Spoken Word Instrument

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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

"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

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

"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

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

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

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!!

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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....

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.