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.