wonderful, loving community!

I attended a yoga class, and was blown away. It lasted for about an hour, and was perhaps one of the best activities I have participated in while here in Australia. I emerged from the studio mind clear, and…. Stomach rumbling! What on earth was that delicious smell? Oh yes, I had forgotten- dinner was included with each yoga class. Each yoga student took a place at a table and was served a delicious vegetarian meal that seemed to glow with color and vitality. I sat down next to a woman in a red linen dress. She poured me tea and asked where I was from (alas I cannot hide my foriegner status here.. my accent gives it all away). I told her about my travels and my intention of going to the Woodford Folk Festival the following week. Eager with excietement “Oh I’ve gone every year, every year since I have been able to go. Oh you’ll love it you’ll LOVE it! The music, the art, the poetry!” I told her I was commuting the first three days and asked her if she thought it would be a problem. She explained that although it wouldn’t be a problem at all, that the train and bus were simple to figure out, she had a tent I could borrow if I were so inclined to camp out. She gave me her name and phone number, and we planned to meet up on the 27th (the first day of the festival and, coincidentally, her birthday).

A few days later I received a text message from her. “hello angel, the tent is yours if you need it. See you soon!!”

Angel indeed.

Brisbane night 1

2007-12-18T22:58:00.000-08:00

I’ve narrowed it down to a science. My ability to move from place to place has been developing over the past few months. It’s always difficult to say goodbye, even when you’re just moving from one city to the next. I’ll enter the next city with a leaden heart, heavy and dark and miserable. It’s the hardest part, really, just to pick up and go. I’d like to think I leave a bit of myself behind in each place, perhaps because I know I in turn take a little bit of each place with me.

It’s only for 2 weeks. I keep having to tell myself that.

The night I arrived in Brisbane, it was raining. Not a normal east coast chilling rain that I am used to back home. No, this was tropical rain. Rain that you feel even when you are under shelter. Rain that makes the air thick and heavy, forcing you to swallow it in gulps so big you can’t remember the last time you were thirsty. Rain that makes you sweat and forces bedsheets to stick to your body.

It was a dark, hot rain, as if the sky was sweating. A steady stream of thin drops like persperation fell from the black sky as I scrambled into a taxi waiting to take me to my apartment. Heavy heart, heavy sky. Heavy clothes, heavy backpack. The apartment was cool and white. Slightly too much white. Energized by the crisp air conditioned room and color, I tossed and turned, trying to sleep, feeling isolated and hospitalized.

It’s only for two weeks. Tomorrow I will explore the city.

People like us

2007-12-10T22:57:00.000-08:00

The thing about Sydney is that I’ve been in love with this city since I was 12 years old. I don’t really know why Australia was a destination in my childhood mind, and why it was I chose this city in particular. But ask anyone, ask my mother. I’ve wanted to come here ever since I was a little girl. I started a piggy bank and wrote across the top “Australia Money” It’s still in my bedroom in my parent’s house. And it wasn’t just the idea of seeing a kangaroo or a koala (although, in all honesty, that probably had something to do with it in my subconscious 12 year old mind). Personally, I’d like to think that it was something about the idea of being all the way on the other side of the planet that caught my eye, perhaps I was a pirate or an explorer in a past life and a tiny incling of a previous personality reared it’s head slightly when I was 12 years old and looked at a map of the world and though “There. I want to go there.”

Well now I’m here. Finally. And maybe I just say this about all cities, but for some reason, Sydney and I just clicked. A pattern I’ve been noticing: I judge the people, not the place more. Just like Granada, though the buildings and scenery are amazing there, my experience in Granada would not have been what it was if it weren’t for the people I met along the way. Well perhaps it is the same with Sydney. My Sydney experience was quite unexpectidly, (but most luckily) hijacked and rescued by a website called Couchsurfing.com. When I was in Mexico, after constant encouragement from a certain poet, I decided to give the site a go and sign up. Being from a slightly overprotected family, I was wary about sleeping on some stranger’s couch, so I made contact with a person living in australia just to “meet up for coffee”. That’s pretty much how Jake stumbled into my life. And emphasis on stumbled.

I had no idea what to expect, online profiles can be really decieving and I knew that going into our meeting, but when I finally met him, I knew he’d be a story. A good story. He himself was a writer, and a huge Kerouac fan as well. One of the first things he said to me was marveling at how we are at the perfect age to travel, see the world, and of course, write about it. Hunter S. Thompson was 22 when he wrote the Rum Diaries… Jack Kerouac was also in his early 20’s when he wrote On The Road just think about that. THINK ABOUT THAT. He spoke an a slightly frantic manner, reminiscent of our favorite authors’ narrative style and, having travelled around south america, we immediately understood eachother. It was soothing to hear someone else ramble into spanish at random moments… no need for the usual sheepish smile and awkward “oh that wasn’t in english, was it?”line here. Just talking and gesturing and feeling alive. It was so good.

He introduced me to some of his friends, whose big red comfy couch I eventually stayed on for my second week in Sydney. Immediately welcoming to me, (an interesting sight at their doorstep, here with Jake appears a strange girl with a strange accent) his two friends invited us in and made some tea. We sat in their living room, and listened to music while Jake told us tales of Ecuador, Colombia, Peru… A gigantic map of india hung over our heads, and the familiar yet foreign smell of incense and tea filled the room. (The Romani gypsy melody sung in my head… could it be?) They told me about their travels. They asked me about my own. With light hearted prodding, they encouraged me to travel to Laos instead of singapore, to explore Thailand and of course, India.

Oh their strange love affair with india, perhaps as strange as mine with spain. A slightly obsessive pull to a foreign land where so clearly we don’t belong. “A magnetic pulling at our nomadic souls”, my friend Tyler once explained it “people like us are sensitive to it.”

People like us. Travelers? No I think it’s more than that. Some people travel and never feel the country. They compare with their homeland, and never break their hearts open the right way. People like us are more open to the world. Our eyes open, our hearts open, our minds open, ready for new experiences.

Friend in Hand Inn

2007-12-06T16:09:00.000-08:00

So it was my first day/night here in Australia and I got a phone call from the Miles Merrill who invited me to a poetry reading/slam at a nearby bar. I arrived, unknowing what to expect, jet lagged like there was no tomorrow (or, rather, like it was tomorrow, or yesterday....) So after much prodding and a few drinks I attempted to compete in the slam here. I mean, I did it in Mexico, so why not give it a shot in Australia too?
Two things became very clear to me after that experience:
1) Male judges are pigs
2) The only thing more fun than organizing a poetry slam is competing in one.
oh and maybe
3) 20 AUD may seem lke a lot of money, but don't be fooled, it's not.

I'm currently loving it here in australia, but after being in Mexico for a few weeks, the money situation has blindsided me. I'm not really quite sure what I'm going to do about it.

More later!

Philosophical Poetics

2007-12-04T16:03:00.000-08:00

So:
If a poem is written on the page but cannot survive the stage, is it still a good poem?
And if so, then is the converse also true:
If a poem is performed on stage but cannot survive the page, is it still a good poem?
Does a poem have to have a deeper meaning, or can it simply celebrate the sound of words put together?
Is word art poetry?
Is graffiti poetry?
Does a poem have to be written in a language? Is it dependent on language or can it transcend language altogether?
If a poem is born in a secluded room, but no one hears it or reads it, did it really exist?
---

Contradictions and goodbyes

2007-12-03T16:39:00.000-08:00

He wanted to know what my favorite part about living in Mexico was.
I didn't really know how to answer him. Part of me loves the time I spent there. The other part of me... well.. wanted something different.
But that's just the thing. That's just what I found so interesting about living there. Not only could I examine the interesting dual nature of Mexican culture, it also forced me to look introspectively about the dual nature of myself.
I know it sounds kind of trite. I'm aware of the ways that travelling always forces us to reevaluate ourselves. But at the same time, there's this incredible contradiction within myself that i've been struggling with for almost my entire life: my simultaneous love of people and performance, and my overwhelming sense of social anxiety. I think it's a secret contradicition, that I've been working quite well to hide. When I wrote about it in my grant proposal, almost everyone who proofread responded with a bit of surprise... "you? you're not shy." Ohh but I am. I'm just really good at acting like I'm not.
And so this project is doing more than just helping me examine spoken word poetry in different societies. It's helping me examine myself within the context of different cultures as well. And in that way, I'm so so glad, in the end, that I choose to go to Mexico so early in my trip. Having to face a completely different culture, and a completely different language is exactly what I needed to snap me back into shape.
I think that's also why I like poets and performers so much. I like to see how other people deal with those two aspects of their lives: poets, typically being thoughtful, artistic introverts, and performers, typically being extroverted and adventurous. And I, even moreso: a shy introverted poet decides to pack it all up and travel the world. By herself. I don't know why I do these things to myself sometimes. Probably for the stories. :)
He told me that the beauty of living the way I have been is that I can become whoever I see fit. Not to be fake, mind you, just to learn from previous adventures and countries, and then make small adjustments as I move on.
Not that I'm cured or anything. But I'm working on it.

Anyway, so al final, i'm quite sad to leave mexico behind. it didn't really hit me until the day before I left how attached I had grown to Cuernavaca. Not necessarily the place, of course, but the people. The incredible people I've met. And I only wish that I could've stayed longer, just so I could really communicate with them. Spanish is one of those languages for me that just literally enchants me. It comes back slowly, in waves. It's frustrating, at times, especially to think about where I was 2 years ago when I lived in Spain, the conversations I had with people there... if only I could repeat those in Mexico with my new friends. If only we could communicate on that level, I'd be fascinated to know what they thought.
And so I leave another country, with a listfull of friends and a bit of sadness. And another thought in the back of my mind, a question that I now know will plague me for this entire year: Could I, would I, go back there to live?

Verbobala

2007-12-01T11:48:00.000-08:00

It's kind of a physical embodiement of cross cultural dialogue.
Like that feeling you get when words don't accurately purvey meaning.
It's how two people who speak different languages can still understand eachother.
Like flashes of memories from someplace familiar but you can't figure out where or why.
It's like taking a large extremely powerful eraser to the border and rubbing it all out.
That's how it is.
They describe themselves as Spoken Video- a multimedia frenzy of words, images, sounds and above all, emotion.

Really, it's a project three young men have embarked on, truly cross-cultural art; trailblazers of a form of communication in an ever shrinking world, where things like borders (martial, political and/or linguistic) are slowly becoming obviously outdated. Moises Regla, Adam Cooper-Teran and Logan Phillips have definitely started something big here.
I had the pleasure of seeing a show before I left.

Of course, I had to miss the first half of it.
Regardless of my impeccible sense of timing, the bit that I saw demonstrated the artistic vision that these three men have for the world. If this is what the future of poetry is like, I'm in for the long haul.
I think I'm a big fan.

Last Cuerna Slam, Wrapping it all up

2007-11-30T06:58:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday I competed in my first real slam.
It's hard to believe, since I've been into slam poetry ever since high school, I've helped organize slams in the past and I'm doing a project on global spoken word. But it's true. The first time I ever competed in a real slam was on Wednesday. And it was here, in Cuernavaca Mexico.
I performed two pieces in english, and one in spanish.
Let's just say, the judges were super nice about the poem in spanish. Maybe it's the thought that counts, eh? :)
So if you just did the math, yes that means I made it to the third round. I came in 3rd, which was a huge shock (I wasn't expecting to get past the 1st round). And I was the only girl to make it into the top 4. (it's official. I don't care what anyone says, slam poetry is totally dominated by men!)
Anyway, it was lots of fun, and it definitely gave me a new perspective on my study.

Probably the most incredible and one of my favorite pieces of the night was a poem performed by a young man... whose name I can't recall at the moment. His stage presense was excellent but it was the "type" of poem that got me.

See, when one starts to attend lots of slams, one can begin to pick out "types" of poetry. There's the "diva/queen" poem. The "emo-my-exgirlfriend-is-an-evil-bitch-but-i-can't-stop-writing-about-it" poem. Theres the "I wanna be a __(enter clever contradictory descriptive word here)___" poem. The "fuck the police" poem. And then of course, there's the "meta-poem". This last type is usually pretty clever, and a great one to get the audience all ralled up by acknowledging that they're in the midst of a tradition that was recreated by Marc Smith in the 80s, but really has been around since.... whenever. Personally, I love these poems. Whereas the previously stated poems can be interesting and clever too, this last one interests me the most... probably because I've studied the development of the slam movement so much. What can I say, I'm a nerd and I like to see that some poets know their history.

So this poet, he did a "meta-poem". In spanish (obviously). And what really got me all excited was the fact that even here in Mexico this "type" can not only exist, but also cause the same response in the audience. People love to know about the ritual of spoken word. And they love it even more when you explain it to them through spoken word. It seems that poetry can cross boundaries that people sometimes can't cross.

It was the end of the cycle here in Cuernavaca, which is common, considering it is december. But at the same time, it could potentially be the end of the project, as Logan is going on tour next year with his group, Verbobala. The space was absolutely packed, and the poetry performances were outstanding, so I hope someone takes the initiative to continue the scene here. It would be a shame for it to fizzle out.

Speaking of disappearing, I'm about to leave Mexico. It's been pretty great here, and I'm not going to start with a goodbye entry just yet because I've still got 2 more days and 1 more performance to see.

Think about this

2007-11-29T16:23:00.000-08:00

The catholic invaders were convinced that their god was more powerful than the native god.
To prove their superiority, they challenged the native people to a test.
They must toss an idol of their religion off of the top of a mountain.
If the idol remains intact, the invaders would allow the native religion to prevail.
If the idol breaks, the natives would have to convert to the catholic religion.

And so, the native idol was tossed from the top of a high mountain into the valley below.
To the surprise and dismay of the catholic invaders, the idol remained perfectly intact.

Not knowing how to react, the invaders changed the rules.
If the native idol could with stand the brute force of the invaders, then the religion may remain.
And with that, the catholic invaders pummeled the idol, breaking it into many pieces.

I was told that the pieces remain in Morelos. They are the foundation on which some churches are built.
To serve as a constant reminder of whose god really was the most powerful.

Stars and Volcanos

2007-11-25T17:19:00.000-08:00

She asked me if I liked stars.
Te gustan las estrellas
Pointing to my silver nose ring
te hizo daño?
Her 7 year old finger grazed the side of my nose.
She pointed to the volcano in the distance.
Mira esta echando humo
It was. There in the horizon was a thin grey haze over the peak of the volcano.
She lives in Tepotzlan. Her name is Jackie. I arrived at her house preoccupied with my recent decision to change my flight to an earlier date. Was I making the right decision? What if I mess it all up by changing things at the last minute? Why can't I just play it safe?
She put her bag on the table. Unzipping it, she took out a number of dolls.

(It took me a moment to realize it, but they were all blonde dolls.
Blonde with blue eyes and white skin.
This little girl, asking me questions like "how far away is your country?" and "How do you say Luna in english?" and "Do you like stars?" with her beautiful inkwell eyes and her beautiful skin, did now have dolls that looked like her.
She did not own any dolls that looked anything like her.
Or like me, for that matter.
This little girl, whose name is Jackie, short for Jacqueline, with her big smile and her bag full of dolls revealed to me a sickness in our world.
Not just in Mexican culture
Not just in north american culture.
We don't appreciate individual beauty anymore.
Anymore? I don't know if we ever have. Was it always that we strove to be blonde, trying to erase whatever trace of melatonin may be left in our DNA? As a child I put lemon juice in my hair and on my face. To be more blonde. To get rid of my freckles.
A friend of mine here in mexico has skin lightening cream. It's name literally translates to mean "White Perfection".
So I began to feel angry.
Angry at the injustices this little girl subconsciously faces. Angry at the injustices I subconsciously played into as a child. Why doesn't she have any dolls that look like her?)

She reached into her bag again and again, pulling out dolls, trinkets, tubes of lip gloss.
One by one, she went around the table and gave away bracelets and a ring of sparkly purple goo. Little gifts, she called them.
Aqui esta. Un regalito. Para ti.
Big brown eyes. She placed into my hand a little gift.
A tiny plastic kangaroo.

Things to be thankful for

2007-11-23T15:54:00.000-08:00

I had already celebrated thanksgiving while I was in Canada. A family in Ottawa had graciously invited me and I was an adopted youth at their table. There was turkey, gravy, even pumpkin pie.

But that was Canadian thanksgiving. And this year, for american thanksgiving, I had a different experience.

Sometimes I feel that the very essence of holidays, of days of occasion, are just completely lost within the idea of themselves. They become bloated, plastic, selfish... full of nothing but hot manufactured air and maybe some high fructose corn syrup. What does it mean to celebrate something like thanksgiving? And I don't mean simply the historical day of the settlers taking advantage of the generosity of the native peoples of North America. But literally, a day of giving thanks? What does that mean anymore? Why should we narrow our gratefullness for our lives to just one day? Shouldn't it be extended to all days, to live with awareness and gratitude in our hearts, that we have access to our loved ones, that there is a roof over our heads, that we can, infact, make so much food that we can feed a huuuge house full of people?

And why not make that housefull of people be a house full of strangers and family members alike?

Our hosts:

That was my Thanksgiving experience in Tepotzlan. An open door party. Chicken in mole sauce. Rice, all the tortillas we could want. Food and drink provided by friends of a friend who we only met a few weeks ago. A view of the mountains that would make you believe in god and realize that every step we take has the possibility to end in disaster, and to be grateful that it doesn't.

The thing about travel instincts

2007-11-21T07:48:00.000-08:00

Is you always know when to follow them. It's the feeling that sneaks up on you at 2 in the morning. it starts with a bit of tingling in the feet, maybe itching in the legs. Then it feels like your heart has replaced your blood with soda water and you get bubbly all over throug your veins. It happened the other night. I woke up with a start. That's it. I have to leave.

I woke up the next morning feeling a bit strange. Its always a bit sad to know the end is near. I hate being somewhere and hearing about all the cool things that will be going on after I'm gone. But that's just it- no illusions: the world does not revolve around you or me or any one person in particular. It just keeps going. Things just keep happening. And then, on the other hand, I felt a bit elated. Like a weight of a decision had just been lifted. I knew what needed to be done. Now I just have to do it.

Xochicalco

2007-11-17T09:01:00.000-08:00

There's something about ruins that draw us in. An epic civilization reduced to grey stone pyramids with mysterious carvings along the edges, caves filled with one small shaft of light, it makes me think a bit more about our own world. Our world full of modernity. What will become of us? The same fate? A civilization conquered or otherwise simply disappered, vanished from the map, leaving behind traces of our distructive existence: plastic bottles, cement streets, styrofoam cups, and perhaps the base of a tall skyscraper, that future civilizations can pick their way through the rubble, taking pictures and trying to imagine what life was like in a time so different.

Xochicalco means "House of the Flowers". A rich pre-columbian civilzation inhabited the small space atop a steep hill climb. It amazes me that the steps still stand, that trees still live, that rooms and bases of fountains are still visible and discernable. It amazes me that people not only lived there, but thrived there, in a culture as advanced, if not more advanced, than our own. It amazes me. But it shouldn't.

There's a humbling feeling one gets while milling about ruins. Especially on a day as dry, hot and abandoned as today. Like being transported into a room where a fight has just been, you can still feel the tension in the air. Or in a field where a battle took place long ago, and you can still see bullet holes in the trees. What happened here? I sat on the top of a series of steps and looked out to the valley below, seeing a lake in the distance, and trees and mountains. What happened here? The silence in the wind is the only response I get.

The Two Week Click!

2007-11-16T06:52:00.000-08:00

It's one of those frustrating things, once you can communicate in a language, to have to leave and then return and only realize that you can only utter the same sentances as a 5 year old. That's the frustration I've been feeling the past few weeks here in Mexico. A longing to communicate once again like a human being in spanish, a language which, in my opinion, is so much more expressive and beautiful than englishs. It truly is a poet's language, and it's no wonder that such epic works by writers like Federico Garcia Lorca, Pablo Neruda, Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel Garcia Marquez cannot be translated without losing a bit of the magic.

And then it happened. The two week click. The point at which one's mind and heart begin, finally, communicating in the same language. No, no, it's not perfect. But it's better than it was. I opened my mouth and spanish came out. I started making jokes, ordering drinks, using sarcasm, irony, metaphor, slang. Yessss finally.

It just so happened to click when I was out with a few friends of mine. I went home that night and the thoughts in my head were racing. In that familiar mixed jumble of spanglish. Honestly, I think that would be my language of choice.

Poets here, Poets there.

2007-11-15T08:39:00.000-08:00

Things have slowed down a lot since the craziness in Canada. It's a somewhat bittersweet break, and it's given me a much needed opportunity to reflect on the places I've been and the people I've met. Canada was such a wonderful experiennce, and was surprisingly different than I thought it would be. So often, in the states especially, we tend to lump Canadians in with Americans. True, the culture isn't that different, but there are a few discrepencies that can catch a girl off guard. Things so small that they can't really be explained or articulated. Just a general feeling. Michael Moore made a bit of a joke about it in one of his films, and although I'm not a huge Michael Moore fan, I think he pretty much nailed it. There's just a general feeling of trust amongst the Canadian people that we don't have in the states. Sure it exists in some towns in the states, and I"m sure that there are places in Canada where people are a bit more wary of each other, but generally speaking, there's just so much less tension. It's a relief, but also a bit unnerving. And of course, there's the obvious reality of the nomadic lifestyle which has hit me quite hard these past few weeks in mexico: It is indeed quite hard to say good bye to such wonderful people after only meeting them.

I can't believe it's mid-November already! As I've been pursuing this project, mainly by interviewing poets from all over, poetry lovers, random people at poetry events and the like, I've slowly started to realize that I may have an obligation to use this knowledge for a greater good. It's not like I'm learning how to save the world from evil oil drillers or something, but I am still gathering information that could be extremely useful in helping poets achieve what seems to be a universal goal: create some kind of dialogue between people of different perspectives. If you think about it, that's the point of spoken word anyway- to reach people through words who normally wouldn't have the time or the heart to listen.

Everywhere I go, I've been stunned by the differences, sure, but even more so impressed by the similarities. Canada and the US are obviously quite different than Mexico, culturally, linguistically and socioeconomically. To be honest, because I had been forwarned that the poetry scene here is just a baby, I wasn't expecting much. But when I went to D.F. a week ago for the slam, I was completely blown away. In addition to listening to his poetry, I had a great interview with E-Wor, a 15 year old MC:

His style is playful and heavily hip-hop influenced, but with a message of social justice and political reform. In fact, the poetry that night was dominated by a general call to action directed at the youth of this country, a challenge to really listen and question what is going on in the media and in the political realms of the country.

Basically, what really shocked me was the similarity between the politically inclined style of the poets here and that of the poets in Canada. Sure the language is different, and the criticism of women getting plastic surgery to look like Paris Hilton carries a bit more weight here than it does in Canada, but overall the similarites were both striking and invigorating. At one point, I wanted to write down a translation of a poem from one poet in mexico and compare it to the words of a poet in Canada. I was, and still am convinced that if the poems were translated into the same language they would appear so strikingly similar that an uninformed third party may believe they were written by the same poet.

A scene, so new and (some what) poetically isolated, that portrays such dead on similarities can only mean one thing: that the desire to spread a message of change and justice through spoken word can be developed completely organically without the influence of spoken word artists from places like New York or Chicago. True, the slam organizers here are (originally) from the states, but when asked, they most vehemently replied that the scene existed here long before they came along. It just needed some organization.

I did a little research on my own here, asking some of the local academics about the tradition of spoken word in Latin America. Although I have not had any first hand exposure (and I think it's due to the region of Mexico I'm in right now), many people have referred me to the Décima tradition. Decimistas are people who compete in improvisational style of a tight octosyllabic form with 10 lines (hence the name, décima) in an ABBACDDC rhyme pattern. It was repeatidly emphasized to me, and so I will pass along the emphasis here: décimas are an *improvised* performance art that often tell the story of a town, city or culture.

I don't know if I'll be able to meet a decimista here, but I'll definitely ask around. My point is, of course, that it truly does seem that there is some inherent human need to use the power of our voices to portray the true condition of a people and their relationship with their society and state. Maybe that's why even modern spoken word artists tend to feel such a responsibility to not only connect with people, but to tell them the "truth" or at least expose them to another perspective. The more I study it, the more I see that spoken word seems to be a type of oral blogging, except to call it blogging is sort of counterproductive because blogging is relatively new, whereas spoken word has been around for as long as language has existed. People use their ability to perform, captivate and influence through poetry as almost a new type of media. Perhaps its recent (re)surgence in popularity could be due to the fact that people are starting to realize that even our public media has an agenda, that newspapers and t.v. stations are first and foremost a business.

When I embarked on this project, I wanted to examine the differences between spoken word scenes in different countries. I was emphasizing difference because I believed that the poetry would be affected by levels of priviledge. What I failed to realize, at least up until this point, was that priviledged or not, people want to make a difference in their world. But as my study continues, I am only sure that my theory will change and change again. It's hard to say what is beyond the horizon. I only know that it will be full of words.

Questioning some boundaries

2007-11-11T08:25:00.000-08:00

"It's easier to learn to swim than to get a visa"
The words of the taxi driver echoed in my head. At first I thought it was an isolated case. Why would it be easier to enter illegally than to get a visa? The neo-conservative voice popped into my head: he must've done something. This is a just world, isn't it?
Isn't it?

Later, a university professor told me the exact same thing. She said she tried applying twice (costing her 100 USD each time) and was then rejected by the consulate both times. Who is preventing imigration, even for just a short visit into the states? Where does all this "security" come from? Who, exactly, are we being protected against?

I've been thinking a lot about boundaries and borders recently. I suppose it started in Canada, after (finally) attending Ward Churchill's lecture about indigenous genocide. He talked about the many ways to kill a culture... not just those involving violence, but also by isolating them, cutting them off, creating an environment of distrust and fear around them, demonstrating that "their" way is the "wrong" way, forcing them to dissociate from their own culture, but at the same time never fully accepting them into "mainstream" culture.

A poet in Canada told me that when the invadors from Europe first came and separated Canadian territory from US territory, many first nations people were confused by the notion of dividing land in such an illogical way. Geographically speaking, Ottawa is the same as Upstate New York. It's the same land, just with a different government, a different name, different laws. But the land is the same, and if you think about it, the people are the same. People are people, no matter what language they speak or where they pay their taxes.

A poet here told me a story from a few years back. People who lived in Nogales, Sonora and Nogales, Arizona had something to demonstrate. They set up speakers on either side of the Mexican/American border, and had two microphones, one on either side. Poets, writers and artsts from both sides of the border then shared their words with each other. They played music. They read poetry. They shared visions. Thus showing that language itself is an imaginary barrier, that when it comes down to it, words aren't important, the sentiment which they carry is important. And this sentiment is inherently human. Though words are the vessels in which sentiment is transported, they are not the sentiment itself. It was literally a cultural exchange from either side of the imaginary line, a line which represents so much fear, and anxiety and hatred. Children, not knowing the symbolic weight of their actions, ran back and forth giggling over the imaginary line. They played a game of volleyball over the line.

A few months later, a steel barrier was built, henceforth separating the people of North America.

Walls are meant to keep things out. They're also meant to keep things in. What are we trying to keep out, exactly? Immigrants? Immigrants who would be legal if only the immigration policy was actually fair? People trying to build a better life for themselves? A little ironic, don't you think, for a country that prides itself on being a country of immigrants, a melting pot culture, a country which claims to stand by the words of Lady Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddle masses yearning to breath free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Perhaps instead of spending so much money debating on whether or not a wall should be expanded, those with power might consider looking into the yard nextdoor and figuring out the reasoning behind the massive exodus. Why are we trying to silence a dialogue between two neighbors? Why are we trying to aggravate a culture of hatred and distrust, instead of encouraging dialogue and understanding? Why is it that on the back of so many cars in the states I have seen signs saying "Speak English! This is America!" Where did all this hostility come from? Where did all this fear cloaked in nationalism come from?

I wonder what the wall is keeping in. It's keeping us from actually engaging in dialogue with our neighbors, and its enforcing an "us vs. them" mentality. People are not their governments. People are not their language or country. People are people. I'm starting to wonder if these borders are really necessary at all? It's completely impractical, I know, and completely idealist to think about. But, after so many years of tempering my point of view with logic and pragmatism, I'm tempted just for a moment to let all that go and think only about what could be. No, I don't know how we would govern a world with no boundaries, and no, I don't know how an economy in a world like that could sustain itself. I don't know what languages would be spoken nor do I know what religions would be practiced, or how people could put aside their differences and see each other as valid beings with the right to live a good life, despite petty physical differences or histories of oppression and violence. I don't know how that could ever happen.

But when I'm out here, outside the boundaries of the US, listening to poets from all over the world, from all different economic classes and histories and religions spreading the same message of peace and understanding, things stop looking so bleak. I hear them talk about unification of all peoples, about putting aside differences and guns and using their voices to cross boundaries because sound and sentiment can't be held back by iron fences or Minutemen or stupid pieces of paper that says "yes you're good enough." I sit back and listen, watching a long overdue dialogue form itself inside my head. And slowly but surely, there in the audience as a passive observer of a spoken word poetry scene, I feel myself getting a little surge of energy down my spine. It's an energy that grows every new place I visit. I could be wrong, but I think it's some hope.

Ometochtli- Dualidad de Mexico

2007-11-05T12:58:00.000-08:00

It's a strange time to be here in mexico. It's a well known fact that there is an emphasis on duality in Mexico, and right now that duality is amplified. Just finished are the celebrations of Dia de Los Muertos, which are a prime example of this internal contradiction. Children ran around the streets dressed as ghosts, munching on sugary skulls (because "death should be sweet")We attended Ofrendas (when people have a family member who has died, they open their doors to the public, build a shrine to the deceased and provide food and beverages to those who stop by to pay their respects), an installation explaining the history of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, a Catrina Exhibit (Catrina, aka La Flaca, is a skeleton who represents death. She is often dressed up in fancy dresses to show the impermanence of physical beauty. Sadly, I forgot my camera). Below is an ofrenda to those who have died injustly by the hands of the government:

After two days of solemn yet some how light-hearted celebration, we went to a party where we "celebrated life". I highly doubt this is an official part of Dia de Los Muertos, but when the holidays fall on a weekend like they did this year, I imagine a fiesta to close off the celebrations is pretty much universal amongst the youth here. In our particular case, it was the birthday party of a friend of one of the poets. It was a great opportunity for me to immerse myself in the artistic and bohemian culture in the city and to get a feel for what the arts scene is like here. One thing I've noticed is that Cuernavaca seems to be hugely involved in the visual and video arts, which is great for me as I am attempting to make this documentary. At the party there were all kinds of dancers, musicians, poets and artists. There were even fire dancers:

Although I was initially a bit hesitant about being here in Mexico, I'm slowly beginning to realize that this is the part of my fellowship where I will learn more about other people and other cultures and how I exist in those cultures. Poetry is here, of course, and its going to be interesting to see how a slam scene is "born". But I think the emphasis here is less on the poetry per se, and more on how issues of social justice and political views are therefore expressed through the poetry. Luckily for me, that's what I think I want to focus on anyway.
Tomorrow we go to Tepotzlan, a nearby town to view some ruins and learn about the native culture which existed before the spanish invasion, and understand how certain aspects of that culture still survive within the context of modern "western" culture.

Goodbye Canada

2007-10-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

"I can't very well say goodbye to you in front of a fruit stand in Kensington Market, now can I?"
"No, I don't want to. But it does sound perfect, doesn't it?"

Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back up to friday night. My mom came up for the weekend, to see me off and make sure I was completely packed for Mexico. I had a little realization about halfway through my stay in Canada: I had wayyyyy too much stuff with me. A large suitcase was simply too large, and three smaller bags just weighted me down so much that whenever I wanted to go somewhere I had to find an empty place to keep my bags. So it was decided that I send home about 2/3 of my belongings. As soon as we packed it all up into a large box and mailed it, I felt a huge weight lifted from me. Literally. Now all I have is a small rolling suitcase and a backpack, and a duffel bag for my carry-on items. Glorious.

It was so wonderful to see my mom again, considering that was my last opportunity to see her until next february. I always love showing people around a city, even when it's not my city, and so I had a great time milling around with her, finally being able to overcome some self-consciousness and actually *enter* some stores that I had only previously admired from outside.

Saturday was the Toronto Poetry Slam, and my last open mic opportunity. I was joined in Toronto by Free Will and his accomplice Stephanie and we all went out to dinner at a vegan fusion restaurant with my mom. Will was convinced he would win the slam. Mid way through dinner, a group of people passed by our table, including one girl I vaguely recognized. I turned away thinking it was just one of those moments one has while traveling (those- hey you remind me of someone- moments) when I heard "um... Jessi?" It turns out that a girl I went to the hill school with was in Toronto for an environmental conference!!! I invited her to the slam later that night, hoping to have time to catch up.

My last Toronto Poetry Slam was incredible. The room was packed with people I'd never seen before, freckled with the familiar face of a poet on the slam team or enthusiast who frequented other toronto poetry events. A few of my non-poet friends even came out, including the girl from Hill. We sat cramped in the first row, cheering or booing judges, and loudly snapping (canadian poets show appreciation for works by snapping) for Free Will, who later, just as he predicted, won the slam.

The poets and I went out afterward, tinged with a bit of sadness on my part, seeing as though it would be my last opportunity for a post-slam gathering. At the end of the night, I got all the poets together for one last post-slam picture.

What dorks.
And that brings us to Sunday's pedestrian market readings. Spreading poetry to the masses as they mill about through fruit stands, vintage clothing stores, anarchist bookstores, with a backdrop of some of the best graffiti in Toronto.

And no, I didn't say goodbye to canadian poetry in front of a fruit stand. It was too soon to end the adventure there. I caved and got on a bus to Guelph with Free Will, where we explored a smaller, more soulful city. After milling about in Guelph, it truly was time to say goodbye. As i sat on the crowded bus, heading back into Toronto one last time, reality sank in a little deeper: I'm finally doing what I said I would be doing. And tomorrow, I'll be in Mexico.

OK so you wanted some poetry

2007-10-28T08:19:00.000-07:00

Although I write every day, lately it's been hard for me to really create pieces that I like. But here's one piece that I've written recently that I can say is my favorite as of late. Which is not saying much. Anyway, here it is:

"On the Eve of Your Engagement"

We were tree fort warriors
you and I
We were tree fort warriors
You and I and I
was the only girl allowed in your tribe
we played with sticks and stones
carved like arrowheads and you
used to pull my hair till I cried
And I was the only girl allowed in your tribe
but you didn't seem to notice or to mind
until I was 15 and put on that white cotton dress
and we went apple picking in your father's orchard
and you left the next day

see
I've been in love with you for 7 years now
was 15 then I'm 22 now
must've been 18 then
sticks and stones may
break our bones but names
names
the highschool yearbook named you best smile
and named me nothing
How could they when everything I could ever
hope to be was already encompassed in the curl of your mouth?

And I know I may not mean much to you know
like the faint but familiar smell of childhood
in the many rooms of your fathers house
after being gone for 7 years
On the night of your return
we drove to the top of the sparkling city
and you, breathing smoke into the late august air
showed me the ring you were gong to give her

And you said
If only you were as ordinary as an apple
then the temptation wouldn't be so great
And I want to grab you by your shoulders and shake you
why every time I get near you I have to be forbidden?
When all I've ever wanted was to play eve to your adam
and together we can make humanity
out of chaos

What you don't know is
I've been behind you all these years
watching your mistakes and loving you through all of them.
Whether you believe in me or not
I've been here.
You deserve the whole world and I'd give it to you
I could but I'm here, and I'm real, you can touch me
Just turn around.
I want to say these things to you but I can't
because we were tree fort warriors once
but now the tree we climb is the tree of life
and I don't know about you but
I don't think it's worth the fall.

I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet- Bob Dylan

2007-10-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

After all this talk about what a poet shoud do and what a poet shouldn’t do, all these discussions about how to make money off of art, or how we shouldn’t try to make money off of art, I begin to wonder if I am really what I say I am. It’s a hard title to live up to, and often words are the least reliable purveyors of truth. Why then, would anyone ever want to be a poet in the first place? And furthermore, could I even call myself a poet? Am I worthy of such a title?
During my conversation with John Akpata, an Ottawa poet, if you were to crack open a poet’s head you wouldn’t get photographs or paintings or colors or sounds. You’d get words. A phenomenon I myself have observed since I began writing poetry almost 16 years ago, I’ve always described it as being haunted. Much like getting a song stuck in your head, I’m haunted by words and until I get them out on paper, they’ll follow me around like lost puppies, squeaking and yipping for attention. Like a line from one of my poems: “I cried out in a whisper too bold to behold a man so different than I yet so clear to me that burnt beneath his eyes are the same words which haunt mine every time I try to close them.”
So you’d think by being in the midst of all this poetry, of having words exploding around me constantly, I’d be able to write and develop. But really what’s been happening is I’ve begun to doubt myself. Am I really one of them? I think what bothers me the most is this challenge that was thrust upon me- the definition of what a poet should be. New words have been haunting me: social responsibility, mirrors, truth. Poetry isn’t just about flowers and love and that stupid jerk you’re obsessed with anymore. I mean, it can be, but it has the potential to be something so much greater. It can literally save lives, change perspectives, ask questions and demand reflection from the public. I’m in awe of poetry that does such things, and I acknowledge the challenge of creating somehting that fulfills such high standards, yet I wonder if I am capable of such things. Am I just an actor, trying to be a poet? Is my act so good that I’ve been lying to myself all these years without even knowing it?
There’s the potential for growth here, that I didn’t acknowledge before embarking on this journey- the potential to grow as an artist as well as a person. To really delve deep into what it means exactly for me to consider myself a poet, and what personal responsibility I am undertaking by claiming such a title.

The Truest Poem

2007-10-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

So one aspect of life as a spoken word poet that really appeals to me (and to most poets, I think) is the opportuniity to conduct workshops at junior high and high schools. It's a great way to expand the spoken word audience, and, as one poet put it, you never know if the "next big thing" is sitting in the back of the classroom. So far, I've had the opportunity to attend and participate in 3 workshops at local schools, and each one has left me inspired and impressed by the capabilities of the youth culture. This younger generation gives me hope for the future, because it seems that they are not as turned off as perhaps my generation was. They've got access to the internet, to youtube, to blogs, and maybe they're actually learning something instead of just messing around on facebook. I could be wrong, it could just be youthful idealism that is coming out of their pens, and will soon be squashed by the harsh reality of conservative college professors etc... But for now, some of those kids completely blew me away.

One of the workshops I attended was during my time in Ottawa. Danielle Gregoire and Free Will were kind enough to invite me along on their classroom excursion. We sat and watched the kids read poems that they wrote for eachother. One after one, they stood infront of the class, hardly even shaking, singing the praises (although some silly praises) of their peers. As Danielle told me later, there's so much negativity in the world, particularly the poetry world, that it's important to give the kids hope and push them to spread messages of positivity. It was awesome.

After all the students were finished, Free Will and I got up and performed a few pieces and talked about how we have been able to succeed doing what we love. After my first poem, this little boy in the front row with wide brown eyes stands up and says "Miss, that was the truest poem I've ever heard".

The truest poem. What a powerful little statement from a little boy. I doubt he knows the weight of his words. Sure, it was such a compliment- any poet would love to hear that from a critic. But it wasn't the compliment aspect that got me. It was the word "truest" The truest poem. In a conversation later that week with John Akpata, we discussed the duty of a poet. Above all, he says, it is the duty of a poet to be true. There are plenty of fake poets out there- actors posing as poets, poets writing for slams instead of themselves- but the truest poets are the most valuable, and are often most revered and hated. Why? How could someone be respected and at the same time hated for their words? It's because a true poet holds a mirror to their audience, and forces them to look. No one likes to hear the raw truth- we're used to blogs and media that is bent with the weight as opinion posing as fact. But can successful art lie? I don't think so.

Which is why I think it's great to see poets like Free Will go to schools and speak. His poetry is raw truth. A bit abrasive at times, but always with this deeper intention, pushing for a solution for the worlds problems, empowering the individual. It's exactly what people being raised in these times of fear need. A few days ago, I got an ecstatic message from Free Will. It seems Canada has many employment programs for poets to travel around to different schools giving workshops, and Will had recieved one such opportunity. I wonder if the States has a similar program. It's so important to reach the youth nowadays. They're smarter than we think. I wish he would go on a school tour in the states... i wonder if that's even possible? Perhaps the revolution will be in the classroom afterall.

oh the CFSW!!

2007-10-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

So I know I've been really bad at keeping up with this blog lately. I promise I'll do better in the future. The Canadian Festival of Spoken Word occured between October 10-October 14 in Halifax, Nova Scotia. When the plane landed, the landscape was exactly what I thought it would be: grey grey grey. Not to say that I think Halifax is ugly- no way. It kind of reminded me of Martha's Vineyard, stretched out to be a city, and drained of its color.

The CFSW itself raised many issues, and it was incredibly interesting to be an active listener. Basically, teams of slam poets, representing the best poets in their city, from all across canada gather at one city once a year to compete and exchange ideas. I feel that I need to emphasize that the competative aspect to this festival, although important, was not nearly as important as it would seem. In true poetic irony, the points at a poetry competition are not the point. The point is poetry. (I'll be saying that a lot this year). So although they were there to compete against eachother, the general feeling was a big family reunion, rather than a competition.

Some of the big questions that were raised included the responsibility of a poet, how to market spoken word to a more diverse crowd, the connection between spoken word and other art forms such as music and studio art.... Since I was not an active participant, I will be answering someof thse questions on my own in this blog in future posts.

After my first night in Halifax, I was promptly adopted by the Ottawa team, as "team american" (kinda like team mascot.... nevermind.) A wonderful inspirational group of poets, I found out that their team was entirely made of new poets (meaning no one on the team had ever attended the CFSW before). Partially guided and advised by Danielle Gregoire and John Akpata, it was clear that the Ottawa scene had much to offer and that as a documentarian it was my duty to follow them back to Ottawa and see them on their own turf. Which is exactly what I did.

The issue of sanctification and elitism

2007-10-15T18:03:00.000-07:00

“so, do you all wear black berets and drink coffee and snap your fingers?”
She pours me more tea
“you know, I always pictured poets that way. You don’t look like a poet.”
All I could do is shake my head and laugh. There’s a general misconception that spoken word artists are “beat” poets. Although some of us do admire the likes of Ginsberg and Kerouac, we aren’t exactly the same. Some may say that beat poetry laid the groundwork for what is known as spoken word today, but for some reason, I think regardless of it’s previous coffee house existence, spoken word would’ve risen in the current form. So what does a poet look like? That’s the beauty, you’d never know. Could be that eccentric elementary school teacher, or the soft spoken college professor. Could be that mangy kid who graduated in your high school class and decided to backpack around europe instead of going to college or it could be that cheerleader who got into yale. Could be your accountant or the electrician or your neighbor’s grandmother who bakes you cookies. It could be anyone.

Or so it should be. It plagues every art and it clearly hasn’t spared spoken word- elitism. It’s like we’ve stumbled onto this incredible form that anyone can do, understand and participate, which is precisely what is so wonderful about it, and then we want to make it our own. Just for people like us. And although spoken word artists come in all shapes and sizes, it seems to me that each circle of spoken word has their own “type” and attempts at diversification of that type is shaky at best. It’s difficult to put my finger on. I can only tell you that I know it from experience, of being the “new girl” that it is pretty difficult to break into a circle. It can be on mulitiple levels: race, gender, age, sexual orientation. Different circles tend to attract different types of poets. And as psychology teaches us, it is not an intentional clustering, but rather one of instinct and socialization: stick to your in-group. It’s something I’ve noticed even here in Canada,specifically in Toronto and retrospectively in New York City as well.

So how do we battle this problem of elitism in an art which prides itself on being anti-elitist? Active diversification. Certainly, you cannot possibly grab a person off the street who is of different age/race/gender/sexual orientation, stick them on stage with a microphone and say “ok go”. But you can do things to make the scene more welcoming and accesible to different types of people. A very large issue that has prohibited even me from attending certain events is the presence of cover fees. Most slams tend to have a 5-8 dollar cover, but I have encountered a few that are upwards of 10 dollars. By charging such a high amount at the door, it discourages people in two ways: 1) newbies who wouldn’t dream of spending 10 dollars on a “poetry show” and 2) people who struggle to earn money who simply can’t spend it on entertainment. Spoken word has the ability to include everyone, including street people (I remind you of the beats, who oftentimes befriended street people or were street people themselves). Everyone has a valid story and should be given the opportunity to speak for themselves, regardless of their income.

Another large problem is through marketing. Spoken word has the potential to attract all types, from all crowds and scenes- theater people, musicians, artists, directors, journalists, students, professors tend to be attracted to spoken word, but that shouldn't disclude frat boys, jocks, nerds, preppy girls, punks, goths etc... So how do we get their attention? Maybe we should do what we say we do: maybe we should just talk to them. Instead of writing them off or putting words in their mouth (ie: no way a frat boy would enjoy a poetry show... besides the beers are too expensive...) invite them to come along. From my experience, you can't find a specific "type" who likes spoken word. it speaks to most everyone. And what's more: it inspires others to speak for themselves. Of all the poets I've met, the majority of them got their start in spoken word by watching a spoken word show and being completely blown away. Sure, they might've been writers or poets before, but after seeing that performance they were transformed into spoken word poets. It's like a good contageous disease. Get up on stage and spit your truth and maybe someone in the audience will catch on. You never know who you could inspire. Another really great solution to the marketing problem (or the "same 20" issue, as some like to call it) I've noticed was the way spoken word artists take their poetry to the classroom. That way it can be exposed to a younger audience that would've never been able to get into a bar or even stay out late enough at a cafe to watch a poetry show. I've seen the results of this technique, and it's been incredible. At one high school in Halifax, I saw a girl get up on stage whose presence rivaled that of the best poets I've seen.

See, the point of spoken word is that it tells a story. Our story. That story changes depending on the culture, personality, writing style, perspective and priviledge of the poet. But it's still a story and it's still (hopefully) true. There are poets out there that put their words into a formula to produce a poem which will get them enough points to win a slam... and many times they do win. But I've seen their dominance toppled by an unexpected display of utter and painful truth. I recall a slam I attended at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in New York City. There was a tie between two poets- both with a fast talking intense metaphorical style (think Saul Williams-esque) which in my experience is usually favored at slams. The first poet gets up, does an incredible piece (ok, it sounded incredible... i only caught half the words). Then the second poet gets up on stage and performs this beautiful piece about his family and his little brother who passed away. It's slow and soulful, and you could feel the whole room get heavy. That's when you know it's not for show... it's the incredible ability to make people feel something in only 3 minutes. Afterwards I talked to the second poet and asked him why he chose that particular piece. He said that he knew he was capable of fast talking and putting on "entertainment" for the audience. But although it was riskier, he decided to do something true. And it's good that he did, because he won.

So there is distinct danger in spoken word becoming a reincarnation of our elitist beatnik forefathers with their all-male smoky cafes, black turtle necks and bongos. Most definitely. But there are also ways to ensure that it continues to grow and develop the way it has in its newest reincarnation for the past 20 years.

Nuit Blanche

2007-10-01T11:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes pictures do say more than words. And that's big, coming from someone who uses a lot of words. Therefore, here's my story of saturday night, accompanied by pictures because I now have my camera!!! Enjoy!

An all night arts festival took over the streets of downtown toronto on saturday night. Armed with a camera, a few subway tokens and a redbull, a group of poets and I took the streets, hoping to absorb some, you know, culture, and stuff.

I joined the group a bit late, and was promptly informed that I missed the "best guerrilla spoken word circle ever!" Guerrilla spoken word, in case you haven't figured it out, occurs when a group of poets are gathered together and are bored in a large public space. Some might say it's the best way to reach people. I'd have to agree, although it depends on the poet. They may become mistaken for some crazy end of world prophet instead of improv performer. Such a mistake would be quite amusing, but at the same time, it would defeat the point of guerrrilla poetry in the first place.

Think street corners, public parks, Starbucks, etc... I'm quite sad I missed it, but I'm sure there will be many more throughout my travels, because let's face it, poets are performers, and they love the attention. :)
So a large group of us walked through the colorful streets of downtown toronto from about 11pm till 3am, looking at interactive art exhibits, independent films and even a UFO landing.

Finally we promptly gathered on some steps to figure out our next move. It was unanimous: chinese food was needed. In short, it was a pretty colorful, artful and adventurous night.

Everything is Poetry

2007-09-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was madness, wonderful madness. Woke up at an ungodly hour, and hopped into a strangely colored PT Cruiser with none other than Ritallin (from Ottawa), stopped and picked up Oveous Maximus (from NYC) and we were... going to school. An absolutely beautiful high school that felt more like a fancy mall than a school, with benevolent administrators. Supposidley the school has a pretty bad reputation, full of "at risk" kids and whatnot. I hate that phrase: "at risk". At risk for what, exactly? By giving it a name, treating them differently, labeling the problem, couldn't it be a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or even worse, it's a known fact that when teachers are told that students are "exceptionally intellegent" they will (unknowingly) grade the students accordingly. Therefore, one could come to a similar conculsion regarding students labeled "at risk"- mainly that their behaviors will become interpreted to fulfill the label given to them....
Ritallin and Oveous were asked to perform/speak at this school as a part of a music class cirriculum. It surprised me a bit that a music teacher would ask poets to perform, and not an english teacher or a theater teacher. I always knew that spoken word was heavily influenced by hiphop, beats, and sound... of course. I just never really thought of it that way before, as a form of music. Poetry performed over beats is a marriage between the literary and the musical. Poetry performed with a beat you can feel but not necessarily hear- how could that be different? And it reminded me of something I always think about before I myself get on stage- how performance really is similar to singing. Paying attention to tone and timber of the voice are imperative to creating a pleasant and coherent performance- no one wants to hear someone screeching or mumbling for 3 minutes. And voice projection, as it is in theater, is also related to music. And the constant need to breath deeply in order to project with energy and resonance, not with the upper chest, but from low in the belly, like a singer.
At one point, the students were asked "Who likes poetry?" A few timid hands waved in the air in response. Then Ritallin explained how everything is poetry, how music is poetry because really it is poetry set to melody, how essays are poetry and even stereo instructions are poetry because somewhere, someone sat down and wrote out these words to get a message across, and that's all poetry really is.
I sat in the corner, almost feeling as a student, watching and recording the performance. At one point they even invited me up there (ahhh!) and I had the lovely opportunity to represent female poets (as a side note: every male poet I meet says that there are plenty of female poets, and that it's really not an issue. But from my experience in the field thus far, this is not the case. It is still definitely a male dominated field.) After talking to the music teacher and also the two poets, I came to understand the importance of such workshops. It gives the students something to relate to- to show them that poetry isn't an art for dead white men or stuffy academics with degrees in Post-Rennaisance Literature. That it certainly isn't all about Petrarchan sonnets but is most definitely influenced by them. That you need to know the rules before you can properly break them. And furthermore, you never know who you're going to inspire. Which is so completely true because it was because of a similar workshop more than 7 years ago that sparked my interest in spoken word. So really, I owe where I am now to that small collective of poets that inspired me so long ago. Strange how life works.
Later, after a loong ride home and a short nap, we gathered at the Savannah Room, where Ritallin was featuring. One thing I've noticed that I absolutely am starting to adore about spoken word is how it literally moves the speaker. How they get into this kind of super-focused trance that translates not only into sound, but into movement. The way the arms and hands and shifting weight in the legs and back dance along to both the theme and the rhythm of the piece. I know it sounds a bit strange, and if you've never seen a spoken word performance you probably think I'm nuts, but thank god I have my video camera with me, so I can show it when I get back.
I know I've said it before, but I truly feel so blessed to have met the people I've met so far. It's strange, perhaps it's due to the small poetry community, but it seems like everyone I meet either knows someone I know or knows someone I should know. And maybe it's the poet, or maybe it's canada but everyone has been incredibly friendly and helpful. It really makes you think twice about how we (perhaps we being americans) view the world as a generally cold and slightly hostile place, how we're taught not to trust others who we don't know well. Really, the kindness that people have shown me (people who are practically strangers) is unbelieveable. And it may seem silly, but it all falls into my theory of Road Karma- do good and good will be done. Pay it forward.

Wartime Poets

2007-09-18T17:40:00.000-07:00

Here, Bullet

If a body is what you want,
then here is bone and gristle and flesh.
Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,
the aorta's opened valves, the leap
thought makes at the synaptic gap.
Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,
that inexorable flight, that insane puncture
into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish
what you've started. Because here, Bullet,
here is where I complete the word you bring
hissing through the air, here is where I moan
the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering
my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have
inside of me, each twist of the round
spun deeper, because here, Bullet,
here is where the world ends, every time.
-Brian Turner

What is a poet doing fighting a war? How can a person balance both a pen and a gun? Questions I have asked myself multiple times over the past few years, and increasingly within the past few weeks. Many contemporary poets have the privilege of inhabiting a space between the often lofty and intangible rhetoric of academia and the harsh yet beautiful gritty reality of the world. And as hard as it is for me to believe, poets do go to war. No, not with pens, but with guns. This American poet, Brian Turner, is the second poet who's work I have read and appreciated who has fought in Iraq. The first was a poet in South Africa. As he told me in an email "seems life has chucked me about in all sorts of turbulent directions of late, but wherever we are there are experiences and that's all a poet needs."

Although the idea of a poet going to war saddens me, (quite frankly, however, the idea of anyone going to war saddens me)history has shown that poetry often bears witness to war. Members of the famous Lost Generation including poets John Peale Bishop, E.E. Cummings, Archibald MacLeish, Gertrude Stein, Edith Wharton, John Allan Wyeth were all heavily influenced by World War I. Countless poets fought in the Vietnam war (check out this page: http://www.vietnamexp.com/Vietnam%20Poetry.html)

Another Protest

Walking over land made void by napalm
And thousand-pound bombs,
My legs are covered with ashes,
A dusting of malignant snow.

We march in single file, dumbfounded
And gasp at five crispy critters.
Charcoal-ized lumps, they are only
Remnants of yellow men.

But the blackened scene is disrupted
By a small splash of crimson.
We pause at the absurdity of
A perfectly blooming rose
-Robert H. Dirr Jr.

And then, recalling not too long ago, when I was in Spain, my conservative host mother handed me a small warn book. Written in slightly faded typewriter font, it was a book of poetry recounting the horrors of the revolution in Cuba. I read the book carefully, cover to cover, absolutely unsure of what side this man was on until I realized that he had no side, he had no agenda. His writing was simply a mirror, a reflection of the time in which he lived. I would include one of his works here, however, his work is not published (how can one living in Cuba publish a book of poetry about the revolution?). My host mother had acquired such a book from her son, who, being a writer himself, visited Cuba and stayed with the poet. The poet had awarded her son the book when he disclosed his own identity as a writer. I don't even know his name.

Finally, how could I forget, the involvement of poetry and poets in the Spanish Civil War. As Stephen Spender wrote in his Introduction to Poems for Spain:
"Poets and poetry have played a considerable part in the Spanish War, because to many people the struggle of the Republicans has seemed a struggle for the conditions without which the writing and reading of poetry are almost impossible in modern society." Many poets became personally involved in the war when, in 1937, the great writer Federico Garcia Lorca was murdered by fascists at the beginning of the war. His tragic death turned him into an icon for poets and artists of the time:

Labrad, amigos,
de piedra y sueño en el Alhambra,
un túmulo al poeta,
sobre una fuente donde llore el agua,
y eternamente diga:
el crimen fue en Granada, ¡en su Granada!

(Translated:
Carve, friends, from stone and dream,
in the Alhambra, a barrow for the poet,
on the water of fountains that weep
and say, for eternity:
'the crime was in Granada,
in his Granada!')
- Antonio Machado

Perhaps it is because, when faced with death and destruction, it is easier to see the world through the eyes of a poet- cherishing every moment and every detail as potentially ironically beautiful. Perhaps it is demonstrative of the basic human need to be heard, to be remembered, and to be understood. Or perhaps it is a testament to poetry's uncanny and undeniable ability to not only shine a critical yet personally accurate reflection on the state of the world, but also to carry forth the internal message of an individual in a manner that will resonate within the hearts of others even long after the gunfire has stopped. Regardless, it seems that the pen is not only mightier than the sword, but is oftentimes inspired by it.

Concord Hymn

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
- R. W. Emerson

Sometimes I like to forget important things

2007-09-17T08:56:00.001-07:00

Because I'm so absent minded, (ok fine, because I waited to pack until the night before I left) I forgot a few key items. Including my digital camera. I've been taping a lot of great footage with my video camera but I (siiiiigh) also don't have my firewire to connect the computer to the camera. Will be receiving such items soon. When I do, I'll post some eye candy on this blog! Thanks for being patient!
-J

(up)rooting

2007-09-13T10:13:00.000-07:00

There's something about packing everything you need into a small suitcase that gets me every time. The slight bubbling excitement of arriving in a new place, of becoming completely anonymous and unknown to everyone; the chance to crumble up and start all over, an opportunity to rename and be renamed without previous conception or judgement. A feeling incredibly unnerving yet addictive, already I can feel myself growing accustomed to it- every few weeks, an itching in my legs, a pull that jolts me awake too early in the morning or keeps me from sleeping too late at night. This constant awareness of time passing and a need to follow along with it, and yet a different need also pulling in an opposite direction- the question I can only imagine comes from some Darwinian impulse to find home, to stay, to root and settle: Could I live here? Or rather, could I ever return to live here? It's a question that always arises, not towards the end of my stay, but rather at the beginning of the end. Just when I have become comfortable, but not too comfortable- Could I live here? The equal but opposite pulling is something I will get used to, I'm sure, as I make friends and acquaintences in each place I stay and then reduce them to an email, an occasional visit, a phone call, a myspace message. One friend who embarked on a similar fellowship told me that the return to a state of stationary living is one of the most difficult adjustments. I know my life after this fellowship will be changed, and I can imagine that change in particular will be a struggle for me. Because I've always loved starting over, I've always craved the clean slate. I know I've only just begun, but curiosity has me peering into the future- what will life be like, a year from now, when I try to root myself somewhere? Where will I be? And the excitement of knowing that I am currently on the path that will lead me to my future self, perhaps in an apartment somewhere, or a house, or a dorm room; perhaps still traveling. I've never been able to answer succinctly the question "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" It would be more appropriately put "Where *don't* I see myself?" because the opportunities I will stumble upon (because the best ones present themselves unexpectedly) could be endless, varying, wildly obscure.

There are so many great things about this fellowship- the people I get to meet, the places I get to see, and the poetry, of course, the poetry. But one unexpected and delightful aspect, an aspect that no one told me about, is the opportunity to literally "try out" living in different cultures and climates. The opportunity to attempt to immurse myself in a country so much so that I would know what it's like to live there, not as a rich tourist or a priviledged student, but as a normal person. And then, after a few weeks or months, I get to throw it all back into my suitcase, get on a bus, train or airplane and start again somewhere else. Notebook full of notes, phone numbers, email addresses and the quiet promise of maybe someday returning. Of maybe someday I'll come back and stay for real.

9/11 Reflection: You knew this was coming....

2007-09-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

There’s a topic I’d like to discuss here that is really important yet a bit hard for me to explain, so try to bear with me. There’s a subtle yet noticeable difference between Canadian poets commenting on US politics, and US poets commenting on US politics. It’s a difference that I approach uneasily, mainly because said difference is so subtle, and at the same time to be expected. I suppose the uneasiness surrounding my commentary is spawned from the many similarities between Canadian people and American people. Who am I to comment? But when they get on stage, even to no one else, the difference becomes apparent to me, resulting in my skepticism and slight distaste. It’s not that I don’t think they should be able to comment on my country’s politics; on the contrary- US politics involve almost everyone. It’s just that, occasionally, it feels as if the Canadian poets are commenting on Bush politics as if he were their president. And sometimes, they end up coming off slightly ill-informed and impersonal- like the angry liberal who was too angry to even study the facts and vote for herself.

And that’s when you realize- they sound like non-voters because they in fact are non-voters. They can certainly imagine what it’s like to be an American under the current administration, but the truth is, they are not, nor can they truly understand the quiet tension that is building between the two sides of our country. As one poet explained to me, often Canadian poets feel like they can comment because they are the close neighbor and little brother of the US. But is it enough?

I don't think it is enough to be a neighbor or a little brother. The American condition is very specific indeed, and in a way I find myself quitely frustrated and unable to explain my frustration. “You need to live it to understand it.” I want to tell them. It’s so easy to be a third party critic, everything is always black and white when you’re not personally involved. Everything is so simple, so easy. Yes, the majority now believe that our president is an idiot. Yes, the majority are agaisnt the war. But those are perriferal issues. The true questions which are ripping apart the american psyche are much deeper than that: What do we do now? Do we cut and run- looking like big defeated bullies with our tail between our legs like in Vietnam? Do we keep sending more troops, hoping the Iraqi people will step up? Who do we blame? Shouldn’t the troops protest if they don’t want to be there? What about my cousin/brother/sister/neighbor/son/daughter who chose the military to pay for education? What choices do we have? Why is it that a million people can march down Pennsylvania Avenue shouting at the top of their lungs and not be heard? What can we do?

Because it’s not enough anymore to simply be against the war, to think it’s wrong, to think our president is an immoral oil-hungry business man. Those criticisms can be gathered by any 5th grader off of the Daily show. You don’t know what it’s like to feel simultaneous shame and pride of your country. Sure, I hate the politics, but it’s my home, and for the most part, it’s been good to me. Mention the war on terror and half of us will spit, and half of us will stand tall, but mention 9/11 and we will all cringe. Things aren’t so clean cut, but the cut runs deep. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you have to hide your nationality when traveling abroad. To have to deny your very homeland because of an offensive and absurd misconception that all americans are rich/lazy/stupid/republican/pro-war/christian etc. You can imagine, sure, but you have never experienced it on your own.

Furthermore, I’m tired of the whole “I’m not a typical American” charade because I don’t believe it at all. I don’t believe that I’m an atypical American college student. At Hamilton people might’ve not been actively political, but if you ever gave them the chance, if you ever just sat them down and asked, almost everyone had something to say, some informed piece of information, conservative or liberal. Because it’s gotten to the point where you cannot live a normal life apathetically. Some would like to write off my generation as apathetic because we are not active like the hippies of our parents’. But we are not our parents. We are living in a different world, a world where information flys off the internet and tvs and radios and cell phones and blackberries and smacks us on the face.

I guess the idea of personally commenting on another country's politics just seems strange to me. Sure, the US intervenes with everyone else's politics, but that's our government. I'm talking about people. You don't hear many American poets get up on stage and criticize the politics of President Calderon (the Mexican president). Oh but his politics don't effect everyone, you may say. Fine. When Tony Blair was in office, American poets hardly wrote about him either. Writing about American politics is kind of like picking on the weakling kid in class- it's a cheap shot. What would be more interesting to hear, I think, would be an opinion on Calderon, or (gasp), maybe on one's own government.

I want to say this to the Canadians who look at me for a reaction every time American politics is discussed on stage. I want to get up on stage and explain, make excuses, anything. I'm unimpressed, and to be honest a bit freaked out about putting all this up here on my blog. I truly respect the opinions of others, and so this frustration I often feel leaves me uneasy and worried. I know it's important for me to explain myself, to explain my quiet distaste so that I may perhaps fix some of the misconceptions, but at the same time, I find myself wondering whether or not it is my place to step in and criticize or comment. But when it comes down to it, after all the rambling, here's my honest opinion: I think it's fine to slam about how awful American politics are. But it should be done from one's own perspective- with an understanding of third-party foriegn perspective.

I remember exactly where I was on this day, not so long ago. I remember the phones at my boarding school cutting out because so many people had family who worked in the government. I remember worrying about my own family in New York City. I remember the memorial service and lowering the flag to half mast. I remember driving to Manhattan a mere 3 months later, where the cars on the highway were at a standstill, where people were crying and taking pictures of the skyline, gaping open like a mouth missing two front teeth. I remember the exact moment when I realized life would never ever be the same for Americans, that we had entered a new stage of fear and distrust, and that the end is no where to be seen. And when I remember these things, my body tenses, my mind reels, and I realize that we are writing history as we remember it. As we speak it. And words are words no matter what country a person is from- we are in danger of oversimplifying history. Our words are powerful, we need to be careful of what we say.

Issue poetry?

2007-09-09T11:23:00.000-07:00

I have to say the past few weeks have been thouroughly impressive and busy. Last night I went to the Toronto Poetry Slam. The slam had landed in the start of Toronto International Film festival, and traffic on the way to the slam was ridiculous. I was told the turnout was unusually low, although it seemedto me to be just fine. The usual crowd of offbeat poets gathered, the energy was lighthearted and fun, with a few newcomers thrown in to mix it up.

What I would like to see at slams is more of an emphasis on their own country’s politics and issues. Perhaps it is simply because of the proximity between Canada and the US that they feel so deeply affected by the same issues which plague american society, but I would like to hear about these issues from a Canadian perspective, rather than a “this is what’s wrong with the united states”perspective. Just a thought.

It’s slightly true what they say about poetry slams: that the best poets hardly win. Not that I don’t think the winner of tonight’s slam was talented. She was very talented, of course, but talented in a way typical of winning a poetry slam. Issue poetry always seems to gain the hearts of the judges, and for some reason, the more stereotypical the issue poetry, the better. My favorites? The scrawny emo poet writing about how that girl broke his heart, or the quasi-feminist poem that involves a female speaker claiming to be a queen. Perhaps I too, will write a queen poem. Maybe I’ll win a slam with it.

And briefly: Toronto International Poetry Slam

2007-09-02T23:16:00.000-07:00

We all gathered in a stage space typically used for punk rock shows. Arriving outside the venue, it was already quite apparent that the scene we were about to participate in was different than the one I had been surrounded with in my previous two weeks in Toronto. But there we were, the Toronto International Poetry Slam. Participants from various cities across Canada and New York gathered, gave their 3 minutes and were rated. Cheers, boos, standing ovations. Names I recognized, others I didn’t, equally impressed.

I had the privelage of meeting a few people from other cities in Canada as well. I am throuroughly excited to travel to see them perform in their own scene, on their turf.

Sorry for the brevity. I'm exhausted.

D[i]mentia 5: multimedia adventure

2007-09-01T08:34:00.000-07:00

How do I describe what went down thursday night?

Picture this: you walk into a restaurant. Everything seems normal. People are drinking beers, eating late dinners. There's even a swing band setting up. You walk towards the back of the restaurant into a small dark room. You can hear the sound of old friends introducing themselves to new friends, laughter, glasses clinking on tables. Ambient music plays in the background. Abstract independent films flash up on the wall infront of you, as you sit at a table full of friendly faces. A small stage stares back at you, blank with 3 microphones, a speaker and a drum set. Suddenly, a man with a hat and a girl, both with heavy dark sunglasses, get on stage and perform the coolest intro piece, backed up by a drummer wearing some kind of monster mask. Time speeds up. An indie film about a rubrick's cube. A poet speaking softly beautifully about a music box, her father, a chess board. More music, laughter. Another poet about pacifism, another haiku. More music. An open mic. Poets reading, poets performing. You get up and perform. You're introduced as an American. Audience talking back to you mid-poem. Laughter. Shouting. Clapping. More poets, more poetry, more shouting and clapping. Laughter and more laughter.

Who says poetry isn't interactive?

I've met so many interesting poets so far. Poets- People. So many interesting people. Journalists, writers, waitresses, actors, bartenders, teachers, musicians, professors, DJs, editors, businessmen, students by day, poets by night. It gives me hope- perhaps one can do what one loves without starving to death. To be a poet, first and foremost, and then something more. Everyone with their interesting stories about why spoken word, why performance poetry. Everyone talking about how it came to them, who they idolize, what they do to prepare. It's only been a week, and I feel like i've dove into a great big pool of like-minded individuals. individual because they're all so different, but connected by this really strange love of poetry and performance.

Last night I took the night off from poetry and got some really great sushi with David Silverberg (my main contact here). Afterwards we went to a ska show in a college-y neighborhood. Sometimes, you need to see things other than poetry. :)

So after a week of living here, I'd say I could probably see myself living here permanently. Although I have the distinct feeling I'm going to be saying that a lot this year!

Sunday is the Toronto International Poetry Slam. Oh I can't wait!

Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin...

2007-08-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night's show was part of the Art Bar series, which is well attended by literary and spoken poets alike. The theme: Rock n Roll. Poets got up on stage and performed their favorite rock songs as poetry. After about 3 hours of this mock poet voice, and one really long Stairway to Heaven performance, I was rock n rolled out.

But the series really did bring up a good topic: what is the connection between lyrics and poetry? Something may sound excellent and catchy on the radio but when you pull back the music and beat, and examine the lyrics, many modern musicians place little emphasis on the words (ie: My hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps?! what was Fergie thinking?!) Others, however, put great emphasis on lyrics (Bob Dylan's lyrics can stand on their own). And so, the show on tuesday night was quite revealing as to how some musicians can engage in poetic thought, and how others really do not. The crowd was a bit older than I expected, with many people performing classic rock songs. Perhaps the critics are right: modern rock musicians just don't have it anymore. Or maybe it was because it was an older crowd. I don't really know. Some highlights: An excellent choral performance of Help by the Beatles, a few cheesy hilarious 80's hair band ballad pieces, a wonderful spoken rendition of All Along the Watchtower and so much more. It was a great night, however a bit long and drawn out.

Later, a few poets invited me to accomany them during a late night radio interview. It was a really great experience, very entertaining, and I even got to listen to two poets perform live on the air. A poet named "Electric Jon" promoted his performance series Dimentia 5, which I will be attending on thursday.