Sometimes I feel like a dectective, collecting clues left by underground poetry scenes.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Signs
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.
Even for just a moment.
it reminds me of all the places I've seen.
Slam-ily?
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Things I love, things I hate
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.
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.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Memory
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.
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.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Halfway? Already?
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.
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.
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